Chapter CII: Letter 257: To Mr. Murray

"Venice, Dec. 27. 1816.

"As the demon of silence seems to have possessed you, I am
determined to have my revenge in postage; this is my sixth or
seventh letter since summer and Switzerland. My last was an
injunction to contradict and consign to confusion that Cheapside
impostor, who (I heard by a letter from your island) had thought
proper to append my name to his spurious poesy, of which I know
nothing, nor of his pretended purchase or copyright. I hope you
have, at least, received _that_ letter.

"As the news of Venice must be very interesting to you, I will
regale you with it.

"Yesterday being the feast of St. Stephen, every mouth was put in
motion. There was nothing but fiddling and playing on the
virginals, and all kinds of conceits and divertissements, on every
canal of this aquatic city. I dined with the Countess Albrizzi and
a Paduan and Venetian party, and afterwards went to the opera, at
the Fenice theatre (which opens for the Carnival on that day),--the
finest, by the way, I have ever seen: it beats our theatres hollow
in beauty and scenery, and those of Milan and Brescia bow before
it. The opera and its sirens were much like other operas and women,
but the subject of the said opera was something edifying; it
turned--the plot and conduct thereof--upon a fact narrated by Livy
of a hundred and fifty married ladies having poisoned a hundred and
fifty husbands in good old times. The bachelors of Rome believed
this extraordinary mortality to be merely the common effect of
matrimony or a pestilence; but the surviving Benedicts, being all
seized with the cholic, examined into the matter, and found that
'their possets had been drugged;' the consequence of which was,
much scandal and several suits at law. This is really and truly the
subject of the musical piece at the Fenice; and you can't conceive
what pretty things are sung and recitativoed about the _horrenda
strage_. The conclusion was a lady's head about to be chopped off
by a lictor, but (I am sorry to say) he left it on, and she got up
and sung a trio with the two Consuls, the Senate in the back-ground
being chorus. The ballet was distinguished by nothing remarkable,
except that the principal she-dancer went into convulsions because
she was not applauded on her first appearance; and the manager came
forward to ask if there was 'ever a physician in the theatre.'
There was a Greek one in my box, whom I wished very much to
volunteer his services, being sure that in this case these would
have been the last convulsions which would have troubled the
ballarina; but he would not. The crowd was enormous, and in coming
out, having a lady under my arm, I was obliged, in making way,
almost to 'beat a Venetian and traduce the state,' being compelled
to regale a person with an English punch in the guts, which sent
him as far back as the squeeze and the passage would admit. He did
not ask for another, but, with great signs of disapprobation and
dismay, appealed to his compatriots, who laughed at him.

"I am going on with my Armenian studies in a morning, and assisting
and stimulating in the English portion of an English and Armenian
grammar, now publishing at the convent of St. Lazarus.

"The superior of the friars is a bishop, and a fine old fellow,
with the beard of a meteor. Father Paschal is also a learned and
pious soul. He was two years in England.

"I am still dreadfully in love with the Adriatic lady whom I spake
of in a former letter, (and _not_ in _this_--I add, for fear of
mistakes, for the only one mentioned in the first part of this
epistle is elderly and bookish, two things which I have ceased to
admire,) and love in this part of the world is no sinecure. This is
also the season when every body make up their intrigues for the
ensuing year, and cut for partners for the next deal.

"And now, if you don't write, I don't know what I won't say or do,
nor what I will. Send me some news--good news. Yours very truly,
&c. &c. &c.

"B.

"P.S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford, with all duty.

"I hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Coleridge's
Christabel, and me for praising it, which omen, I think, bodes no
great good to your forthcome or coming Canto and Castle (of
Chillon). My run of luck within the last year seems to have taken a
turn every way; but never mind, I will bring myself through in the
end--if not, I can be but where I began. In the mean time, I am not
displeased to be where I am--I mean, at Venice. My Adriatic nymph
is this moment here, and I must therefore repose from this letter."

* * * * *