out my patience; and he had therefore seriously set about a fresh copy in which many additional insertions had been made that it had required a good deal of attention, contrivance, and delicacy to engraft in the trunk and branches: but the wearisome work would shortly be completed, and thenceforward he proposed to place them, with whatever else he had written, or might write, at my disposal. 'I am resolved to hold no intercourse with publishers, to claim no notice from the public, ' and never even to announce what I have done, am doing, or may do.' I already knew his temper well enough to receive this kind of statement at its worth; but at least it was clear that for the sort of intercourse with publishers of which I lately gave an illustration, or indeed for business of any kind requir ing prudence and patience, he was dangerously unfit.

His reply to my half-jesting remonstrance was very characteristic. He admitted there was a future day, though probably a distant one, when his books would be rightly estimated, and that it was certainly in their favour not to have been too much extolled.

'Marmion was at first too much applauded; it is now too much underrated. Such trash of Byron's as the Giaour kept women from sleep and almost from scandal, and who reads it now? whereas such lines of his (I forget the title) as "A change came o'er the spirit of my dream," few people cared for, yet they live, and will live always. I have no reason to complain, and never did. I found my company in a hothouse warmed with steam, and conducted them to my dining-room through a cold corridor with nothing but a few old statues in it from one end to the other, and they could not read the Greek names on the plinth, which made them hate the features above it. This only amused me; for the guests in good truth had a better right to be displeased with the entertainer than he with them. God grant I may never be popular in any way, if I must pay the price of self-esteem for it. I do not know whether my writings are ever to emerge above those of my contemporaries, but if they do I am sure it will be after my lifetime; and some seem to think they will. Read the enclosed.'

It was a letter from the author of the Curiosities of Literature. It touched a chord of the very earliest years of his life, even the days of his friendship with Mocatta; and it was indeed an expression of opinion he might fairly be proud to receive. Dated from Bradenham-house, Wycombe, on the 29th September 1838, it had been written after reading the Penta

meron. Various circumstances, it is said, had prevented the writer doing this before.

'I have now just closed it, to be opened however hereafter. It has happened to me, from early years in my life, to have been acquainted both with your name and your writings. I have been your constant reader. I have never turned over a page of your works but with a pause of reflection. In the present imaginary conversations you have if possible excelled yourself; so perfectly have you personated the spirits of your two great actors, such novelty have you given to a searching and exquisite criticism on the three finest geniuses of modern literature. You have shown the caustic smile of Petrarch on Dante; and surely Boccaccio himself would have laughed heartily, as at least I did, at the lovely girl so kindly watchful over our corpulent sentimentalist girthing his mule. All that you have written has been masterly, and struck out by the force of an original mind. You have not condescended to write down to the mediocrity of the populace of readers. You will be read hereafter. I know not whether you have written a century too late or too early: too late, if the taste for literature has wholly left us; too early, if the public mind has not yet responded to your sympathies. Believe me with great regard faithfully yours, I. D'ISRAELI.'

III. WRITING PLAYS.

Thirteen days after the date of Mr. D'Israeli's letter, on the 12th October 1838, I received what follows:

'He who sprains an ankle breaks a resolution. I sprained my ankle a week ago by treading on a lump of mortar which a beast of a mason let drop out of his hod in Milsom-street. It twisted under my leg, and down I came. Nevertheless I resolved to walk home, after I was picked up, two gentlemen having run across the street and helped me: for as to getting up by my own efforts, that was out of the question. With great difficulty I reached my lodgings. And now for the breach of resolution I have committed. I am a great admirer of Mrs. Jameson's writings. So I sent on Saturday night for her Female Sovereigns. On Sunday after tea I began a drama on Giovanna di Napoli (God defend us from the horrid sound, Joan of Naples!); and before I rose from my bed on Monday morning, I had written above a hundred and seventy verses as good as any I ever wrote in my life excepting my Death of Clytemnestra. Of course I slept little. In fact, I scarcely sleep at all by night while the people of my brain are talking. While others are drinking I dose and dream, and sometimes snore peradventure; at least those have told me so who know best. Now, not a word to any one about this drama, which I promise to send you before a month is over. Since the first day I have done nothing in the composition of it, so many people have been calling on me. However, nobody shall come in before two nor after three for the future. But I must return the calls as soon as I can get out, and these are grievous losses of time. It is odd enough that I had written a good

many scraps of two Imaginary Conversations in which Giovanna is a speaker; but I cannot remember a syllable of them, nor would they do. She and Vittoria Colonna are my favourites among the women of Italy, as Boccaccio and Petrarca among the men. But, to have clear perceptions of women, to elicit their thoughts and hear their voices to advantage, I must be in the open air, in the sun-alas, in Italy, were it possible. My sprained ankle will not let me take my long and rapid strides. I am an artificial man. I want all these helps for poetry. Quiet and silent nights are the next things needful. How happy is Southey, who can do all things better than any of us, and can do them all in the midst of noise and interruption! He is gone into Brittany. May he return in health and spirits! . . . God bless you. Do not think it necessary to condole with me on my sprain.'

Five days later came another letter. I had meanwhile, after expressing my delight that out of such a nettle as a sprain he was plucking the flower of a tragedy, endeavoured to point out to him that a drama, if it meant anything, should mean what could be acted; and that if he had not something to say which the theatre would enable him to say best, it was unwise to adopt a form that surrendered obvious advantages without corresponding return.

'My drama will never do for the stage. Besides, why should I make so many bad men worse? Is there any poet, beside Southey and perhaps our Paracelsus (Mr. Browning), who would not suffer from blue devils at any success of mine? The best of our living dramatic writers, Sheridan Knowles, gets grudgingly praised. I would not be mobbed, present or absent. Even Macready's genius and judgment can hardly bring together half a dinner-party to see living Shakespeare. Yet Shakespeare not only keeps poetry alive, but Christianity. When people see one inspired man, inspired to delight and elevate them, they may believe that there may be another inspired and sent to save them from the devil. My scenes fall in the natural order. What is plot but trick? However, my team is strong enough to carry my materials from one part of the field to the other, if need be. You must tell me about it. You shall not have any of it before you have the whole; and it shall not be a fortnight first.'

The promise was kept; all the scenes composing the tragedy known afterwards as Andrea of Hungary were in my hands on the 2d of November; and the subjoined characteristic letter accompanied them.

'Conceived, planned, and executed in thirteen days; transcribed (the worst of the business) in six. Any man, I am now convinced, may write a dozen such within the year. The worst of it is, in anything dramatic, such is the rapidity of passion the words escape before they can be taken down. If you lose one, you lose the tone of the person, and never can

recover it. Desperation! And the action is gone too. You have a dead man before you,-but galvanised.

'How a sprained ankle helps a poet in getting over the ground! It should not have hindered me, had the weather been finer and the walks less slippery, from creeping along through my favourite lanes, and inhaling the incense round the dying hawthorn-leaves, the viaticum of their departure. They quit the world without sprained ankles, happy souls!

'Make the best of my phantasmagoria; shift the glasses as you will, and toss as many of the figures as you will aside. I will have no farther concern or thought about the matter. I have enjoyed my sunshine once more in pleasant Italy, and am ready for my siesta. If your opinion is a favourable one, let me hear it-se, no, no, as the Arragonese say to their king...

'Write me one line as soon as you receive the parcel. My hodgepodge was completed on Friday night just before twelve. I have not had leisure to count the verses. There should not be many more than 1800; at least there are not, if I remember, in tragedies or mixt dramas. However, I have weeded out and weeded out, and have rejected as much as would furnish any friend for another piece-as good as this.

'Any of my worthy critics may tell me that I do not know the difference between an act and a scene. Very true; I have said something about this in my Milton and Marvel. So I have merely markt out the

scenes, as they are called, and leave the acts to the curious. I had myself a fanciful division of them into five; but their length was not symmetrical by any means. Now adieu, my dear friend; I have given you but a tough and dry radish as a whetting for your entertainment.

'A capital prologue has this instant come into my head, if hereafter the piece should be licked into shape :

'No prologue will our author's pride allow
If you can do without it, show it now.

'Observe, I have made Andrea rather tolerable; at last rather interesting; ductile; quite uneducated: but gentle-hearted, compliant, compassionate, and, above all, a graceful rider. These qualities, taken together, are enough to make a sensible woman of great generosity love him even. Such a woman would be more likely than another. I never knew a very sensible woman, once excepted, love a very sensible man. There never was one who could resist a graceful and bold rider, if there was only one single thing about him which would authorise her to say, "It was not merely for his horsemanship."

In the characters generally I have avoided strong contrasts. These are the certain signs of a weak artist. There are however shades of complexion, diversities of manner, and degrees of height. It would be ridiculous to tell you this after you have read the thing-less amiss, before.'

Hardly had I written what I thought of the scenes, or suggested what seemed to me required for their orderly arrangement, when tidings of another completed portion reached me; the second of a trilogy on the theme he had chosen. I had

written on the 3d of November, and five days later had the startling announcement:

'Thursday, Nov. 9. Your praises, which came this day se'nnight, created the last drama I shall ever write. It contains about 1100 verses! 'I only write now to tell you that I completed (just before dinner) the second of my trilogy. I will not ever write the third, tho' I have a scrap or two for it. No, the easy part, the part that anybody else would have taken, shall be left for somebody to try his hand against me. Giovanna is absolved by Rienzi, and returns to Naples. Let another kill her; let another make her cry out against the ingratitude of Durazzo. Unluckily I have not the life of Rienzi. I had it in Italian by a contemporary. What was his wife's name? Was he married? Had he a mistress? Pray let me know; perhaps I may want it, but probably not. I am a horrible confounder of historical facts. I have usually one history that I have read, another that I have invented.'

Observing so resolute an asseveration that he would never write the third in the trilogy, I half expected to receive it before even the completion of the second; but I had to wait a little. On the 13th of November he wrote again :

'Gratifying as your praises are, I like your objections still better, and would rather have the utmost of your severity. My division of the acts (an arbitrary one) would probably be the same as yours. The first would contain 366 verses, the second 255, the third 448. My fourth was inordinately long; my last little more than one scene. I want you to make some insertions in the first, where the queen speaks of her husband to her sister Maria, and afterwards to her foster mother Filippa. After “I will earn," paste in

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Maria. How can we love

Giovanna (interrupting). Mainly by hearing none

Decry the object; then by cherishing
The good we see in it, and overlooking

What is less pleasant in the paths of life.

All have some virtue, if we leave it them

In peace and quiet: all may lose some part

By sifting too minutely bad and good.

Where Andrea follows Fra Rupert, after "he went in wrath," I would add

He may do mischief, if he thinks it right;

As those religious people often do.

And where Filippa says that he deserves their pity, let this follow:

Giovanna. O, more than pity. If our clime, our nation
Bland, constant, kind, congenial with each other,

Were granted him, how much more was withheld !

Sterile the soil is not, but sadly waste.

What buoyant spirits and what pliant temper!

How patient of reproof! how he wipes off