d she will take
her 'divining rod' along with her: it may be of use to her at home,
as well as to the 'rich man' of the Evangelists.

"Pray do not let the papers paragraph me back to England. They may
say what they please, any loathsome abuse but that. Contradict it.

"My last letters will have taught you to expect an explosion here:
it was primed and loaded, but they hesitated to fire the train. One
of the cities shirked from the league. I cannot write more at large
for a thousand reasons. Our 'puir hill folk' offered to strike, and
raise the first banner, but Bologna paused; and now 'tis autumn,
and the season half over. 'O Jerusalem! Jerusalem!' The Huns are on
the Po; but if once they pass it on their way to Naples, all Italy
will be behind them. The dogs--the wolves--may they perish like the
host of Sennacherib! If you want to publish the Prophecy of Dante,
you never will have a better time."

* * * * *

LETTER 384. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Ravenna, Sept. 11. 1820.

"Here is another historical _note_ for you. I want to be as near
truth as the drama can be.

"Last post I sent you a note fierce as Faliero himself[81], in
answer to a trashy tourist, who pretends that he could have been
introduced to me. Let me have a proof of it, that I may cut its
lava into some shape.

"What Gifford says is very consolatory (of the first act). English,
sterling _genuine English_, is a desideratum amongst you, and I am
glad that I have got so much left; though Heaven knows how I
retain it: I _hear_ none but from my valet, and his is
_Nottinghamshire_: and I _see_ none but in your new publications,
and theirs is _no_ language at all, but jargon. Even your * * * *
is terribly stilted and affected, with '_very, very_' so soft and
pamby.

"Oh! if ever I do come amongst you again, I will give you such a
'Baviad and Maeviad!' not as good as the old, but even _better
merited_. There never was such a _set_ as your _ragamuffins_ (I
mean _not_ yours only, but every body's). What with the Cockneys,
and the Lakers, and the _followers_ of Scott, and Moore, and Byron,
you are in the very uttermost decline and degradation of
literature. I can't think of it without all the remorse of a
murderer. I wish that Johnson were alive again to