Thou hast said it. I don’t mean to call Medwin a liar—indeed, I should be sorry to forget the best stanza in Don Juan. The Captain lies, sir,—but it is only under a thousand mistakes. Whether Byron bammed him—or he, by virtue of his own egregious stupidity, was the sole and sufficient bammifier of himself, I know not, neither greatly do I care. This much is certain, (and it is enough for our turn,) that the book is throughout full of things that were not, and most resplendently deficient quoad the things that were. . . .

Few men could endure the test of having their private talk written down,—especially after the discussion of a quart of gin between the talker and the note-taker. Byron was a rattling, reckless fellow, who said many things that he should not have said; but, from all we have been able to ascertain, he had a great deal too much taste and tact to talk low trash, unless where he found his audience incapable of sympathising with any of the higher and purer strains of his mind. We regard Medwin’s book a proof positive of a small and mean understanding in its writer; and of his total incapacity to be for one hour, in any just sense of the term, the companion of such a man as Lord Byron. . . .

As Mr. Medwin has been a dragoon, and as, moreover, he has recently sent a letter to England of a very warlike complexion, we suppose we must content ourselves with saying that he has misheard, not misrepresented, lord Byron. Certain however, it is, that the Conversations, such as they now appear, never could have been uttered by his lordship; who, amongst his other noble qualities, was distinguished for a scrupulous regard, even in trifles, to truth. . . .

Mr Medwin’s book, again, has been dissected by Murray, Hobhouse, &c. in such style, that no man can ever henceforth appeal to it as authority. Nevertheless, there are many things in it also which, from internal evidence, one can scarcely doubt to be true,—and, perhaps, some of the most interesting of these may be confirmed hereafter on authority of another description. . . .

An article was written in “The Westminster Review” (Medwin says by Mr. Hobhouse) to show that the Conversations were altogether unworthy of credit. There are doubtless many inaccuracies in the latter; but the spirit remains undoubted; and the author of the criticism was only vexed, that such was the fact. He assumes, that Lord Byron could not have made this or that statement to Captain Medwin, because the statement was erroneous or untrue; but an anonymous author has no right to be believed in preference to one who speaks in his own name: there is nothing to show that Mr. Hobhouse might not have been as mistaken about a date or an epigram as Mr. Medwin; and when we find him giving us his own version of a fact, and Mr. Medwin asserting that Lord Byron gave him another, the only impression left upon the mind of any body who knew his Lordship is, that the fault most probably lay in the loose corners of the noble Poet’s vivacity. Such is the impression made upon the author of an unpublished Letter to Mr. Hobhouse, which has been shown me in print; and he had a right to it. The reviewer, to my knowledge, is mistaken upon some points, as well as the person he reviews. The assumption, that nobody can know any thing about Lord Byron but two or three persons who were conversant with him for a certain space of time, and whom he spoke of with as little ceremony, and would hardly treat with more confidence than he did a hundred others, is ludicrous; and can only end, as the criticism has done, in doing no good either to him or them. . . .

What man has met another within the last few weeks, and has not asked him “Have you seen Medwin’s book?” And who will venture to answer “No?” He might as soon acknowledge the not having ready Waverley! Every one is expected to have read “Medwin’s book.” It is the general topic of conversation; one person reprobates the publication altogether, and declares he can give no credit to one who has betrayed the confidence of a friend; another thinks the thing authorized by the intense interest taken in all that relates to so extraordinary a genius, while a third blames the author, and at the same time thanks his stars that the author has merited the blame. . . .

In many of the anecdotes it is substantially true, and therein consists all its interest; but the friends of Lord Byron will never cease to regret that so bald and meagre a representation of his conversational talents should have seen the light. . . .

Of the work altogether I can only say, that it contains nothing new; but only repeats scandals that have been long before the public, and many of which have been refuted. The very falsehood is not original. Every scrap of literary or fashionable chit-chat, that the author could collect from the second classes of society, among whom his lot of life has been cast, he has thrust into the mouth of Lord Byron. If Captain Medwin had the slightest acquaintance with the literature of the day, or had ever mixed in society, the noble poet must have been to him the dullest of all companions; for his conversation would have conveyed nothing but sentiments that he had already read, and stories he was weary of hearing repeated. That they were, however, taken from Lord Byron’s mouth, is impossible; his language was as choice as his words were few; and he would as soon have allowed Captain Medwin to dedicate his novel to him, the extreme case we conceive, as talk of a “lady’s being of a genteel figure,”—a word that has long been exploded by all but the apprentices of Cheapside, and the milliners of Cranbourne-alley—or check the criticisms of his friend, by the exclamation of “There, you’re going it again!” . . .

The only publications that contained any thing at once new and true respecting Lord Byron were, Dallas’s Recollections, the Conversations by Captain Medwin, and Parry’s and Gamba’s Accounts of his Last Days. A good deal of the real character of his Lordship, though not always as the writer viewed it, may be gathered from most of them; particularly the first two. . . .

But, to end this Pot and Kettle jostle, I will state my opinion of Captain Medwin’s Conversations in another form. I believe much of what he states, to have been actually said to him by Lord Byron; but his Lordship took such pleasure in mystification, that it is probable he intentionally distorted and magnified many of the things he related, apprehending they were likely to be made public. . . .

Captain Medwin indisputably possessed great opportunities of seeing and hearing Lord Byron. He was a cousin of Byshe Shelley. This was his ground of introduction; and none can doubt of the intimacy to which he was admitted, who has heard that he once presumed so far as to transgress the orders of the noble poet, and take a volume from the table of his study. The domestic, who had seen and remonstrated against the act, inquired of his master what course was to be adopted on the repetition of a similar offence. The reply was most laconic: “Kick his ——.” After this instance of the intimate footing on which Captain Medwin was received by Lord Byron—an instance which has been communicated by the domestic himself—who shall question the habits of familiarity—even of that too great familiarity which breeds contempt—that subsisted between the parties? . . .

We cannot, however, conclude, without noticing his Cockney admiration of Byron’s personal appearance. It is, indeed, quite laughable, to hear so much said, both in print and society, of his Lordship’s beauty. He was, in truth, in no respect particularly handsome, and his busts and portraits bear testimony to the fact. His forehead was rather noble certainly, and the general cast of his physiognomy was genteel and Grecian. When lighted up with his wonted good humour, there was a pleasing archness in his countenance that gave effect and felicity to his wit and apothegms; but ever and anon he had a habit of knitting his brows into misanthropic frowns little calculated to bespeak affection. In his person he was slight, but well formed, and his lameness was scarcely observable. . . .

The invitation to the Genevese professor did not come from lord Byron; it was an imprudent liberty taken by his domestic physician, and lord Byron was not detained from the dinner-table by the wind. He staid away on purpose, saying to the doctor, “as you asked these guests yourself, you may entertain them yourself.” . . .

A second time he left his native country, and under even worse auspices than before. He had become more its enemy. He had out of spite and vexation undervalued its glories, depreciated the immortal honour of triumphs never equalled in history, libelled its Sovereign, insulted its religion. violated its morals. He felt himself condemned by the wise and good alike for his private and public conduct: and against all this he had to set—what? the consciousness of talents abused, and of a poetical reputation exaggerated and ephemeral. Had he been possessed with the genuine love of honest fame—a secondary motive to virtue at the best—yet had he felt this desire he would have nobly attempted the conquest of his passions: he would have tried to raise his moral to a level with his intellectual being. He did no such thing. He returned “like a dog to the vomit,” to his old degradations and obscenities. . . .

Lord Byron had no boatmen. Mr. Hobhouse did not arrive at Diodati until after the tour alluded to. . . .

The first part of the statement is true—the second untrue—a courier carry eight or ten pair of pistols!! This courier did occasionally carry one pair of pistols. . . .

The whole of this statement, so far as relates to the duel, I can positively contradict, as no person is better acquainted with the circumstances than myself. Lieutenant, afterwards Capt. Cecil, was my intimate friend, with whom I have been for months together in daily intercourse. He was for some weeks a guest in my house, previously to his going out on promotion to the West Indies. In the various conversations I have had with him on the subject of duelling, he has invariably deprecated the system, and I have often heard him say, that he had never fired a pistol at a target in his whole life, and that such a practice was abhorrent to his feelings; so much, then, for the assertion that my friend practised daily for three years; and as to Cecil being a quick shot and firing first, they both fired together by signal. . . .

Lord Byron was never concerned in a duel in his life, either as second or principal. He was once rather near fighting a duel—and that was with an officer of the staff of general Oakes, at Malta. . . .

If we rightly understand Captain Medwin, Lord Byron down to the moment of his sailing for Greece, was living in double adultery with a married Italian woman; and to make the picture still more revolting, her father and her brother were the panders to her lust!—If this be not the plain meaning of Captain Medwin’s history of the Countess Guiccioli, her father Count Gamba and his son, in pages 22, 23, 24, 28, 29, and 234, it is extremely necessary that the Captain should forthwith publish an explanation of those pages; for in no other sense can we understand them. . . .

Byron was what every man must be who surrenders himself wholly to the impulse of his passions. This impulse he sought neither to regulate nor control; and their consequences whatever pain, or degradation, or misery, they might carry to the bosoms of others, became for him the material of a sarcasm or a jest. Dismissing, altogether, for a moment, the immorality of his amours, can any thing be more disgusting, than the heartless and libertine manner in which he spoke of them? It would seem, almost, as if he sought an affair of gallantry, only for the pitiful and profligate triumph of boasting of it. Love he evidently never felt, though he could describe it with such impassioned eloquence: perhaps upon the same principle that Rousseau declared, if he wished to write a powerful apostrophe to liberty, he could do it best in one of the dungeons of the Bastille. . . .

A long speech on the subject of madame Guiccioli, and on the politics of Ravenna, is put into lord Byron’s mouth, the authenticity of which may be judged of by the following lists of misstatements, which lord Byron never could have made. . . .

They had not separate apartments, and she never called her husband, Sir, but Alexander, his christian name. . . .

The count Guiccioli was strongly and notoriously attached to the liberals himself. . . .

This is not the case; the countess openly followed her father, count Gamba, fifteen days after his banishment, to Florence. . . .

Accordingly he went to Italy, and there he became a Carbonaro.—“I had a magazine of one hundred stand of arms in my house,”—“I had received a very high degree, without passing through the intermediate ranks.” (p. 32.) Thus was an English Peer acting the secret traitor, in a foreign State: and all for the good of mankind in general! It did not enter into Lord Byron’s thoughts that to be a true philanthropist a man ought to discharge well the domestic and the patriotic duties. As to the former, he confesses himself a spendthrift, a debauchee, and an adulterer; as to the latter, he voluntary forswears his native soil; he impeaches his country’s honest fame; he even forbids his daughter Allegra to marry an Englishman; (p. 98.); and he seems to think that to prove his patriotism it is only necessary to insult the Monarch, vilify the leading Members of Government, foment disaffection, and treat loyalty as a crime. . . .

In page 32, speaking of his residence at Venice, Lord Byron is represented as saying, “The Austrian Government would have arrested me, but no one betrayed me; indeed there was nothing to betray.” Four lines above he says, “I had a magazine of one hundred stand of arms in my house, when everything was ripe for revolt.” How do these things agree? . . .

Lord Byron did not. receive any anonymous letter on this occasion; a placard was posted on the walls near his house, in which he was mentioned as protector of the Carbonari. . . .

Lord Byron had five or six carbines or muskets, and five or six pair of pistols, ready for his travelling service. . . .

The writer speaks of the counts Gamba—their possessions were not confiscated. . . .

The papal government never evinced such an intention. Cardinal Consalvi was always extremely well-disposed towards lord Byron. . . .

It did not occur at this time; it happened five months before. He was a persecutor of the carbonari, and it was suspected that he was killed by a carbonaro. The commandant was at the head of the police, and directed the police against the Carbonari. The whole of what is put into lord Byron’s mouth, as to lord Byron, is a romance—the truth is as follows: It was eight o’clock in the evening—lord Byron was going into his bed-room to change his neck-cloth, in order to walk to an evening conversazione, accompanied by his servant, Battista Faisieri. He heard a musket shot, and he sent Battista to inquire the cause. . . .

Mr. Moore had no little boy with him at Venice. Lord Byron never said, here are 20001. for you my young friend—he never did fix any price which his MSS. might be likely to procure. Mr. Moore did make an observation to lord Byron upon receiving the Memoirs, which gave rise to the story that has accordingly been made part of the Conversations. After such a mis-statement of lord Byron’s words on the delivery of the MSS. to Mr Moore’s little boy, to quote any other part of the fabrication respecting these Memoirs would give it unmerited importance. . . .

Lord Byron talks of his own Memoirs as “a good lesson to young men,” in shewing them “the fatal consequences of dissipation”—he says, “there are very few licentious adventures of my own, or scandalous anecdotes that will affect others in the book.”—“There are few parts that may not and none that will not be read by women:” (p. 35.) and he says, moreover, that they have been read—and transcribed too by Lady Burghersh! (p. 34.) But this by the bye—However, according to his view of the utility of these Memoirs, licentiousness and dissipation are evil things, and lead to fatal consequences. Why then make them the constant theme of Poetry? Why recommend them to the young and innocent by the charms of verse?— . . .

Captain Medwin’s account of his lordship’s marriage and separation, is, among other things, as we have already intimated, in substance true;—but some of the incidents are much better told by the poet in Don Juan, which, however, we have, of course, too much regard for the morality of our readers to quote; but we refer those who dare venture on the experiment, to the first canto. . . .

It is true that Lord Byron first saw Miss Milbank at Lady Melbourne’s; but at the time of his introduction, he was not, I am almost certain, acquainted with them; and I am quite certain that the author of the Irish Melodies was not of the party. . . .

Where has Captain Medwin lived? Is this the description of any woman of fashion in this country since the reign of long ruffles and hoop petticoats?—but, above all, is it possible to conceive any resemblance between this portrait and the individuals who have, at any period, mingled in the society of Melbourne House? . . .

There was nobody in the carriage that conveyed lord and lady Byron from Seaham to Hannaby, on the day of their marriage, besides his lordship and his wife. . . .

O dear!—Well, Hogg, since you will have it, I think Douglas Kinnaird and Hobhouse are bound to tell us whether there be any truth, and how much, in this story about the declaration signed by Sir Ralph. I think they, as friends of Lord Byron, must do this—and, since so much has been said about these matters, I think Lady Byron’s letter—the “dearest duck” one I mean—should really be forthcoming, if her Ladyship’s friends wish to stand fair coram populo. At present we have nothing but the loose talk of society to go upon, and certainly, most certainly, if the things that are said be true, there must be thorough explanation from some quarter, or the tide will continue, as it has assuredly begun, to flow in a direction very opposite to what we for years were accustomed to. Sir, they must explain this business of the letter. You have, of course, heard about the invitation it contained—the warm affectionate invitation to K——; you have heard of the house-wife-like account of certain domestic conveniences there; you have heard of the hair-tearing scene, as described by the wife of this Fletcher—you have heard of the consolations of Mrs. C——; you have heard of the injunctions “not to be again naughty;” you have heard of the very last thing which preceded their valediction—you have heard of all this and we have all heard that these things were followed up by a cool and deliberate declaration, that all these endearments were meant “only to soothe a madman!” . . .

Lord and lady Byron did not give dinner-parties; they had not separate carriages; they did not launch out into any extravagance. The whole of lady Byron’s fortune was put into settlement, and could not be melted away. . . .

P. 40, “Imagine my astonishment to receive, immediately on her (Lady Byron’s) arrival in London, a few lines from her father,” &c. Lady Byron went from London to her father’s seat in Yorkshire, her husband remaining in Piccadilly. . . .

It was not on lady Byron’s arrival in London that Sir R. Noel wrote the letter to lord Byron. It was on lady Byron’s arrival at Kirby-Mallory in Leicestershire, that her father wrote to lord Byron. Sir Ralph’s letter was a long letter, not a few lines, and it began, “My Lord,” not “Sir.” It was dated Feb. 2, 1816. . . .

It may he said, “that men of great refinement, who are accustomed to consider women as angels,—poets who call them hourii, peri, &c. cannot reconcile themselves to the idea that such ‘creatures of the element,’ live on mutton.”—It may be so, but, in that case, such super-expecting personages ought never to have engaged in marriage. which, after all, is an earthly contract, much incommoded with the ‘ills that flesh is heir to.’ God help the woman, say I, who is tied to a man that will not rejoice in seeing her eat when she is hungry, and desire even to tempt her appetite when she is not,—an event which will inevitably happen to a being so delicately constructed, yet ordained by nature to certain weakness and suffering, and to require the cherishing cares of her partner. If a man is too refined and fastidious for—his homely, but manly duty,—if he is, unhappily, so constituted, by some inherent principle of meanness and cruelty in his nature, as to be incapable of it, he may be the charm of the hour to some women, and the prey of others; and ’tis as well that he should wander among the wicked, to punish and be punished; for never should he presume to enter into a connection which is formed for life, and may affect eternity: however he may be gifted in mind or person, he is incapable of the sacred and endearing duties which belong to the husband and the father. . . .

P. 42, “I was standing before the fire, ruminating upon the embarrassment of my affairs, when Lady Byron came up to me and said, ‘Byron, am I in your way?’ To which I replied, ‘Damnably!’ The answer was, “That you are, indeed,” as Byron told Tom Moore and others. The cold severity of the reply is in harmony with the general manners and character of the poet—the oath has a military raciness about it that smacks of the captain of dragoons. . . .

Captain Medwin’s recent publication has happily cleared the character of this much-injured Lady, in so decided and unequivocal a manner, that the most inveterate malignity no longer can venture a reflection. The slanderous rumour, which so long and cruelty coupled her name with that of Lord Byron, was, in its origin, a misapprehension wholly inexplicable. It now is proved that his Lordship never met Mrs. Mardyn out of the Green-room of Drury-lane Theatre, and even there scarcely ever noticed her beyond the mere compliment of a passing bow. Nevertheless, utterly unfounded as that rumour actually was, at one time, it obtained so general a credit, that both the reputation and the feelings of its innocent victim were outraged by it to the direst extreme. . . .

With respect to Lord Byron’s conduct, whatever may be said to the contrary by his Companions and Biographers, there are too many persons privy to it to admit of any doubt of the truth of it, both before his marriage at Seaham and immediately after it, and during his visit to Halnaby; and which was greatly aggravated by his behaviour whilst he resided in Piccadilly. His abuse to Lady Byron, of her family, and especially of that most amiable and excellent individual her father, was disgraceful to his character as a Nobleman and a Gentleman; and his recently-acquired friends will only shew their good sense and discretion, before they attempt any further illustrations of his life and character, by forbearing to press much further their justifications of his conduct in these respects. There are many honourable individuals who took a lively interest in his Lordship’s happiness and welfare, among them Mr. H—— and Mr. W——, but all their efforts to controul his temper and behaviour were unavailing; and although the public may long continue to admire some of his publications, yet his private life and character can never be esteemed or valued by them. . . .

If the writer would dare speak out, he would no doubt revive the somewhat stale fabrication of the differences between Lord Byron and his Lady, arising out of an intimacy with Mrs. Mardyn; than which nothing can be more false, as most of his Lordship’s personal friends can, if they please, testify. That the unhappy occurrence was accelerated by some symptoms of jealousy on the part of Lady B. there is no doubt, and that they were occasioned by the accidental visit of an Actress is equally true; but the visitant is as much unlike Mrs. M. in person as it is possible any two persons can be to each other; suffice it to say, she is still a member of one of the London Theatres, and the mother of several children. The great offence of Lord B. on the occasion alluded to was, his ordering his carriage to the door of his own house to convey the Lady home, free from the inclemency of a dreadful storm, which circumstance being made known to Lady B. by some officious domestic spy, she in a fit of jealousy hurried down stairs with her infant in her arms, seated herself in the carriage, and drove off to Doctors’ Commons to consult with a Proctor on the proper mode of proceeding. Such is the accredited fact, and it is but fair Mrs. Mardyn should be exculpated from the serious charge of having produced the unhappy difference, although (except for your private information) I think it unnecessary to give the name of the real offender. . . .

At page 43, his Lordship equally denies taking part in any intrigues with Mrs. Mardyn; and we observe it stated in the newspapers, that the scandal having thus been blown away, that lady has returned to London whence it had driven her. We were not aware that pretty actresses, especially those who survived the Drury Lane Managing Committees, were so sensitive: we could name half-a-dozen who would not be frightened from town for any period beyond a few months, by any such idle rumours. . . .

Here, sir, I am justified in asserting, that no act of Lady Byron’s, or of any of her friends, ever afforded the slightest grounds for such an accusation. There was no event that ever occurred during the period of Lord and Lady Byron’s living together, that could, by the ingenuity of malice, be interpreted and exaggerated into the imputation of so foul a perfidy. This is a slander without the least shadow of foundation, and Mrs Leigh is imperiously called upon to break silence on this occasion, and protect the fair and noble character of Lady Byron from the injury to which it is exposed by the groundless calumnies of the malevolent. But to continue:— . . .

Is it possible that this wicked misrepresentation of an act of the kindest conjugal attention could have emanated from Lord Byron?—I knew him in boyhood and in youth; generous and brave; affectionate, though passionate; and I never can believe that he was guilty of the falsehood that is mingled with the relation of the act of tenderness on which this calumny is raised. The simple fact is as follows:—Lord Byron was evidently extremely ill. He was impatient of all question on the nature of his disorder. Lady Byron, observing the temper of her husband, but at the same time actuated by a wife’s solicitude, requested the medical gentleman who attended herself to observe his symptoms, and take the advice of Dr Bailey respecting them. Her wishes were complied with, and that great physician urged the necessity of his having an immediate interview with Lord Byron, stating, that if the symptoms of his case were accurately reported, there was no doubt of the patient’s being threatened with an attack of water on the brain. Under the impression of these fears, Dr Bailey was introduced to Lord Byron; and after some conversation, found that his surmises had been incorrect, and that there was no cause for alarm. On this trait of affectionate regard, has been raised and disseminated, the only anecdote against Lady Byron, that has any pretence to a foundation of truth! . . .

At the time here alluded to, lord Byron lived at No. 13, Piccadilly, looking into the Green Park. The conversation writer calls this a dark street. . . .

Lord Byron accuses his Lady of conduct which implies no great affection on her part; but he never pretends to throw out the slightest insinuation against her purity; and even in the matters of which he complains, he says “she was the tool of others.” Into matrimonial disputes of this kind the reasonable part of the world will never inquire. . . .

Captain Medwin writes, page 45, “You ask if Lady Byron ever loved me—I have answered that already—No!” If these were indeed the words of Lord Byron, his verses on their separation, and many expressions in his suppressed Memoirs, declare that he had not always been of this opinion. He was one well versed in subjects of this nature; he was skilful from experience, and not likely to have been deceived; and on Lady Byron’s quitting him, when Hobhouse, after reading the answer she had sent to a letter, soliciting her return, calmly folded it up, and said, “She no longer loves you,”—Byron has written and said, that the suggestion of so great an evil came as a thunder-stroke upon him! . . .

The will, in which Captain George Byron was not bequeathed any of his cousin’s property, was made in July 1815, long before the separation of lord and lady Byron. . . .

The Examiner was not the only paper that defended lord Byron. The Morning Chronicle was a zealous advocate of his lordship; and Mr. Perry, the editor, had a personal altercation with Sir R. Noel on the subject. . . .

But Newstead had been parted with long before their marriage. If we recollect rightly, it was first sold in 1813, (perhaps in 1812,) for L.130,000. The purchaser afterwards paid a forfeit, and gave up the bargain. The estate was again sold, and the greater part of the money vested in trustees, for the jointure of Lady Byron. His Lordship may have regretted the sale of the Abbey, but it assuredly was not on account of anything connected with his unfortunate marriage that he was induced to part with it. . . .

This is altogether contrary to the fact, as those witnessed the deed of separation between lord and lady Byron can testify. . . .

These broils must have been extremely violent, to have made so deep an impression on a child of so tender an age: and nothing could be more injudicious than his mother’s impressing him with the idea that profligacy ran in his blood, an opinion which served to reconcile him to his vices throughout life. “Before I married,” says he, “I shewed some of the blood of my ancestors. It is ridiculous to say we do not inherit our passions, as well as the gout or any other disorder.” (p. 53.) So flattering is the unction which men willingly lay to their souls! . . .

It does not appear from this that Medwin was sure the Miss Gordon alluded to was the mother of Lord Byron. But, whatever were the follies of his lordship’s father, it is well known, notwithstanding the love which the ill-fated poet cherished for his mother, that there was little in her manners, conduct, or conversation, calculated to repress the ancestral impulses of his blood. . . .

Lord Byron was born in January 1788, and his father died in August 1791; so that lord Byron was only three years old when his father died. . . .

Mrs. Malaprop’s words are very different; and lord Byron was singularly accurate as well as apposite in his quotations. The pretended conversation makes him neither one nor the other. . . .

Lord Byron’s father did not run out three fortunes, nor marry or run away with three women. . . .

The review on the Hours of Idleness appeared in 1808-9. The Curse of Minerva was written and printed in 1812. The occasion of the poem was, the mutilation of the Parthenon, which lord Byron had himself seen, and which, but not a dislike to Scotland, gave birth to the Curse of Minerva. . . .

In page 57, The Curse of Minerva is described as ha-ving been written about the same time with the Hours of Idleness. It was written at Athens. I have Lord Byron’s own authority for this assertion. . . .

Page 61, “The Duke of Dorset was my fag at Harrow.” This is not the case; they were in different houses, and Malton was Byron’s fag, to whom he was extremely kind. . . .

The locket mentioned in p. 60, if it be the same he wore in 1813, containing a lock of fair soft hair, with a golden skull and cross-bones placed upon it, was not a memorial of this attachment. The hair was of a fair girl, who died before his passion had departed, and whose name I could never prevail on him to mention. . . .

By the way, the compiler of this quarto libel on all persons whose names were ever brought into collision with that of Byron, has a knack of seasoning his stories with these vulgar expletives, and sometimes in a manner most peculiarly unfortunate. In page 62, we have an oath attributed to the amiable and excellent Lord Calthorpe, whose manners and conversation, we can assure Captain Medwin, are, and always have been, those of a gentleman, and, even as a school-boy, were untainted by the low-bred vice of swearing. . . .

I had nearly closed this letter, and omitted mentioning the mis-statement which Captain Medwin had made respecting Mrs. Chaworth. “Had I married Miss C——, perhaps the whole tenor of my life would have been different. She jilted me, however.” p. 62. This is totally false. The match was broken off by that lady, but on the . . .

This story was told in a magazine or newspaper of the day on some slight foundation—but the details here put into lord Byron’s mouth are all untrue. Lord Byron did not establish the order, or ever call himself abbot of the skull—they were not twelve or indeed any regularly-named members of any order—some dresses were sent from a masquerade warehouse, but not black—no chapter was held or talked of—the dresses were never put on more than once or twice—and many a prime joke was not cut at the expense of the skull. Those who knew lord Byron will detect at once the vulgarisms of the pretended conversation. The story as dressed up for sale is a fiction. . . .

The story of keeping a girl in boy’s clothes, and passing her for his cousin, lest his mother should hear of it, Lord Byron has had abundant cause to repent; but the affair itself had a most ludicrous conclusion, for the young gentleman miscarried in a certain family hotel in Bond Street, to the inexpressible horror of the chambermaids, and the consternation of all the house. By the way, this style of keeping a mistress, must, we rather think, be the most exemplary; for it has been said that an arithmetical member of the House of Commons, during his voyage in the Levant, carried his with him in male attire. . . .

We suspect that Byron had some presentiment of the object of Medwin’s solicitude for his company, and some anticipation, too, of the alarm and laughter which his gossiping would produce when published, particularly when he told him of the three married women, who, on a wedding visit to Lady Byron, met in the same room, and whom he had “known to be all birds of the same nest.” To discover the names of these worthy matrons, we doubt not is the object of all the games of twenty questions now playing in the fashionable world; we are not, however, disposed to disbelieve the fact; at the same time, it is proper to observe, that one of the worst effects of Lord Byron’s passion for fame, was an affectation of his being more profligate than he really was; and we state this emphatically, while, in justice to the ladies of England, we enter our protest against the general calumny of the following passage, in which his lordship is made to say, . . .

To palliate the abandoned depravity of his own individual conduct, he asserts that it is almost universal in his rank of life. I have seen, says he, “a great deal of Italian society, and have swum in a gondola, but nothing could equal the profligacy of high life in England.”—(p. 67.)—We do not pretend to question the existence of vice in that portion or the community; but we will venture to say, it by no means approaches the hideous immorality here pictured. And if it did—what then? Would it prove that this was the way to form a Poet? Is it from the boson of libidinous sensuality that the pure inspirations of Poetry can arise? . . .

As far, perhaps, as Lord Byron spoke from his own experience, and from the report of his associates, we are not inclined to dispute the accusation; but is it not perfectly well-known, that, in England, society in high life is divided into two classes, as distinct and separate from each other as any two castes can well be? With the one, both manners and minds are cherished in the most graceful excellence—domestic virtue combined with all that is elegant, gentle, and beneficent, as fair and free from stain as habitual honour in its highest acceptation can imply. To this class Lord Byron had not access. His previous family circumstances, and the impress which those circumstances had left upon himself, made him to be regarded with distrust by the members of that illustrious and true English nobility. There was a hereditary taint on his name, and the early indications of his own undisciplined passions had rendered him inadmissible from the beginning of his career. . . .

His affair with Lady ******—“double his age, and the mother of several children”—he might have added by as many different fathers, was truly absurd. The folly of it lost him a sincere friend. At no time could he bear the slightest admonition,—it only instigated him to aggravate his fault, and his friends were in consequence obliged to use the utmost address with him. In that affair, the gentleman alluded to, in speaking with him of a certain reputation, which was damaged about that time, said, “By the by, my Lord, it is reported you have become a contributor to the Harleian Miscellany.” The result was a sullen answer, which ended in an estrangement, that broke up their intercourse. . . .

The answer to Scroope Davis, when he wanted to borrow Byron’s pistols to shoot himself, is one of the few characteristic things in Captain Medwin’s Journal. In such, his Lordship excelled. Beppo, of all his works, affords the best specimens of the style of his conversational humour. . . .

Now that Lord Byron was an excellent horseman, is true:—that he never read a line of “Metastasio,“ I doubt, and should have doubted it, if he had said as much; for “Metastasio,” an author who had obtained great reputation with no very great genius, was precisely the sort of man to pique his curiosity; and he must often have fallen in his way:—but that he “pronounced Italian like a native,” I deny without fear of contradiction from any body who is at all acquainted with that language. He spoke it fluently; but his pronunciation was as poor as that of most foreigners, and worse than many; for he scarcely opened his mouth. . . .

Singular enough it is, that he should persuade himself his writings tended to exalt the female sex! (p. 71.) Alas, alas! if females are to be exalted by prostitution, let them read the works of Lord Byron —let them dwell upon and admire Gulnare, “as cruel (to use the words of an eloquent critic) as Lady Macbeth, and as wanton as the wife of Potiphar”—let them copy the incestuous guilt of Parisina—Laura is seduced into sin and misery—Theresa gives to virtue a few farewell tears and becomes an adulteress—Such are the examples held out to British Mothers, and Wives, and Daughter! These are the “celestial qualities” with which the imagination of Lord Byron delighted to invest a sex created for spotless purity and inviolable faith! . . .

Mr. Editor,—As it is the fashion, at present, to be very much interested about everything that concerns Lord Byron, allow me to quarrel a little with you for your very high encomiums on Lord B.’s portrait, in your Chronicle a week or two ago. I am willing to join in all that you may admire about his lordship, with respect to his boundless and surprising genius; but I think your praise is too unqualified. I find many faults in him;—in short, how can a genuine and spirited old maid (I suppose I must call myself so, as I am turned of five-and-twenty), who has always found great amusement and edification in literary pursuits,—how can she, I say, join heartily in the admiration of a man who has, on so many occasions, expressed a contemptible opinion of women? ‘Give a woman,’ says Lord B., ‘a looking-glass and a few sugar-plums, and she will be satisfied.’ This is really too bad, and, if ever I should fortunately get married, you shall see, Mr. Editor, or rather my husband shall see, if I am so easily satisfied. I’ll have the looking-glass and the sugar-plums, to be sure, as matters of the first importance; but, besides every thing else that I choose to wish for, I’ll have a library of my own selecting, into which, notwithstanding Lord Byron’s sneers, I will admit some of his poems, and, as I am very fond of studying history, I will have all the Scotch novels, and all the English ones that are historical, for I think it is a great deal pleasanter to study history under such enticing forms, than in the dry musty old volumes of the historians themselves; and as to correctness, &c. &c., that is no great matter, as you know there are always two ways of telling the same story. But this is nothing to the purpose. . . .

I cannot wonder, however, that any woman takes an opportunity of giving a wipe at the ‘sugarplums and looking-glass,’ for I find every one in my own family, from mama to my youngest daughter, is in a state of greet affront on the subject of doubting the mental abilities of women. Such was the commotion for a few days that I sought to allay it by putting the Arabian Nights’ tales, and even various Eastern histories, into their hands, by way of proving that, in all states and families, wives and pretty girls have, in both north and south, had a very considerable share in disposing of the affairs of men, let poets say what they may. This did not, however, answer any good end, nor at all clear the culprit . . .

Cain is introduced hating his father before he meets with Lucifer; and Lucifer labours to persuade him to hate God. To understand what aim Lord Byron had in writing this heavy work, we should understand what he himself seriously thought on religious subjects; but Capt. Medwin candidly confesses, that “it is difficult to judge, from the contradictory nature of his writings, what the religious opinions of Lord Byron really were;” (p. 74.) and the Captain seems to have been just as much at a loss to solve this enigma by the laid of his Lordship’s personal communications. Thus much however is certain, that his Lordship professed to think it “a pleasant voyage, to float like Pyrrho on a sea of speculation.” (p. 74.) He thought “religions take their turn: ’twas Jove’s, ’tis Mahomet’s; and other creeds will rise with other years.” He spoke with contemptuous indifference of the uses of a building which had been the “shrine of all Saints and Temple of all Gods, from Jove to Jesus.” (Childe Harold.) “Yet,” says Captain Medwin, “his wavering never amounted to a disbelief in the Divine Founder of Christianity.” (p. 75.) . . .

We shall perhaps be told that Milton “was a pretty fellow in his day,” but that the modern method of forming a Poet is much more expeditious and effective. We can now “gather grapes from thorns, and figs from thistles.” We have a steam engine power for extracting pure and lofty sentiments from the brothel and the stews: the “divine volumes of Plato” have long since been ground up anew to furnish paper for Childe Harold: and as for the precepts of Christian Religion, “no poet (they are Lord Byron’s words) should be tied down to a direct profession of faith.” (p. 75.) At least, it will be admitted by the friends of the New School to be very important to trace the distinction accurately between their method of cultivating a poetical taste, and that of the old fashioned practitioners. Let us therefore continue to follow the progress of Lord Byron. . . .

Sir—Captain Medwin, in his Conversations of Lord Byron, alludes to a Religious Work, the perusal of which had a great effect on his Lordship's mind, as it contained such strong arguments in favour of our Religion, that his Lordship neither could, nor wished to refute them.—As every circumstance which had any influence over the opinions of Lord Byron must be interesting to the Public, permit me, through the medium of your valuable Journal, to request the Author of the “Conversations,” or one of your numerous readers who may possess information on the subject, to state the title of the work above adverted to,—a communication which will give much satisfaction to . . .

To shew still farther how little reliance can be placed on Captain Medwin’s report, we would refer to what he is represented as having said respecting the Turkish girl who was put to death by Ali Pashaw. It is one continued bundle of errors; besides making Byron use terms and speak of things, which, from his Lordship’s knowledge of Turkey, he would never have done. The story alluded to is the fate of Phrosyné, the elegy on whose death is one of the most popular and pathetic breathings of the modern Grecian muse. Lord Byron often used to sing the melody. Instead of giving Captain Medwin’s version of the tale, we shall relate the real story, remarking, in the first place, that the affair happened long before Lord Byron’s first voyage to Greece, although, as it is reported in the Notes of his Conversations, it might be thought his Lordship was in that country at the time. . . .

A long circumstantial story is here told by the pretended lord Byron, which is detected at once by one word. The real lord Byron could never have talked of the Rajah of Zanina (Joannina). In Hindostan a Rajah is a prince in European Turkey a rayah is tributary subject. Those, indeed, acquainted with lord Byron’s style of conversation, would, without this silly blunder, detect the imposition at once. . . .

Captain Medwin’s account of the incident on which “The Giaour” is founded, is equally erroneously stated. He makes Lord Byron say, that the Marquis of Sligo reminded him of it in England, and wondered he had not authenticated the circumstances in the preface. If we remember the matter rightly, Lord Byron requested the Marquis to state, in writing, his recollection of the affair, which he did. But this is a matter of no great consequence, for, in fact, the whole story owes all its interest to the poetical embellishments. The girl in question was as common as any of the married ladies, by whose conduct Lord Byron is represented as libelling the morals of the British nobility; and the probability is, that her general incontinence with all sorts of travellers, and not her particular liaison with him, was the cause of the customary doom, from which she was rescued by his Lordship. . . .

This story immediately follows the other, and is got up with similar accuracy; no other contradiction is necessary than to mention, that the girl whose life lord Byron saved at Athens, was no an object of his lordship’s attachment-but of that of his lordship’s Turkish servant. . . .

Lord Byron left Fletcher at Athens, and not at Constantinople. . . .

On the subject of Drury Lane management, Lord B. declaims against the drudgery of writing for the Stage at all, and disparages not only the old dramatists, but even Shakespeare. There is no accounting taste or tastelessness, it is true; and if we may judge from the dramas his Lordship actually wrote, we would say that he neither condescended to the former nor felt the latter, for his plays were not made for acting, and have no smack in them of the age of Shakespeare. . . .

The Captain, in his ignorance, makes Lord Byron talk, p. 94, 95, of the Fatal Marriage, by Lillo. There is no such tragedy—he means the Fatal Curiosity; and in the same paragraph, of the Brother and Sister of Massinger. There is no such play—probably he means ’Tis Pity then a Whore, by Ford—a masterpiece of its kind, and of which my late noble school-fellow entertained the highest admiration. . . .

The order of events is this:—Sometime (perhaps) about the middle of October Mr. Polidori, a person known to Lord Byron, kills himself in London. This circumstance shortly afterwards comes to the knowledge of Mr. Murray. Mr. Murray in a few days more has occasion to write to Lord Byron, and incidentally mention Polidori’s death. A few weeks subsequently Miss Ada Byron’s birth-day occurs. On that day the child of an Italian peasant dies. On that day also, Lord Byron takes his usual ride, which happens to lead him along by this peasant’s cottage. The next day, Mr. Murray’s letter to Lord Byron is delivered in due course or post. And his Lordship, who cannot believe one word of the Scriptures, believes that in these ordinary occurrences there is something miraculous! . . .

The conversation said to have been held at Diodati is fictitious.—With the exception of Mr. Lewis, no one told a tale, and Mrs. Shelley never saw the late Mr. Lewis in her life. The Preface to Frankenstein shows that that story was invented before lord Byron’s and Mr. Shelley’s tour on the Lake, and Mr. Lewis did not arrive at Diodati till some time after. . . .

And again, “Have you ever had your fortune told? Mrs. Williams told mine.—She predicted that 27 and 37 were to be dangerous ages in my life. One has come true. Yes, added I, and did she not prophesy that you were to die a Monk and a miser? I don’t think (says his Lordship) these two last very likely; but it was part of her prediction.” (p. 104.) This last touch is exquisite. The superstitious man takes just as much of the prophecy as renders it plausible; but for the credit of the fortuneteller he sinks the rest; and it is only by cross examination that you can extract from him proof’ that his oracle is false. And this is the great Lord Byron! O caecas hominum mentes! . . .

Peter count Gamba did no such thing. . . .

Mr. Hobhouse was with lord Byron on his wedding-day: his lordship could not write to him on that day. This fiction is the more unlucky, as the Conversation-writer afterwards mentions, that Mr. Hobhouse was with lord Byron on the day alluded to. . . .

Mr. Hobhouse never wrote any such letter, nor lord Byron any such answer. . . .

Page 109, “The world will think I am pleased at this event, (the death of Lady Noel,) but they are much mistaken;” yet at page 121, is given the bitter epigram that he transmitted to Murray, on hearing, by the same post, of the fate of his tragedy, and the temporary recovery of Lady Noel. . . .

Lord Byron could not have claimed all lord Wentworth’s fortune for his life, at lady Noel’s death. He had before, at his se- . . .

Sir.—I beg leave to correct a misstatement contained in Captain Medwin’s late publication, and copied into your journal of this day, respecting an ode written on the death of Sir John Moore, and attributed by Captain Medwin to Lord Byron. The author of that very beautiful lyrical poem is a Mr. Wolfe, who was, at the period of its composition, a scholar of Trinity College, Dublin. The lines first appeared anonymously in a Dublin newspaper, and have since been copied into several periodical publications; but, except to a few friends of Mr. Wolfe, their author was unknown. As they have been erroneously ascribed to Lord Byron, I think it is right to correct the mistake. Your very obedient servant, . . .

This being the case, supposing the writer of the poem for ever unknown, it would not be reasonable to presume Lord Byron was its author; not even although as many ladies as would equal the number of the Muses and the Graces conjoined, had each seen a copy of it in his Lordship’s own hand-writing; but how would the literary conclave have been astonished, had Byron been enabled to inform them that this poem, so long unclaimed, so much admired, was the production of one who was totally unknown to fame—one who had never been talked of in any periodical, whose name had not even been whispered in Albemarle-street or the Row. This person was Charles Wolfe. His talents were only known to the private circle of his associates. He was one of my earliest and dearest friends. We were cotemporaries of equal standing in the University of Dublin. Similarity of pursuit created intimacy. Though sometimes competitors for the same academic honours, [nothing] impaired our sense of mutual esteem. Wolfe was equally distinguished in the severe sciences and in polite literature. Emulation, I believe, led him to excel in the former, but the latter had all his intellectual affection. I well recollect the expression of mingled diffidence and enthusiasm with which he communicated to me his tribute to the memory of Sir John Moore. He had then written but the first and last verses, and had no intention of adding any others. . . .

Sir—The attempt made by Captain Medwin to affiliate the above verses on Lord Byron, under the dignified designation of an “Ode,” has occasioned some discussion in the literary world respecting their real author. Among the several claims et up for that honour, or perhaps responsibility, only one I take upon me to assure you is well founded—namely, that on behalf of “the Rev. Charles Wolfe,” a poor young Irish Curate, who, as his grave-stone (if he have one) records, departed this life it seems about two years ago, in the North of Ireland. Of this at least I am positive, that the “Ode” was neither written by Lord Byron, Mr. Deacon, nor any other of the persona mentioned in the Public Papers, except it be Mr. Wolfe, for I know it to be the production of a young man that in 1816 was a student of Trinity College, Dublin; although not having been “one of my earliest and dearest friends,” I do not now clearly recollect his name. A Gentleman however from Garden-court, in the Temple, who has spun out a long letter for a Morning Paper upon the subject, and declares himself to have stood in the foregoing relation to the inditer of these verses, asserts the student’s cognomen to have been Wolfe, and so let it pass. Still I confess my mind is not satisfied on that point. The Gentleman from Garden-court says the Poet’s frame was “naturally vigorous and robust,” while I who saw him in 1816 or 1817, did not then consider him to have any such appearance; but, on the contrary, to be a slender, rather tall, and studious-looking young man. A person’s size or strength, I grant, is poor evidence of his genius, though some of his identity, and even for the latter an uncertain criterion. Mr. Wolfe’s panegyrist and myself may not, for aught I know, have borne the same proportion in stature to the fabricator of the “Ode,” and therefore perhaps we pronounce differently as to his height and weight of muscle. . . .

Sir,—Permit me, through the medium of our highly respectable journal (which I have chosen as the channel of this communication, from my having been a subscriber to it for the last fifteen years), to observe, that the statement lately published in the Morning Chronicle, the writer of which ascribes the lines of the burial of Sir John Moore to Woolf, is false, and as barefaced a fabrication as ever was foisted on the public. The lines in question are not written by Woolf, nor by Hailey, nor is Deacoll the author, but they were composed by me. I published them originally, some years ago, in the Durham County Advertiser, a journal in which I have at different times inserted several poetical trifles, as “The Prisoner’s Prayer to Sleep”—“Lines on the lamented Death of Benjamin Galley, Esq.” and some other effusions. . . .

The truth has been already discovered respecting this ode on the death of sir John Moore, and those who knew lord Byron will appreciate the vulgar speculation as to the reason of his concealing his being the author of the poem. . . .

Lord Byron did not do both, he only swam from the Sestos to the Abydos side. . . .

Lord Byron and Mr. Ekenhead did undertake this feat some time before—they did not “put it off” in consequence of the coldness of the water—they gave it up in consequence of the coldness of the water, when about half over the strait. If the Conversation-writer had read the note to lord Byron’s lines written to commemorate this exploit, he would not have frame this conversation in this way. . . .

In 1808, lord Byron was swimming with the Hon. Mr. Lincoln Stanhope. Both of them were very nearly drowned; but lord Byron did not touch Mr. Stanhope; he very judiciously kept aloof, but cried out to him to keep up his spirits. The by-standers sent in some boatmen with ropes tied round them, who at last dragged lord Byron and his friend from the surf, and saved their lives. . . .

Page 119, Of Marino Faliero  Lord Byron is made to say, “So much was I averse from its being acted, that the moment I heard of the intention of the Managers, I applied for an injunction, but the Chancellor refused to interfere.” The Chancellor could not do what the law gave him no authority for doing. But how could Lord Byron apply for an injunction? The tragedy was performed at Drury Lane three days after its publication. Murray applied for an injunction, but as Byron was at Venice, the application could not very easily have been made at his suggestion. . . .

He represents, p. 122, Milman as the author of the article on Shelley in the Quarterly Review. This must be a vague guess of Captain Medwin’s, for Lord Byron knew from the best authority that it was written by a nephew of Coleridge. . . .

It will hardly be believed, but it is true, that this drinking song, which the writer cannot resist “presenting the public with,” as being written by lord Byron one morning, or perhaps one evening, (conscientious alternative) after one of our dinners at Pisa, was presented to the public just as far back as 1809. The song is printed in a volume of miscellanies, edited by Mr. Hobhouse, to which lord Byron was a contributor, under the signature L. B. If this be not sufficient to stamp the true character of these Conversations, perhaps the next specimen may; it is, if possible, more astonishing. . . .

Captain Medwin afterwards tells us that the noble poet’s “voice had a flexibility, a variety in its tones, a power and a pathos beyond any I ever heard.”—This is harmless, as an instance of the effect which his Lordship had upon the Captain; but from all I ever heard of it, I should form a very different judgment. His voice, as far as I was acquainted with it, though not incapable of loudness, nor unmelodious in its deeper tones, was confined. He made an effort when he threw it out. The sound of it in ordinary, except when he laughed, was petty and lugubrious. He spoke inwardly, and slurred over his syllables, perhaps in order to hide the burr. In short, it was as much the reverse of any thing various and powerful, as his enunciation was of any thing articulate. . . .

Who does not know that this famous speech, which the Conversation-writer made his lord Byron say, was made in the Old Bailey—was uttered by the Mayor of Paris, on his way to the scaffold? That the real lord Byron should make so ludicrous a blunder is morally impossible. . . .

The chief allegations of plagiarism brought against Lord Byron, were produced in the Literary Gazette; and at the time we were vehemently assailed by the Noble Poet’s friends and admirers, who, we will confess, seemed tor a while to have a majority of the public on their side. It was, however, a literary inquiry of considerable interest; and as our proofs were multiplied, and strong instances (which admitted of no explaining away) were adduced, other writers began to adopt the same opinion, and without denying the extraordinary genius of Lord B. (which no person of common sense could every question, and which was carrying our arguments to a ridiculously extravagant length) there hardly appeared one review of his Lordship’s new publications, without a reference more or less distinct to this charge, and without an admission, in degree, that he was addicted to this practice. It is now evident that he himself allows the fact: after Werner! how could he do otherwise? . . .

P. 143, Medwin accuses the Quarterly of killing Keats. Then he was killed twice; for he himself, according to Leigh Hunt, said that he was killed by an article in Blackwood’s Magazine. . . .

Yet to this very circumstance he owed his first literary reputation. Stung to the quick, he resolved to sting in return; and produced in a year the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.> This satire was virulence itself, unseasoned with a grain of justice; but the world loves satire; and the trait which gave the greatest point and popularity to this work was one for which his Lordship now admits there was no ground at all—an imputation on the courage of Mr. Jeffrey and Mr. Moore. . . .

Is it possible that Lord Byron could talk such ignorant and confused trash as this?—Is not Jeffrey a lawyer, and one of renown, too? Did Jeffrey disown the article in any way to Lord Byron? Of course with that critic we hold no communion; but we would ask him if he did not write the article, and did not brag that he had done it one morning before breakfast? Besides, is it at all consistent with the character of that gentleman, or with Byron’s opinion of him, to represent him as covenanting to gratify his Lordship’s spleen by an act of treachery? As for the lawyer alluded to, we believe it is Brougham, whose first cause of offence to Byron was an opinion of him delivered at the Duke of Devonshire’s table, when the satire on “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” made its appearance—which opinion some Medwin of the party—“some d—d good-natured friend”—reported to his Lordship. The second was in something, which it is said, perhaps falsely, that Brougham, who was counsel for Lady Byron, had reported in society from his brief. . . .

The reviewal in question I did not write.—Lord Byron might have known this if he had enquired of Mr. Murray, who would readily have assured him that I was not the author: and he might have known it from the reviewal itself, where the writer declares, in plain words, that he was a contemporary of Shelley’s, at Eton. I had no concern in it, directly or indirectly; but let it not be inferred that, in thus disclaiming that paper, any disapproval of it is intended. Papers in the Quarterly Review have been ascribed to me, (those on Keates’s Poems, for example), which I have heartily condemned, both for their spirit and manner. But, for the one in question, its composition would be creditable to the most distinguished writer; nor is there any thing either in the opinions expressed, or in the manner of expressing them, which a man of just and honourable principles would have hesitated to advance. I would not have written that part of it which alludes to Mr. Shelley, because, having met him on familiar terms, and parted with him in kindness, (a feeling of which Lord Byron had no conception), would have withheld me from animadverting in that manner upon his conduct. In other respects, the paper contains nothing that I would not have avowed if I had written, or subscribed, as entirely assenting to, and approving, it. . . .

The truth was, that Mr. Southey had exposed the wickedness and folly of the “Satanic School” of Poets in a manner that carried conviction to every mind. The public was with him, and the Satanic poets writhed under the justice of his severe castigations. On him, therefore, Lord Byron lavished the most violent abuse, nor did he pause a moment to consider whether it was either true or probable. Every person who has the honor of knowing Mr. Southey knows him to be a man of the purest integrity, and of a spirit most honorably independent. But because the experience of maturer life has taught him to correct, not the vices (for these he never had) but the delusive hopes and fond imaginations of ardent youth, therefore did Lord Byron call him a Renegado. Because his Sovereign conferred on him a well-earned literary honour, to which is attached a trifling salary, not a twentieth part of what he might gain (like Lord Byron) by “the sweat of his brain,” therefore did his Lordship call him a “hireling.” Cowardice, ferocity, and many other vices equally alien to Mr. Southey’s nature, did this Noble Libeller charge on the object of his fear and his revenge. . . .

I wish I could be quite sure that some part of the beastliness of the book is not mere bookseller’s business—I mean as to its sins of omission. You have seen from the newspapers that Master Colburn cancelled some of the cuts anent our good friend, whom Byron so absurdly calls “the most timorous of all God’s booksellers.” How shall we be certain that he did not cancel ten thousand things about the most audacious of all God’s booksellers? . . .

Note.—In the numerous letters received by Mr. Murray yearly from Lord Byron (who was not accustomed to restrain the expression of his feelings in writing them), not one has any tendency towards the imputations here thrown out; the incongruity of which will be evident from the fact of Mr. Murray having paid at various times, for the copyright of his Lordship’s poems, sums amounting to upwards of 15,000l.—viz.:— . . .

Mr. Murray answers, that in the numerous letters he received from Lord B., who nevertheless always spoke his mind very freely, there is nothing which would even indicate a feeling of the kind attributed to his Lordship by Captain Medwin. He adds, that the “incongruity of these imputations will be evident” from a list he subjoins of the high prices which he paid the Noble Poet for his copyrights, from Childe Harold to Don Juan, Canto V, inclusive, amounting to all more than 15,000l. We confess we do not see the conclusiveness of this pecuniary argument. Mr. Murray might have given a direct denial to the assertion, that he had pleaded poverty and loss of money by Lord Byron’s writings—a plea which (if he ever made it) the public would be slow to think either true or creditable to the maker. . . .

“Dear Murray,—I have copied and cut the third canto of Don Juan into two, because it was too long, and I tell you this before hand, because, in case of any reckoning between you and me, these two are only to go for one, as this was the original form, and in fact the two together are not longer than one of the first! so remember that I have not made this division to double upon you, but merely to suppress some tediousness in the aspect of the thing. I should have served you a pretty trick if I had sent you, for example, Cantos of fifty stanzas each.” . . .

Lord Byron, in Captain Medwin’s book, is made to assert, that Mr. Murray first offered him 1000l. a canto for Don Juan , and afterwards reduced it to 500l. on the plea of piracy, and complained of one canto being divided into two. Mr. Murray meets this by quoting a letter from Lord B., in which he expressly announces that the two short cantos, made out of one of the ordinary length, must only be paid for as one, and begs not to be suspected of a contrivance to get double pay. This is of course decisive in the bookseller’s favour. . . .

Note.—Mr. Murray derived no advantage from the proposed agreement, which was by no means of the importance here ascribed to it, and therefore was never attempted to be carried into effect: the documents alluded to are still in his possession. . . .

Note.—The words in italic are those which were suppressed in the two first editions of Captain Medwin’s book, and which Mr. Murray has received from the publisher after the foregoing statement was printed. He has only to observe upon the subject, that on referring to the deed in question no such clause is to be found; that this instrument was signed in London by the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, as Lord Byron’s procurator, and witnessed by Richard Williams, Esq., one or the partners in Mr. Kinnaird’s banking-house; and that the signature of Captain Medwin is not affixed. . . .

Every assertion in this passage appears to be false: there is no such clause in the deed, which moreover was not signed abroad, or witnessed by Captain M. but was signed in London, and witnessed by the very friend of whom Lord B. speaks so highly as the guardian of his interests—the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird! . . .

One of the many persons mentioned in this volume is Mr. Murray, and he is mentioned not only unhandsomely, but ambiguously. Asterisks are introduced, after a half sentence, which serve (like a shrug of the shoulders, and an elevation of the brows, in conversation) to imply, that more is meant than can be uttered. Intended to look like mercy; nothing can be more severe. . . .

“I have just got your letter, and am most anxious to see Murray’s statement, to which you allude, but have no chance of it in this out of the world place, unless you send it to me. As to replying to it, I must (before making up my mind) see what he says. On the subject of Mr. Murray I have been most cautious not to say one word more than my Journal warrants; I have been examining it to day. My notes about the copyright of Cain, Two Foscari, Sardanapalus, are:— . . .

When Cain was published, Lord Byron said of the publisher: “He is threatened with a prosecution by the Anti-constitutional Society. I don’t believe they will venture to attack him: if they do, I shall go home, and make my own defence.” His Lordship was misinformed. The Constitutional Society, which Lord Byron (who knew no more of the Constitution than an infant) thought fit to call Anti-constitutional, was not instituted to prosecute irreligious but seditious publications, and never threaten to prosecute the publisher of Cain. That Society, however, did prosecute to conviction the publisher of the Vision of Judgment, and would assuredly have prosecuted the Author, had he come home; but that he did not think proper to do. The Vision of Judgment is certainly, without a single exception, the most infamous production that ever issued from the British Press—infamous for its blasphemy, for its antinational sentiments, and infamous for its private and personal malignity. . . .

Note.—The passage about the Admiralty is unfounded in fact, and no otherwise deserving of notice than to mark its absurdity; and with regard to the “Quarterly Review,” his Lordship well knew that it was established, and constantly conducted, on principles which absolutely excluded Mr. Murray from all such interference and influence as is implied in the “Conversations.” . . .

P. 182, “Madame de Stael, as an historian, should have named him (Buonaparte) in her Allemagne.” Madame de Stael!—an historian!—Allemagne! Has he ever seen the work? What can the man mean! . . .

We ought not to omit noticing the more gratuitous abuse of Mr. Wordsworth, which is equally and utterly false. “It is satisfactory to reflect,” says Lord Byron of this Gentleman, “that where a man becomes a hireling and loses his independence, he loses also the faculty of writing well.” (p. 192.) But Mr. Wordsworth is not a hireling, and has not lost his independence. His Lordship continues—“The republican trio (meaning Messrs. Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge), when they began to publish in common were to have had a community of all things.” (p. 194.) But they never did publish in common, and they never were to have had a community of any thing. This shews that Lord Byron satirised without knowing, and probably without caring, whether he was right or wrong. . . .

Contention with a generous and honourable opponent leads naturally to esteem, and probably to friendship; but, next to such an antagonist, an enemy like Lord Byron is to be desired; one, who by his conduct in the contest, divests himself of every claim to respect; one, whose baseness is such as to sanctify the vindictive feeling that it provokes, and upon whom the act of taking vengeance, is that of administering justice. I answered him as he deserved to he answered, and the effect which that answer produced upon his Lordship, has been described by his faithful Chronicler, Capt. Medwin. This is the real history of what the purveyors of scandal for the public are pleased sometimes to announce in their advertisements as “Byron’s Controversy with Southey.” What there was dark and devilish in it belongs to his Lordship; and had I been compelled to resume it during his life, he, who played the monster in literature, and aimed his blows at women, should have been treated accordingly. “The Republican Trio,” says Lord Byron, “when they began to publish in common, were to have had a community of all things, like the Ancient Britons—to have lived in a state of nature like savages—and peopled some island of the blest with children in common like ——. A very pretty Arcadian notion!” I may be excused for wishing that Lord Byron had published this himself: but though he is responsible for the atrocious falsehood, he is not for its posthumous publication. I shall only observe, therefore, that the slander is as worthy of his Lordship, as the scheme itself would have been. Nor would I have condescended to notice it even thus, were it not to show how little this calumniator knew concerning the objects of his uneasy and restless hatred. Mr. Wordsworth and I were strangers to each other, even by name, when he represents us as engaged in a Satanic confederacy, and we never published any thing in common. . . .

We were just as thick as weavers in no time. You see I was had been jauntin about in the country for tway three weeks, seeing Wulson and Soothey, and the rest of my leeterary friends there. I had a gig with me—John Grieve’s auld yellow gig it was—and I was standing by mysell afore the inn door that evening, just glowring frae me, for I kent naebody in Ambleside, an be not the minister and the landscape-painter, out comes a strapping young man frae the house, and oft’ with his hat, and out with his hand, in a moment like. He seemed to think that I would ken him at ance; but seeing me bamboozled a thocht, (for he wasna sae very dooms like the capper-plates,) Mr. Hogg, quo’ he, I hope you will excuse me—my name is Byron—and I cannot help thinking that we ought to hold ourselves acquaintance. . . .

The charge of scattering dark and devilish insinuations is one which, if Lord Byron were living, I would throw back in his teeth. Me he had assailed without the slightest provocation, and with that unmanliness too which was peculiar to him; and in this course he might have gone on without giving me the slightest uneasiness, or calling forth one animadversion in reply. When I came forward to attack his Lordship, it was upon public, not upon private, grounds. He is pleased, however, to suppose that he had “mortally offended” Mr. Wordsworth and myself many years ago, by a letter which he had written to the Ettrick Shepherd. “Certain it is,” he says, “that I did not spare the Lakists in it, and he told me that he could not resist the temptation, and had shown it to the fraternity. It was too tempting; and, as I could never keep a secret of my own (as you know), much less that of other people, I could not blame him. I remember saying, among other things, that the Lake Poets were such fools as not to fish in their own waters. But this was the least offensive part of the epistle.” No such epistle was ever shown either to Mr. Wordsworth or to me: but I remember (and this passage brings it to my recollection) to have heard that Lord Byron had spoken of us, in a letter to Hogg, with some contempt, as fellows who could neither vie with him for skill in angling, not for prowess in swimming—Nothing more than this came to my hearing; and I must have been more sensitive than his Lordship himself could I have been offended by it. Lord Byron must have known that I had the flocci of his eulogium to balance the nauci of his scorn; and that the one would have nihili-pili-fied the other, even if I had not well understood the worthlessness of both. . . .

Whoe’er offended, at some unlucky time, had their names hitched into rhyme, and were made sacred to ridicule; witness his lines on “My Boy Hobby,” the sincerest among all his friends—his jests at Moore—his verses on Rogers, which would infinitely distress the amour propre of that gentleman, if published—the rubs in his Correspondence at Mr. D. Kinnaird—his reflections on Mr. Murray—his attacks on Lord Carlisle, and a hundred other cases well known to all who were intimate with or ever saw his letters. . . .

The framer of the Conversations does not seem to have recollected that the first and second canto of “Childe Harold” were published together, and never appeared separately. . . .

We shall not enter into the detail of wickedness which follows, and which his Lordship relates with an utter disregard of consequences to the wretched female who had sacrificed to him her own and her husband’s honour. He does not indeed mention her name; but it is doubtless well known, and must be henceforth marked with indelible disgrace. The most instructive part of the narrative is, that these two vicious persons, who were united by lust, became separated by hatred; the utmost virulence is shewn in their mutual reproaches; and they remind us of nothing but a description we have somewhere read of infernal spirits wreaking the Divine vengeance on each other by mutual tortures. . . .

Lord Byron is abused for the freedom with which he has spoken of certain of his favourite familiars; but, as we have already said, he affected to be more vicious than he really was, and yet of what sort of ladies has he spoken? Has he mentioned the name of one who is entitled to the slightest consideration, or whose reputation has not been blown over all the town long ago without his help? We shall just mention one fact in illustration of what we are now stating:—After the absurd scene of Lady ******** ****’s tragedy-flourish with the broken jelly-glass, will it be credited that the ridiculous vixen wrote a long sentimental epistle on the subject to a stout foreigner then in London, Prince K——, because she had heard, forsooth, that he had a sister unhappily married. It may be gratifying to her ladyship, who will assuredly read this, to know, that the Prince shewed this letter to his friends, and was mightily diverted by its absurdity. How he answered it, she best knows. . . .

The black malignity of the detestable lines, “Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,” is but too well known. They were directed against Lady Byron’s Governess; and they are only surpassed in bitter, unmanly feeling, by the epigram in page 215, which accuses a woman with being a prostitute at once to him and to her husband. . . .

In point of fact, Lord Byron was at the time very proud of the compliments, especially of that in which his Royal Highness said, that he thought the age had possessed but one poet, Scott, till he had read Childe Harold, or something to that effect. Such things are only correctly remembered by those to whom they are addressed. But his Lordship never was accused of ingratitude to the Prince. He was blamed for writing in contempt of the consideration due to the personal feelings of the Prince, as he would have been had he taken the same liberty with the domestic circumstances of any other gentleman; for although, from accidental associations, Byron robed with the Whigs, he was anything himself but a Whig, either in temper or in principle; and with regard to the compliments in question, assuredly on the second day after the interview, at Miss Johnstone’s ball, he was proud, and pleased with them. Indeed, with all our regard for the memory of poor Byron, and with some touch too of sorrow for his loss, we have no hesitation in saying, that, in our opinion, his enmity towards the Prince Regent arose from disappointed vanity. No man was ever more engrossed with himself than he was at the period to which we are now alluding; and had the Prince invited him to his table, as perhaps he expected, none of those poems would ever have been imagined. . . .

In this very volume is a despicable hotch-potch called the Irish Avatara (p. 216.); intended to ridicule the enthusiastic reception which the King received from his Irish subjects when he visited Dublin. It is indeed as dull as Cain; but had it been a hundred times more animated, the single expression “the welcome of tyrants” would have sufficed to render every Irish heart indignant at the libel. In the same copy of verses is also a frantic tirade against the Marquis of Londonderry, who was then living: it is wholly false and slanderous, though certainly not half so repulsive as the Epigrams in the Liberal on that lamented Statesman’s death. . . .

A word more, and I have done. Captain Medwin pretends to give the reason for Lord Byron’s enmity to Mr Sotheby—one of the best and most generous of men, and not the least gifted of our poets. He says, speaking in the character of Lord Byron, “I got a whole heap of anonymous letters when I was at Venice, and at last found out that I had to thank Mr Sotheby for the greater share of them.” It is true, that Byron was once rash and idle enough to suppose a man of Mr Sotheby’s sincere and gentlemanly character, guilty of committing the meanness that the above extract has imputed to him; but Beppo had not been published a month before Lord Byron expressed himself convinced of his mistake, and sorry for the attack that it had originated. . . .

Hatred of the late Lord Londonderry, and a good deal of eulogy, or what might be called puffing of Shelley, are conspicuous towards the conclusion of the volume: we fancy that the estimation and fame of either will be but little affected by these sallies. . . .

We must own, that part of a note in page 234 puzzles us extremely—“I have heard Lord Byron reproached,” says Captain Medwin, “for leaving the Guiccioli. Her brother’s accompanying him to Greece, and his remains to England, prove at least that the family acquitted him of any blame.” Is it here meant that reproach is due to at married man for ceasing to live in adultery? Is it meant that Count Count Gamba could, under any circumstances, have been entitled to blame the husband of another woman for not living with his (the Count’s) sister?—In short, is the honour of Italian families concerned to provide paramours for their females? We do not know what odd complexities the code of modern liberal morality may admit into its casuistry; and therefore we say again, Captain Medwin should explain these matters. . . .

Count Peter Gamba did not accompany lord Byron’s remains to England. . . .

The Counts Gamba were never banished from the Sardinian states. . . .

“Dear Mr. Hobhouse;—After looking at all the pros and cons of Lord B.’s separation, I have resolved not to touch it, otherwise than incidentally. But, it is said, that he left the Countess G—— in destitute circumstances, after having promised to leave 2,000l. for her use, till he should send for her. I wish you to enable me to contradict this. . . .

“My Dear Sir;—I happen to know that Lord Byron offered to give the Guiccioli a sum of money outright, or to leave it to her by his will. I also happen to know, that the lady would not hear of any such present or provision; for I have a letter in which Lord B. extols her disinterestedness; and mentions, that he had met with a similar refusal from another female. As to the G. being in destitute circumstances, I cannot believe it; for Count Gamba, her brother, whom I knew very well after Lord B.’s death, never made any complaint or mention of such a fact—add to which, that I knew a maintenance was provided for her by her husband, in consequence of a law process before the death of Lord Byron. . . .

This letter was clear enough; but the friend from whom I received my information of the matter alluded to, still persisted in his story.—As the great object of my Life of Byron was to shew the features of his Lordship’s character, could this be done without exhibiting his conduct in a transaction so important as to be only inferior to the separation from his lady? My note to Mr. Hobhouse was, obviously, for a public purpose; and his explicit reply was so couched, as plainly to indicate that he was aware of that;—no injury has arisen to himself, and certainly none to Lord B., from the publication of his statement. However, I explained the dilemma I was placed in by these words in the preface:—“It will be seen by a note relative to a circumstance which took place in Lord Byron’s conduct towards the Countess Guiccioli, that Mr. Hobhouse has enabled me to give two versions of an affair not regarded by some of that lady’s relations as having been marked by generosity; but I could not expunge what I had stated, having no reason to doubt the authenticity of my information. The reader is enabled to form his own opinion on the subject.” . . .

The lock of hair sent by Mrs. Leigh was just eight hairs, half an inch long, and all the hairs were either white or of a grisly gray. . . .

The public is assured, at p. 238, that Shelley was “one of the most moral as well as amiable men.” Why disturb the ashes of his funeral pile, by thus unwillingly compelling us to recall the memory of his vices? Who ever heard the tale of his first wife, the beautiful victim of his lust and his infidelity, without execrating the author of her sorrows! . . .

Lord Byron went out riding one day—not two days after. . . .

The counts Gamba did “not embark for Genoa,” they rode to Lucca. This opportunity may be taken of stating, that count Peter Gamba, who is now in London, denies the accuracy of the statements respecting his family; and declares that lord Byron could not have uttered the conversation imputed to him on that subject. . . .

There is a mistake (of no other importance than for the trouble it may occasion to inquirers for the work) in the title of one of Mr. Shelley’s novels—written at school, it should be Zastrozzi. . . .

Captain Medwin tells us that “his first visit to Italy was short, for he was soon called to England by his wife’s melancholy fate.” The fact is, that Mr. Shelley’s return to this country preceded the unhappy event, and had no connection with it whatever. Again, we are told that it was during his residence in Buckinghamshire, that he wrote his ‘Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude.’" The writer of this letter had the pleasure of reading that poem in print, before the author went to Buckinghamshire. . . .

Captain Medwin proceeds to inform us, that Mr. Shelley wrote the “Revolt of Islam” in Italy, after his return to that country. On the contrary, this was the poem written in Buckinghamshire, and it was published before he went to Italy the second time. In giving the date of the publication of ‘Rosalind and Helen,’ he is equally incorrect. . . .

The details of the burning of Shelley’s corpse is eminently Indicro-pathetic.* It is mentioned that Lord B. caught cold at that scene; and we have seen an epigram ascribed to him on the subject, in which the point turns on the difficulty of drying bones which had been so long wet by the sea! Captain M. was not acquainted with this amusing peculiarity of his Lordship’s moods: but there is hardly one friend of his on earth whom he has not lampooned and satirised. . . .

I have noticed this misrepresentation before; but will now do it more at length. Lord Byron was not present at this scene. He went thither in his carriage, and I was with him; but on getting out, he studiously kept aloof, and was not in sight while the melancholy proceedings took place. With regard to myself, “my feelings and nerves,” however they might have suffered, would have carried me through any thing where Mr. Shelley was concerned, provided it was necessary. They have never failed me on very trying occasions. But my assistance was not required: there were no feelings on the part of another to stand by and soothe; and though I did not “lie back” in the carriage (as is here made out for the sake of effect) I confess I could not voluntarily witness the thrustings in of the spade and pick-axe upon the unburied body of my friend, and have the chance of hearing them strike against his skull, as they actually did. Let me hasten from this subject. . . .

I had the pleasure of a visit from Captain Medwin while “under the roof” that he speaks of, and should have said nothing calculated to disturb the innocence of his politesse, had he abstained from repeating scandals respecting women, and not taken upon himself to criticise the views and “philosophy” of Mr. Shelley; a man, of whom he was qualified to know still less, than of Lord Byron. With the cautions here afforded to the reader, a better idea of his Lordship may certainly be drawn from his account, than from any other. The warmth of his homage drew out the noble Bard on some points, upon which he would have been cautious of committing himself with a less wholesale admirer; and not the least curious part of the picture, is this mutual excess of their position. . . .

According to Captain Medwin, Lord Byron said of the writer of these pages, that till his voyage to Italy “he had never been ten miles from St. Paul’s.” The Captain ought to have known enough of his Lordship’s random way of talking, not to take for granted every thing that he chose to report of another. I had never been out of England before; except, when a child, to the coast of France; but I had perhaps seen as much of my native country as most persons educated in town. I had been in various parts of it, from Devonshire to Yorkshire. I merely mention these things to show what idle assertions Lord Byron would repeat, and how gravely the Captain would echo them. If every body, mentioned in his work, were thus to deduct from it what he knows to be untrue, how much would remain uncontradicted? . . .

Lord Byron did not “dine occasionally” on board any American ship at Leghorn—he breakfasted once on board the Constitution frigate. . . .

And lastly, in page 265, Miss Lee, the authoress of Kruitzner, is said to have destroyed herself; it is not more than a year and a half ago, that I had the pleasure of meeting this lady at an evening party; she is, I believe, still at Bath, enjoying the respect and admiration of a large and intellectual circle of acquaintance, and with all the vigour of her talents unimpaired by age, regretted the publication of Lord Byron’s Werner; because it put a stop to the production of her own dramatic version of the same story. . . .

With respect to his intellectual character, that must be gathered from his writings, not from his conversation. We should hardly have thought it possible, that a man of genius could talk so baldly. The opinions he pronounced upon men, upon books, and upon events, were scarcely upon a level with those which are delivered in any company where half a dozen well-educated persons are present. They have a little poignancy, but it is derived wholly from the individuals and the circumstances to which they relate. They have nothing of the raciness of thought about them. . . .

“I never met with any man who shines so much in conversation.” That is to say, Captain Medwin never met before with a lord so much the rage. He says a little afterwards, that his Lordship “never showed the author,” and that he “prided himself most on being a man of the world and of fashion;”—that is, to Captain Medwin; whose admiration, he saw, ran to that side of things. The truth is, as I have before stated, that he had no conversation in the higher sense of the word, owing to these perpetual affectations; but instead of never showing the author on that account, he never forgot it. His sole object was to have an admiring report of himself, as a genius, who could be lord, author, or what he pleased. . . .

“His anecdotes,” says Medwin, “of life and living characters were inexhaustible.” This was true, if you chose to listen to them, and to take every thing he said for granted; but every body was not prepared, like the Captain, to be thankful for stories of the noble Lord and all his acquaintances, male and female. . . .

“Miserly in trifles—about to lavish his whole fortune on the Greeks” (oh happy listener!)—“to-day diminishing his stud—to-morrow taking a large family under his roof” (an ingenious nicety!), or giving 1000l. for a yacht” (a sum, which it very much surprised and vexed him to be charged); “dining for a few Pauls when alone—spending hundreds when he has friends; ‘ Nil fuit unquam,’ says the gallant and classical officer, ’ sic impar sibi.’” . . .

I admit that Byron had his defects. He was aye courting the ill will o’ the world, that he might make a fool o’t. There was a principle in his prodigality that I ne’er observed in other men. He wasna just like King Henry, the fifth o’ that name, wild for wantonness—but in a degree like Hamlet, the play-actor, a thought antic for a purpose—What that purpose was, he best kent himself; and if it werena to speak blasphemy, I would a’maist say he was wicket that he might be wise. O he was a desperate worldly creature, thinking to make himself a something between a god and a devil—a spirit that would hae a dominion over the spirits o’ men—and make the earth a third estate ’tween heaven and hell. . . .

Descending from the author to the editor, and from the editor to the publisher of this volume, we feel inclined to remonstrate with the latter respectable personage for not contriving to make a book (an art in which he ought to be an adept) without taking an entire article from the third number of our Review, equivalent in length to one-fourth of the whole Conversations. A little more invention on the part of the Conversation-seller, and a little more liberality on that of the Conversation buyer, would have rendered such an expedient unnecessary; and as we like to choose our own company, we really must protest against being forced to hunt in couples with Mr. Colburn’s authors. We trust that this is the last time we shall have to complain of such a disagreeable connexion. . . .

It has been contrived, even in the Appendix, to preserve the character of the work itself; for, in making an attempt to correct a statement in the Funeral Oration on lord Byron, the editor has shown an ignorance equal to that of the author of the Conversations. The Oration says of lord Byron—“Born in the great capital of England.” To which remark this note is appended, at p. 536 of the volume—“This translation is by a Greek at Missolonghi, from the original modern Greek gazette. No alterations have been made though a few suggest themselves, one of which is, that lord Byron was not born in London.” . . .