[15] Matthew Gregory Lewis--so named in _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. When Lewis first saw Lord Byron, he asked him earnestly,--“Why did you call me Apollo’s sexton?” The noble poet found it difficult to reply to this categorical species of reproof. The above stories have, some of them, appeared in print; but, as a ghost story depends entirely on the mode in which it is told, I think the reader will be pleased to read these, written by Shelley, fresh from their relation by Lewis.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] [Decoration] LETTERS FROM ITALY. [Decoration] LETTERS FROM ITALY. TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. _Milan, April, 1818._ My dear Peacock, Behold us arrived at length at the end of our journey--that is, within a few miles of it--because we design to spend the summer on the shore of the Lake of Como. Our journey was somewhat painful from the cold--and in no other manner interesting until we passed the Alps: of course I except the Alps themselves; but no sooner had we arrived at Italy, than the loveliness of the earth and the serenity of the sky made the greatest difference in my sensations. I depend on these things for life; for in the smoke of cities, and the tumult of human kind, and the chilling fogs and rain of our own country, I can hardly be said to live. With what delight did I hear the woman, who conducted us to see the triumphal arch of Augustus at Susa, speak the clear and complete language of Italy, though half unintelligible to me, after that nasal and abbreviated cacophony of the French! A ruined arch of magnificent proportions, in the Greek taste, standing in a kind of road of green lawn, overgrown with violets and primroses, and in the midst of stupendous mountains, and a _blonde_ woman, of light and graceful manners, something in the style of Fuseli’s Eve, were the first things we met in Italy. This city is very agreeable. We went to the opera last night--which is a most splendid exhibition. The opera itself was not a favourite, and the singers very inferior to our own. But the ballet, or rather a kind of melodrame or pantomimic drama, was the most splendid spectacle I ever saw. We have no Miss Melanie here--in every other respect, Milan is unquestionably superior. The manner in which language is translated into gesture, the complete and full effect of the whole as illustrating the history in question, the unaffected self-possession of each of the actors, even to the children, made this choral drama more impressive than I could have conceived possible. The story is _Othello_, and strange to say, it left no disagreeable impression.