- tionate love to and from all. This ought not only to be
the vale of a letter, but a superscription over the gate of life.
Your sincere friend,
P. B. Shelley.
I send you a sonnet. I don't expect you to publish it; but you may show it to whom you please.
Florence, November 1819.
My dear Friend,—Two letters, both bearing date Oct 20, arrive on the same day:—one is always glad of twins.
We hear of a box arrived at Genoa with books and clothes: it must be yours. Meanwhile the babe is wrapped in flannel petticoats, and we get on with him as we can. He is small, healthy, and pretty. Mary is recovering rapidly. Marianne, I hope, is quite recovered.
You do not tell me whether you have received my lines on the Manchester affair. They are of the exoteric species, and are meant, not for "The Indicator," but "The Examiner." I would send for the former, if you like, some letters on such subjects of art as suggest themselves in Italy. Perhaps I will, at a venture, send you a specimen of what I mean next post. I enclose you in this a piece for "The Examiner;" or let it share the fate, whatever that fate may be, of the "Mask of Anarchy."
I am sorry to hear that you have employed yourself in translating "Aminta," though I doubt not it will be a just and beautiful translation. You ought to write Amintas. You ought to exercise your fancy in the perpetual creation of new forms of gentleness and beauty.
With respect to translation, even I will not be seduced by it; although the Greek plays, and some of the ideal dramas of Calderon (with which I have lately, and with
