“In the first place, your packets; then a letter from Kinnaird, on the most urgent business; another from Moore, about a communication to Lady Byron of importance; a fourth from the mother of Allegra; and, fifthly, at Ravenna, the Countess G. is on the eve of being separated.  But the Italian public are on her side, particularly the women,—­and the men also, because they say that he had no business to take the business up now after a year of toleration.  All her relations (who are numerous, high in rank, and powerful) are furious against him for his conduct.  I am warned to be on my guard, as he is very capable of employing sicarii—­this is Latin as well as Italian, so you can understand it; but I have arms, and don’t mind them, thinking that I could pepper his ragamuffins, if they don’t come unawares, and that, if they do, one may as well end that way as another; and it would besides serve you as an advertisement:—­

        “Man may escape from rope or gun, &c. 
        But he who takes woman, woman, woman, &c.

     “Yours.

     “P.S.  I have looked over the press, but heaven knows how.  Think
     what I have on hand and the post going out to-morrow.  Do you
     remember the epitaph on Voltaire?

        “‘Ci-git l’enfant gate,’ &c.

        “’Here lies the spoilt child
        Of the world which he spoil’d.’

     The original is in Grimm and Diderot, &c. &c. &c.”

* * * * *

LETTER 374.  TO MR. MOORE.

     “Ravenna, May 24. 1820.

“I wrote to you a few days ago.  There is also a letter of January last for you at Murray’s, which will explain to you why I am here.  Murray ought to have forwarded it long ago.  I enclose you an epistle from a countrywoman of yours at Paris, which has moved my entrails.  You will have the goodness, perhaps, to enquire into the truth of her story, and I will help her as far as I can,—­though not in the useless way she proposes.  Her letter is evidently unstudied, and so natural, that the orthography is also in a state of nature.

“Here is a poor creature, ill and solitary, who thinks, as a last resource, of translating you or me into French!  Was there ever such a notion?  It seems to me the consummation of despair.  Pray enquire, and let me know, and, if you could draw a bill on me here for a few hundred francs, at your banker’s, I will duly honour it,—­that is, if she is not an impostor.[73] If not, let me know, that I may get something remitted by my banker Longhi, of Bologna, for I have no correspondence myself, at Paris:  but tell her she must not translate;—­if she does, it will be the height of ingratitude.

“I had a letter (not of the same kind, but in French and flattery) from a Madame Sophie Gail, of Paris, whom I take to be the spouse