LETTER 253.  TO MR. MOORE.

     “Venice, December 24. 1816.

“I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends postage—­once from Verona—­once from Venice, and again from Venice—­thrice that is.  For this you may thank yourself, for I heard that you complained of my silence—­so, here goes for garrulity.

“I trust that you received my other twain of letters.  My ’way of life’ (or ‘May of life,’ which is it, according to the commentators?)—­my ‘way of life’ is fallen into great regularity.  In the mornings I go over in my gondola to babble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. Lazarus, and to help one of them in correcting the English of an English and Armenian grammar which he is publishing.  In the evenings I do one of many nothings—­either at the theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which are like our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semicircle by the lady of the mansion, and the men stand about the room.  To be sure, there is one improvement upon ours—­instead of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff rum-punch—­punch, by my palate; and this they think English.  I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an error,—­’no, not for Venice.’

“Last night I was at the Count Governor’s, which, of course, comprises the best society, and is very much like other gregarious meetings in every country,—­as in ours,—­except that, instead of the Bishop of Winchester, you have the Patriarch of Venice, and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans, noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, you may be sure he is a Consul.  Oh, by the way, I forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you that at Milan I met with a countryman of yours—­a Colonel * * * *, a very excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows all about Milan, and is, as it were, a native there.  He is particularly civil to strangers, and this is his history,—­at least, an episode of it.

“Six-and-twenty years ago, Col. * * * *, then an ensign, being in Italy, fell in love with the Marchesa * * * *, and she with him.  The lady must be, at least, twenty years his senior.  The war broke out; he returned to England, to serve—­not his country, for that’s Ireland—­but England, which is a different thing; and she—­heaven knows what she did.  In the year 1814, the first annunciation of the Definitive Treaty of Peace (and tyranny) was developed to the astonished Milanese by the arrival of Col. * * * *, who, flinging himself full length at the feet of Mad. * * * *, murmured forth, in half-forgotten Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelible constancy.  The lady screamed, and exclaimed, ‘Who are you?’ The Colonel cried, ‘What! don’t you know me?  I am so and so,’ &c. &c. &c.; till, at length, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence to reminiscence, through the lovers of the intermediate twenty-five