Few have of late years so filled the world with the reputation of their talents; and none excited such acute attention to their private life, such general acknowledgment of their powers, or so much grief for their occasional abuse. Passing over kings and heroes, commonly so called, as out of the scale of our comparison, Rousseau and Voltaire were the last of authors or orators who were so thoroughly identified with “the business and bosoms of men.” Schiller was certainly not, nor Alfieri, nor any in fact, Mirabeau perhaps excepted. Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, and their copartners in the splendid firm of political talent, agitated the sphere they moved in with magical power:—but the influence of politicians is necessarily confined to their own party; and their sufferings or success create no sensations beyond that, to entitle them to be considered as the property of the world. In literature it is different; for, though the politics of a mere statesman have power to chill the feelings of one half of mankind, and make them look on him as an alien to their sympathy, the works of a writer, if they deal with the passions common to all men, fix him at once, let his opinions be what they may, in the regard, if not in the affection of all.

Byron was peculiarly situated in the poetical literature of the age: the same in effect, though not in fact, as Grattan was in eloquence, and as Scott is in imaginative prose. Grattan stood alone, because he was the last of the orators. Scott stands singly, from the elevation of his talents. Byron remained aloof, in the solitude of his genius, which was incapable, even if he wished it, of merging its individuality in the common commerce of mankind. It is thus those three great men were destined for so marked a station in their different spheres of action. At Grattan's death, Eloquence, like a Hindoo widow, seemed to immolate herself upon his funeral pyre; and Poetry, now that Byron is gone, floats like an unembodied spirit across the earth. When Scott—but we are wandering beyond our limits, and into melancholy anticipations.

Lord Byron's death once ascertained, and the early burst of unbelief gone by—for the public shock at such a loss is always mixed with a feeling of scepticism, as if the thing could not be—the whole interest of society seemed centred in his memoirs. Curiosity swallowed up grief; and people becoming wearied by the comments of other writers on him who was no more, turned with unexampled anxiety to know what he had written upon himself. Whether or not the public had a right to these memoirs, is a question which it is not yet, perhaps, quite useless to discuss. It is, at any rate, our opinion that they had the right; and that the depository of the manuscript was no more than a trustee for the public, however his individual interest was concerned or consulted. Lord Byron bequeathed his memoirs to the world. The profits of their sale were alone meant for Mr. Moore. Lord Byron's family had no pretension whatever to the monopoly. And though the delicate consideration of the gentleman just named, prompted his offer of having the manuscript perused—and purified, if such be the proper word, by the nearest surviving relative of Lord Byron, we maintain that he was right, strictly right, in protesting against its unconditional destruction.

The history of the burning is fresh in the public recollection. We think that Mr. Moore's conduct is not clearly understood or appreciated. Some blame appears to have been attached to his share in the transaction, not only in this country, but on the continent, where the matter has excited an interest quite as lively as with us. But it is our opinion, that up to this moment, not a shadow of reproach rests upon Mr. Moore. One duty, we think, remains for his performance; but one, and that most imperative: it is, to give to the world the genuine work of Lord Byron, if it be in his power to do so. The opinion is at all events widespread, if not well founded, that one copy at least of the original work is in existence. That opinion is afloat, and nothing will sink it. If the Life which Mr. Moore is supposed to be preparing, comes out as his own production, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to convince the public that it is not a compilation from the copy which we allude to, or from a memory powerfully tenacious of the original. If it be not avowed as such, its genuineness will be doubted, and a dozen spurious Lives will probably appear, professing to be that identical copy, of whose existence no one will consent to doubt. No reasoning, nothing, in fact, short of Mr. Moore's positive assertion to the contrary, will persuade people that he could, for years, have run the risk of leaving so interesting a manuscript uncopied, or that he could have entrusted it, without possessing a duplicate, into the hands of any one. And, at all events, it will be thought morally certain, that more than one of those to whom it was entrusted had curiosity enough to copy it; and very improbable that any one had honesty enough to confess it.

Besides these reasons for the publication of the real memoirs, supposing a copy to exist, there is one, of such paramount importance, that we are sure it must have struck every body, who has thought at all upon the subject. We mean the retrospective injury done to the character of the deceased, by the conjectures which are abroad, as to the nature of the memoirs he left behind. We do not pretend to be in the secret of their contents, but we are quite sure they can be in no way so reprehensible as the public imagination, and the enemies of Lord Byron, have figured them to be; and there is one notion concerning them, of a nature too delicate to touch upon, and for the removal of which no sacrifice of individual or family vanity would be a price too high. We have besides, as will presently be seen, good authority for believing that the memoirs might and ought to have been published, with perfect safety to public morals, and with very considerable gratification to public anxiety. Curiosity, which is so contemptible in individuals, assumes a very different aspect when it is shared by society at large; and a satisfaction, which may be in most instances wisely withheld from the one, ought very rarely to be refused to the other. Nothing has ever had such power of excitement upon the mass of mankind as private details of illustrious individuals, and most of all what may be called their confessions: and if those individuals choose to make their opinions as much the property of the world, after their death, as their conduct and their works had been before, we repeat that it is nothing short of a fraud upon the public, to snatch away the treasure of which they were the just inheritors. Nor must it be said that the property in question is of no intrinsic value. Every thing which ministers to the public indulgence is of worth proportioned to its rarity—and in this point of view Lord Byron's memoirs were beyond price. If they contain gross scandal, or indecent disclosures, let such parts be suppressed; and enough will remain amply to satisfy all readers. But we merely say this for the sake of supposition, and for the purpose of refuting an argument founded on an extreme case; for we have great pleasure in believing, that the only pretence for such an imputation on the manuscript, was the selfish or squeamish act of their suppression.

We are confident that Mr. Moore will consider well the part he has to perform; that he is not insensible to the narrow scrutiny which the public puts into this affair, and which posterity will confirm; and that he will, on this occasion, uphold the character for integrity and frankness which is so pre-eminently his. We speak with certitude of his disinterested and upright feelings throughout; we only hope his delicacy towards others may not lead him too far towards the risk of his own popularity, or the sacrifice of, what we designate once more, the public property.

But during the interval which must elapse before the intense anxiety of the world can be gratified by the appearance of Mr. Moore's (or Lord Byron's) work, we are fortunate in having it in our power to present to those who will read us, some extracts from one, of minor interest certainly, but which puts forth scarcely inferior claims to attention. The fate which seemed to decree the suppression of every record of Lord Byron apart from his literary character:—which doomed the burning of the memoirs—the interdiction of the correspondence—and the loss at sea of the MSS. intrusted to Count Gamba—has happily spared the volume which we now allude to. For its authenticity, we should offer to vouch, were we not convinced that the perusal of one page will carry proof sufficient to the most sceptical. We shall not offer any anticipated criticism on a work which will so shortly be before the world. Such publications speak for themselves. The only point to ascertain, is their spuriousness or truth. The latter quality once established, their fortune with the public is made.

It is only then necessary for us to say, that the MS. in question was put into our hands, with the amplest liberty of selection for our present purpose. Sensible of the advantage thus offered to us, we did not abuse the confidence. We have taken but little from a large mass of matter, all equally interesting, and which treats largely of Lord Byron's opinions of many of his friends and acquaintance; many anecdotes regarding him hitherto unknown; some original verses; and many of his thoughts on politics, religion, and literature. Our chief object in taking enough to enrich our own work, was to give the public a specimen of the ample treat which they will so shortly be able to enjoy.

Leaving the author to speak, as he does explicitly and manfully, of his publication, and the motives which induced it, we proceed to lay before our readers extracts from ten of the conversations held by Lord Byron with his friend Capt. Medwin, on subjects of public and personal importance.