and I were together here, my dear Moore, we might manufacture something from the ponte dei sospiri, the scala dei giganti, the piombi, the pozzi, and the thousand ingredients of mystery and · terror that are here at every turn. Nothing can be more luxurious than a gondola and its little black cabin, in which you can fly about unseen, the gondoliers so silent all the while. They dip their oars as if they were afraid of disturbing you; yet you fly. As you are rowed through one of the narrow strcets, often do you catch the notes of a guitar, accompanied by a female voice, through some open window; and at night, on the Grand Canal, how amusing is it to observe the moving lights (every gondola has its light), one now and then shooting across at a little distance, and vanishing into a smaller canal. Oh, if you had any pursuit of love or pleasure, how nervous would they make you, not knowing their contents or their destination! and how infinitely more interesting, as more mysterious, their silence, than the noise of carriage-wheels! Before the steps of the Opera-house, they are drawn up in array with their shining prows of white metal, waiting for the company. One man remains in your boat, while the other stands at the door of your loge. When you come out, le attends you down, and calling Pietro,' or 'Giacomo,' is answered from the water, and away you go. The gliding motion is delightful, and would calm you after any scene in a casino. The gondolas of the Foreign Ministers carry the national flag. I think you would be pleased with an Italian theatre. It is lighted only from the stage, and the soft shadows that are thrown over it produce a very visionary effect. Here and there the figures in a box are illuminated from within, and glimmering and partial lights are almost magical. Sometimes the curtains are drawn, and you may conceive what you please. This is indeed a fairy land, and Venice particularly so. If at Naples you see most with the eye, and at Rome with the memory, surely at Venice you see most with the imagination. But enough of Venice. To-morrow we bid adieu to it,—most probably I shall never see it again. We shall pass through Ferrara to Bologna, then cross the Apennines to Florence, and so on to Rome, where I shall look for a line from you. Pray, have you sermonized the discordant brothers? I hope you have, and not forgotten yourself on the occasion. When you write to Tunbridge, pray remember me. Tell Lady D. I

passed the little Lake of Lowertz, and saw the melancholy effects of the downfall. It is now a scene of desolation, and the little town of Goldau is buried many fathoms deep.

It is a sad story, and you shall have it when we meet. I received a very kind letter from her at Tunbridge, and mean to answer it. I hope to meet you in London-town, when you visit it next; at least I shall endeavour to do so. My sister unites with me in kindest remembrance to Mrs. Moore; and pray, pray believe me to be,

Yours ever,

S. R.

At Verona we were shown Juliet's tomb in a Convent garden! In the evening we went to the play, but saw neither Mercutio, "the two Gentlemen " there.

nor

CCXXXII.

The last considerable work by William Godwin was a ' History of the Commonwealth of England.' In the preparation of this book he had consulted Sir Walter Scott and other authorities respecting Cromwell's character and rule; and among the letters he received is one of interest from the late Mr. Isaac D'Israeli. Mazarin quite understood how not to offend the Lord Protector.

Isaac D'Israeli to William Godwin.

6, Bloomsbury Square: July 12, 1828. Dear Sir,- It is with great pleasure I communicate to you the striking anecdote which confirms the notice you find in Voltaire of Cromwell, who when Protector, would be addressed, much against Louis XIV.'s inclination, as 'brother,' by the French monarch. At the same time I beg to repeat that I find in my note on this anecdote, a loose reference to Thurlow's papers, by which I infer that I must have read in Thurlow's collection something relative to the subject of your enquiry.

The present anecdote is very circumstantial and of undoubted authority. Dr. Sampson derived it from Judge Rookly, who was present at the delivery of the letter. I transcribe it literally from the Diary of Dr. Sampson, Sloane MSS.

'He was in the Banqueting House to receive the Duke of Créqui, as ambassador from the French King. Great was the

state and crowd. The ambassador made his speech, and after all compliments, he delivered a letter into his hands which was superscribed: "To his most serene Highness Oliver, Lord Protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland." He looks wistfully at the letter, puts it in his pocket, turns away without speaking a word or reading it. The ambassador was highly vexed at this, and as soon as he could meet with Secretary Thurlow, expostulates with him for the great affront and indignity offered to his master, so great a prince -asked him what he thought the cause might be. Thurlow answered, he thought the Protector might be displeased with the superscription of the letter. The Duke said he thought that it was according to form, and in terms as agreeable as could be. "But," says Thurlow, "the Protector expected he should have written to our dear brother Oliver." It is said the ambassador writing this over to France, the King replied: "Shall I call such a fellow my brother?" to which Cardinal Mazarin answered, "Aye, call him your father if need be, if you would get from him what you desire." And so a letter was procured, having the desired superscription.'

I need not assure you of the correctness of the transcript.
Believe me, very truly yours,

1. D'ISRAELI.

CCXXXIII.

Dr. Dibdin wished to include a chapter on the fine arts in his Literary Reminiscences,' and requested Mr. Isaac D'Israeli to furnish him with the loan of some of William Blake's works. This was the letter of reply. We may see at p. 44 of his 'Essay on Blake,' that Mr. Swinburne has endorsed Mr. D'Israeli's criticism in strikingly coincident language.

Isaac D'Israeli to Dr. Dibdin.

Bradenham House, Wycombe: July 24, 1835.

My dear friend,-It is quite impossible to transmit to you the One Hundred and Sixty designs I possess of Blake's; and as impossible, if you had them, to convey every precise idea of such an infinite variety of these wondrous deliriums of his fine and wild creative imagination. Heaven, hell, and earth, and the depths below, are some of the scenes he seems alike to have tenanted; but the invisible world also busies his fancy; aerial beings which could only float in visions, and unimaginable chimeras, such as you

have never viewed, lie by the side of his sunshiny people. You see some innocent souls winding about blossoms-for others the massive sepulchre has opened, and the waters beneath give up their secrets. The finish, the extreme delicacy of his pencil, in his light gracile forms, marvellously contrast with the ideal figures of his mystic allegories; sometimes playful, as the loveliness of the arabesques of Raffaelle. Blake often breaks into the 'terribil via' of Michael Angelo, and we start amid a world too horrified to dwell in. Not the least extraordinary fact of these designs is, their colouring, done by the artist's own hand, worked to his fancy; and the verses which are often remarkable for their sweetness and their depth of feeling. I feel the imperfection of my general description. Such singular productions require a commentary. Believe me, with regard

Your sincere well wisher,

ISAAC D'ISRAELI.

CCXXXIV.

Miss Edgeworth points to her intimate friend the Rev.
Sydney Smith as the man whose captivating manners and
generous heart would have deeply influenced the Irish people
had he been able to reside permanently among them.

Miss Maria Edgeworth to Miss Smith, daughter of the Rev.
Sydney Smith.

I have not the absurd presumption to think your father would leave London or Combe Florey, for Ireland voluntarily, but I wish some Irish bishopric were forced upon him, and that his own sense of national charity and humanity would forbid him to refuse. Then, obliged to reside amongst us, he would see, in the twinkling of an eye (such an eye as his), all our manifold grievances up and down the country. One word, one bon mot of his, would do more for us, I guess, than Mr. -'s four hundred pages, and all the like, with which we have been bored. One letter from Sydney Smith on the affairs of Ireland, with his name to it, and after having been there, would do more for us than his letters did for America and England;-a bold assertion, you will say, and so it is; but I calculate that Pat is a far better subject for wit than Jonathan; it only plays round Jonathan's head, but it goes to Pat's heart-to

the very bottom of his heart, where he loves it; and he don't care whether it is for or against him, so that it is real wit and fun. Now Pat would doat upon your father, and kiss the rod with all his soul, he would, the lash just lifted,-when he'd see the laugh on the face, the kind smile, that would tell him it was all for his good. Your father would lead Pat (for he'd never drive him) to the world's end, and maybe to common sense in the end,―might open his eyes to the true state of things and persons, and cause him to ax himself how it comes that, if he be so distressed by the Sassenach landlords that he can't keep soul and body together, nor one farthing for the wife and children, after paying the rint for the land, still and nevertheless he can pay King Dan's rint aisy,— thousands of pounds, not for lands or potatoes, but just for castles in the air. Methinks I hear Pat saying the words, and see him jump to the conclusion, that may be the gintleman, his reverence, that "has the way with him," might be the man after all to do them all the good in life, and asking nothing at all from them. Better, sure, than Dan after all; and we will follow him through thick and thin-why no? What though he is his reverence, the Church, that is, our cleargy, won't object to him; for he was never an inimy any way, but always for paying them off handsome, and fools if they don't take it now. So down with King Dan, for he's no good! and up with Sydney-he's the man, King of glory!'

But, visions of glory, and of good better than glory, spare my longing sight; else I shall never come to an end of this note. Note indeed! I beg your pardon.

Yours affectionately,

MARIA EDGEWORTH.

CCXXXV.

The saying that the Duke of Wellington's enemies never gave him so much trouble as his friends is verified over and over again in the volumes containing his civil and military correspondence. At the time the following letter was written Viscount Wellington of Talavera was probably the only public man who had complete confidence in his own strength, and in the might of Great Britain to 'strike the bold stroke for the rescue of the world.' All he required for his campaign in the Peninsula was men, money, and freedom of action. But the Government was half-hearted and economical; the Opposition openly sneered at his very rash' conduct; the Spanish General