Chapter CVIII: Letter 378: To Mr. Moore

"Ravenna, June 9. 1820.

"Galignani has just sent me the Paris edition of your works (which
I wrote to order), and I am glad to see my old friends with a
French face. I have been skimming and dipping, in and over them,
like a swallow, and as pleased as one. It is the first time that I
had seen the Melodies without music; and, I don't know how, but I
can't read in a music-book--the crotchets confound the words in my
head, though I recollect them perfectly when _sung_. Music assists
my memory through the ear, not through the eye; I mean, that her
quavers perplex me upon paper, but they are a help when heard. And
thus I was glad to see the words without their borrowed robes;--to
my mind they look none the worse for their nudity.

"The biographer has made a botch of your life--calling your father
'a _venerable old_ gentleman,' and prattling of 'Addison,' and
'dowager countesses.' If that damned fellow was to _write my_ life,
I would certainly _take his_. And then, at the Dublin dinner, you
have 'made a speech' (do you recollect, at Douglas K.'s, 'Sir, he
made me a speech?') too complimentary to the 'living poets,' and
somewhat redolent of universal praise. _I_ am but too well off in
it, but * * *.

"You have not sent me any poetical or personal news of yourself.
Why don't you complete an Italian Tour of the Fudges? I have just
been turning over Little, which I knew by heart in 1803, being then
in my fifteenth summer. Heigho! I believe all the mischief I have
ever done, or sung, has been owing to that confounded book of
yours.

"In my last I told you of a cargo of 'Poeshie,' which I had sent to
M. at his own impatient desire;--and, now he has got it, he don't
like it, and demurs. Perhaps he is right. I have no great opinion
of any of my last shipment, except a translation from Pulci, which
is word for word, and verse for verse.

"I am in the third Act of a Tragedy; but whether it will be
finished or not, I know not: I have, at this present, too many
passions of my own on hand to do justice to those of the dead.
Besides the vexations mentioned in my last, I have incurred a
quarrel with the Pope's carabiniers, or gens d'armerie, who have
petitioned the Cardinal against my liveries, as resembling too
nearly their own lousy uniform. They particularly object to the
epaulettes, which all the world with us have on upon gala days. My
liveries are of the colours conforming to my arms, and have been
the family hue since the year 1066.

"I have sent a tranchant reply, as you may suppose; and have given
to understand that, if any soldados of that respectable corps
insult my servants, I will do likewise by their gallant commanders;
and I have directed my ragamuffins, six in number, who are
tolerably savage, to defend themselves, in case of aggression; and,
on holidays and gaudy days, I shall arm the whole set, including
myself, in case of accidents or treachery. I used to play pretty
well at the broad-sword, once upon a time, at Angelo's; but I
should like the pistol, our national buccaneer weapon, better,
though I am out of practice at present. However, I can 'wink and
hold out mine iron.' It makes me think (the whole thing does) of
Romeo and Juliet--'now, Gregory, remember thy _swashing_ blow.'

"All these feuds, however, with the Cavalier for his wife, and the
troopers for my liveries, are very tiresome to a quiet man, who
does his best to please all the world, and longs for fellowship and
good will. Pray write. I am yours," &c.

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