take notes for Leigh Hunt, who will be glad to hear of the scenery of his Poem.  There was a devil of a review of him in the Quarterly, a year ago, which he answered.  All answers are imprudent:  but, to be sure, poetical flesh and blood must have the last word—­that’s certain.  I thought, and think, very highly of his Poem; but I warned him of the row his favourite antique phraseology would bring him into.

     “You have taken a house at Hornsey:  I had much rather you had taken
     one in the Apennines.  If you think of coming out for a summer, or
     so, tell me, that I may be upon the hover for you.

     “Ever,” &c.

* * * * *

LETTER 274.  TO MR. MURRAY.

     “Venice, April 14. 1817.

“By the favour of Dr. Polidori, who is here on his way to England with the present Lord G * *, (the late earl having gone to England by another road, accompanied by his bowels in a separate coffer,) I remit to you, to deliver to Mrs. Leigh, two miniatures; previously you will have the goodness to desire Mr. Love (as a peace-offering between him and me) to set them in plain gold, with my arms complete, and ‘Painted by Prepiani—­Venice, 1817,’ on the back.  I wish also that you would desire Holmes to make a copy of each—­that is, both—­for myself, and that you will retain the said copies till my return.  One was done while I was very unwell; the other in my health, which may account for their dissimilitude.  I trust that they will reach their destination in safety.

     “I recommend the Doctor to your good offices with your government
     friends; and if you can be of any use to him in a literary point of
     view, pray be so.

“To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past midnight, I have been up to the battlements of the highest tower in Venice, and seen it and its view, in all the glory of a clear Italian sky.  I also went over the Manfrini Palace, famous for its pictures.  Amongst them, there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, surpassing all my anticipation of the power of painting or human expression:  it is the poetry of portrait, and the portrait of poetry.  There was also one of some learned lady, centuries old, whose name I forget, but whose features must always be remembered.  I never saw greater beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom:—­it is the kind of face to go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame.  There is also a famous dead Christ and live Apostles, for which Buonaparte offered in vain five thousand louis; and of which, though it is a capo d’opera of Titian, as I am no connoisseur, I say little, and thought less, except of one figure in it.  There are ten thousand others, and some very fine Giorgiones amongst them, &c. &c.  There is an original Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both.  Petrarch has not only the dress, but the features