wrote to me several letters upon Christianity, to convert me:  and, if I had not been a Christian already, I should probably have been now, in consequence.  I thought there was something of wild talent in him, mixed with a due leaven of absurdity,—­as there must be in all talent, let loose upon the world, without a martingale.

“The ministers seem still to persecute the Queen * * * but they won’t go out, the sons of b——­es.  Damn Reform—­I want a place—­what say you?  You must applaud the honesty of the declaration, whatever you may think of the intention.

“I have quantities of paper in England, original and translated—­tragedy, &c. &c. and am now copying out a fifth Canto of Don Juan, 149 stanzas.  So that there will be near three thin Albemarle, or two thick volumes of all sorts of my Muses.  I mean to plunge thick, too, into the contest upon Pope, and to lay about me like a dragon till I make manure of * * * for the top of Parnassus.

“These rogues are right—­we do laugh at t’others—­eh?—­don’t we?[14] You shall see—­you shall see what things I’ll say, an’ it pleases Providence to leave us leisure.  But in these parts they are all going to war; and there is to be liberty, and a row, and a constitution—­when they can get them.  But I won’t talk politics—­it is low.  Let us talk of the Queen, and her bath, and her bottle—­that’s the only motley nowadays.

     “If there are any acquaintances of mine, salute them.  The priests
     here are trying to persecute me,—­but no matter.  Yours,” &c.

[Footnote 13:  The power here meant is that of omitting passages that might be thought objectionable.  He afterwards gave me this, as well as every other right, over the whole of the manuscript.]

[Footnote 14:  He here alludes to a humorous article, of which I had told him, in Blackwood’s Magazine, where the poets of the day were all grouped together in a variety of fantastic shapes, with “Lord Byron and little Moore laughing behind, as if they would split,” at the rest of the fraternity.]

* * * * *

LETTER 402.  TO MR. MOORE.

     “Ravenna, Dec. 9. 1820.

“I open my letter to tell you a fact, which will show the state of this country better than I can.  The commandant of the troops is now lying dead in my house.  He was shot at a little past eight o’clock, about two hundred paces from my door.  I was putting on my great-coat to visit Madame la Contessa G. when I heard the shot.  On coming into the hall, I found all my servants on the balcony, exclaiming that a man was murdered.  I immediately ran down, calling on Tita (the bravest of them) to follow me.  The rest wanted to hinder us from going, as it is the custom for every body here, it seems, to run away from ‘the stricken