“Spectator, Rambler, World, &c. &c.—Novels by the thousand.

“I have also read (to my regret at present) above four thousand novels, including the works of Cervantes, Fielding, Smollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, Sterne, Rabelais, and Rousseau, &c. &c. The book, in my opinion, most useful to a man who wishes to acquire the reputation of being well read, with the least trouble, is ‘Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy,’ the most amusing and instructive medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever perused. But a superficial reader must take care, or his intricacies will bewilder him. If, however, he has patience to go through his volumes, he will be more improved for literary conversation than by the perusal of any twenty other works with which I am acquainted,—at least, in the English language.”

To this early and extensive study of English writers may be attributed that mastery over the resources of his own language, with which Lord Byron came furnished into the field of literature, and which enabled him, as fast as his youthful fancies sprung up, to clothe them with a diction worthy of their beauty. In general, the difficulty of young writers, at their commencement, lies far less in any lack of thoughts or images, than in that want of a fitting organ to give these conceptions

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vent, to which their unacquaintance with the great instrument of the man of genius, his native language, dooms them. It will be found, indeed, that the three most remarkable examples of early authorship, which, in their respective lines, the history of literature affords—Pope, Congreve, and Chatterton—were all of them persons self-educated*, according to their own intellectual wants and tastes, and left, undistracted by the worse than useless pedantries of the schools, to seek, in the pure “well of English undefiled,” those treasures of which they accordingly so very early and intimately possessed themselves†. To these three instances may now be added, virtually, that of Lord Byron, who, though a disciple of the schools, was, intellectually speaking, in them, not of them, and who, while his comrades were prying curiously into the graves of dead languages, betook himself to the fresh, living sources of his own‡, and from thence drew those rich, varied stores of diction, which have placed his works, from the age of two-and-twenty upwards, among the most precious depositories of the strength and sweetness of the English language that our whole literature supplies.

In the same book that contains the above record of his studies, he has written out, also from memory, a “List of the different poets, dramatic or otherwise, who have distinguished their respective languages by their productions.” After enumerating the various poets, both ancient

* “I took to reading by myself,” says Pope, “for which I had a very great eagerness and enthusiasm; . . . . . . I followed every where, as my fancy led me, and was like a boy gathering flowers in the fields and woods, just as they fell in his way. These five or six years I still look upon as the happiest part of my life.” It appears, too, that he was himself aware of the advantages which this free course of study brought with it:—“Mr. Pope,” says Spence, “thought himself the better, in some respects, for not having had a regular education. He (as he observed in particular) read originally for the sense, whereas we are taught, for so many years, to read only for words.”

† Before Chatterton was twelve years old, he wrote a catalogue, in the same manner as Lord Byron, of the books he had already read, to the number of seventy. Of these the chief subjects were history and divinity.

‡ The perfect purity with which the Greeks wrote their own language was, with justice perhaps, attributed by themselves to their entire abstinence from the study of any other. “If they became learned,” says Ferguson, “it was only by studying what they themselves had produced.”

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and modern, of Europe, he thus proceeds with his catalogue through other quarters of the world:—

“Arabia.—Mahomet, whose Koran contains most sublime poetical passages, far surpassing European poetry.

“Persia.—Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, the Persian Iliad,—Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal Hafiz, the oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced beyond any bard of ancient or modern times by the Persians, who resort to his tomb near Shiraz, to celebrate his memory. A splendid copy of his works is chained to his monument.

“America.—An epic poet has already appeared in that hemisphere, Barlow, author of the Columbiad,—not to be compared with the works of more polished nations.

“Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for their Skalds. Among these Lodburg was one of the most distinguished. His Death-Song breathes ferocious sentiments, but a glorious and impassioned strain of poetry.

“China.—I never heard of any Chinese poet but the Emperor Kien Long, and his ode to Tea. What a pity their philosopher Confucius did not write poetry, with his precepts of morality!

“This brief list of poets I have written down from memory, without any book of reference; consequently some errors may occur, but I think, if any, very trivial. The works of the European, and some of the Asiatic, I have perused, either in the original or translations. In my list of En-

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glish, I have merely mentioned the greatest;—to enumerate the minor poets would be useless, as well as tedious. Perhaps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have been added, as worthy of mention, in a cosmopolite account. But as for the others, from Chaucer down to Churchill, they are ‘voces et præterea nihil;’—sometimes spoken of, rarely read, and never with advantage. Chaucer, notwithstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene and contemptible:—he owes his celebrity merely to his antiquity, which he does not deserve so well as Pierce Plowman, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living poets I have avoided mentioning;—we have none who will not survive their productions. Taste is over with us; and another century will sweep our empire, our literature, and our name, from all but a place in the annals of mankind.

Among the papers of his in my possession are several detached Poems (in all nearly six hundred lines), which he wrote about this period, but never printed—having produced most of them after the publication of his “Hours of Idleness.” The greater number of these have little, besides his name, to recommend them; but there are a few that, from the feelings and circumstances that gave rise to them, will, I have no doubt, be interesting to the reader.

When he first went to Newstead, on his arrival from Aberdeen, he planted, it seems, a young oak in some part of the grounds, and had an idea that as it flourished so should he. Some six or seven years after, on revisiting the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed. In this circumstance, which happened soon after Lord Grey de Ruthen left Newstead, originated one of these poems, which consists of five stanzas, but of which the few opening lines will be a sufficient specimen:—

“Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy’s years, On the land of my fathers I rear’d thee with pride;

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They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,— Thy decay not the weeds, that surround thee, can hide.

“I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, A stranger has dwelt in the Hall of my Sire,” &c. &c.

The subject of the verses that follow is sufficiently explained by the notice which he has prefixed to them; and, as illustrative of the romantic and almost love-like feeling which he threw into his school friendships, they appeared to me, though rather quaint and elaborate, to be worth preserving.

1. “Here once engaged the stranger’s view Young Friendship’s record simply traced; Few were her words,—but yet though few, Resentment’s hand the line defaced.

2. “Deeply she cut—but, not erased, The characters were still so plain, That Friendship once return’d, and gazed,— Till Memory hail’d the words again.

3. “Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join’d her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem’d once more, That Friendship thought it still the same.

4. “Thus might the Record now have been; But, ah, in spite of Hope’s endeavour, Or Friendship’s tears, Pride rush’d between, And blotted out the line for ever!”

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The same romantic feeling of friendship breathes throughout another of these poems, in which he has taken for his subject the ingenious thought “l’Amitié est l’Amour sans ailes,” and concludes every stanza with the words “Friendship is Love without his wings.” Of the nine stanzas of which this poem consists, the three following appear the most worthy of selection.—

“Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine, Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat,— ‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’ * * * * * *

“Seat of my youth! thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire,— In mind again a boy. Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear associate seems to say ‘Friendship is Love without his wings”

“My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep? Thy falling tears restrain; Affection for a time may sleep, But, oh, ’twill wake again. Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wish’d intercourse, how sweet! From this my hope of rapture springs, While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell, ‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’”

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“TO MY SON! 1. “Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, Bright as thy mother’s in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father’s heart, my Boy!

2. “And thou canst lisp a father’s name— Ah, William, were thine own the same, No self-reproach—but, let me cease My care for thee shall purchase peace;

* The only circumstance I know, that bears even remotely on the subject of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the date affixed to it, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow (as I have been told by a person, to whom Mrs. Byron herself communicated the circumstance), to say, that he had lately had a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young woman, whom he knew to have been a favourite of his late friend, Curzon, and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towards maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This, he positively assured his mother, was not the case; but, believing, as he did firmly, that the child belonged to Curson, it was his wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness to take charge of it. Though such a request might well (as my informant expresses it) have discomposed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron’s, she notwithstanding answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever manner he desired. Happily, however, the infant died almost immediately, and was thus spared the being a tax on the good-nature of any body.

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Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my Boy!

3. “Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And thou best known a stranger’s breast. Derision sneers upon thy birth, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Yet shall not these one hope destroy,— A Fathers heart is thine, my Boy!

4. “Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Must I fond Nature’s claim disown? Ah, no—though moralists reprove, I hail thee, dearest child of love, Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy— A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

5. “Oh, ’twill be sweet in thee to trace, Ere age has wrinkled o’er my face, Ere half my glass of life is run, At once a brother and a son; And all my wane of years employ In justice done to thee, my Boy!

6. “Although so young thy heedless sire, Youth will not damp parental fire; And, wert thou still less dear to me, While Helen’s form revives in thee, The breast, which beat to former joy, Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy! “B——, 1807*.”

But the most remarkable of these poems is one of a date prior to any I have given, being written in December, 1806, when he was not yet nineteen years old. It contains, as will be seen, his religious creed at that

* In this practice of dating his juvenile poems he followed the example of Milton, who (says Johnson), “by affixing the dates to his first compositions, a boast of which the learned

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period, and shows how early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind.

“THE PRAYER OF NATURE. “Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear’st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man’s be e’er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou see’st my soul is dark within; Thou who must mark the sparrow’s fall, Avert from me the death of sin. No shrine I seek, to sects unknown, Oh point to me the path of truth! Thy dread omnipotence I own, Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile. Shall man confine his Maker’s sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell Unless they bend in pompous form; Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm?

---

Politian had given him an example, seems to commend the earliness of his own compositions to the notice of posterity.” The following trifle, written also by him in 1807, has never as far as I know, appeared in print:— “EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. “John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A Carrier, who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more—so was carried at last; For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off,—so he’s now carri-on. “B——, Sept. 1807.”

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Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire? Shall these, by creeds they can’t expound, Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, Their great Creator’s purpose know? Shall those, who live for self alone, Whose years float on in daily crime— Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet’s laws I seek,— Thy laws in Nature’s works appear;— I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Then, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of Æther’s space; Who calm’st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:— Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me thy wide defence. To Thee, my God, to Thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide, By thy command I rise or fall, In thy protection I confide. If, when this dust to dust restored, My soul shall float on airy wing, How shall thy glorious name adored Inspire her feeble voice to sing! But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the grave’s eternal bed, While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom’d no more to quit the dead. To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last.

“29th Dec. 1800. “Byron.”

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In another of these poems, which extends to about a hundred lines, and which he wrote under the melancholy impression that he should soon die, we find him concluding with a prayer in somewhat the same spirit. After bidding adieu to all the favourite scenes of his youth*, he thus continues,—

“Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heav’n: There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath th’ Almighty’s Throne;— To him address thy trembling prayer; He, who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Although his meanest care. Father of Light! to thee I call, My soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall, Avert the death of sin. Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calm’st the elemental war, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die. 1807.”

* Annesley is, of course, not forgotten among the number:— “And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise and rivers roll between The rural spot which passion blest; Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love’s bewitching dream,” &c. &c.

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In the month of April we find him still at Southwell, and addressing to his friend Dr. Pigot, who was at Edinburgh, the following note*:—

His movements and occupations for the remainder of this year will be best collected from a series of his own letters, which I am enabled, by the kindness of the lady to whom they were addressed, to give. Though these letters are boyishly† written, and a good deal of their pleasantry is

* It appears from a passage in one of Miss ——’s letters to her brother, that Lord Byron sent, through this gentleman, a copy of his Poems to Mr. Mackenzie, the author of the Man of Feeling:—“I am glad you mentioned Mr. Mackenzie’s having got a copy of Lord B.’s Poems, and what he thought of them—Lord B. was so much pleased!” In another letter, the fair writer says:—“Lord Byron desired me to tell you that the reason you did not hear from him was because his publication was not so forward as he had flattered himself it would have been. I told him, ‘he was no more to be depended on than a woman,’ which instantly brought the softness of that sex into his countenance, for he blushed exceedingly.”

† He was, indeed, a thorough boy, at this period, in every respect:—“Next Monday” (says

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of that conventional kind which depends more upon phrase than thought, they will yet, I think, be found curious and interesting, not only as enabling is to track him through this period of his life, but as throwing light upon various little traits of character, and laying open to us the first working of his hopes and fears while waiting, in suspense, the opinions that were to decide, as he thought, his future fame. The first of the series, which is without date, appears to have been written before he had left Southwell. The other letters, it will be seen, are dated from Cambridge and from London.

Miss ——) “is our great fair. Lord Byron talks of it with as much pleasure as little Henry, and declares he will ride in the Round-about,—but I think he will change his mind.”

* He here alludes to in odd fancy or trick of his own;—whenever he was at a loss for something to say, he used always to gabble over “1 2 3 4 5 6 7.”

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“‘Better late than never, Pal,’ is a saying of which you know the origin, and as it is applicable on the present occasion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front of my epistle. I am almost superannuated here. My old friends (with the exception of a very few) all departed, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till Monday to be present at 3 Oratorios, 2 Concerts, a Fair, and a Ball. I find I am not only thinner but taller by an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell every body my name, nobody having the least recollection of my visage, or person. Even the hero of my Cornelian (who is now sitting vis-à-vis, reading a volume of my Poetics) passed me in Trinity walks without recognising me in the least, and was thunderstruck at the alteration which had taken place in my countenance, &c &c. Some say I look better, others worse, but all agree I am thinner—more I do not require. I have lost 2 lb. in my weight since I left your cursed, detestable, and abhorred abode of scandal*, where, excepting yourself and John Becher, I care not if the whole race were consigned to the Pit of Acheron, which I would visit in person rather than contaminate my sandals with the polluted dust of Southwell. Seriously, unless obliged by the emptiness of my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more.

On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge with little regret, because our set are vanished, and my musical protegé before mentioned has left the choir, and is stationed a mercantile house of con-

* Notwithstanding the abuse which, evidently more in sport than seriousness, he lavishes, in the course of these letters, upon Southwell, he was, in after days, taught to feel that the hours which he had passed in this place were far more happy than any he had known afterwards. In a letter written not long since to his servant, Fletcher, by a lady who had been intimate with him, in his young days, at Southwell, there are the following words:—“Your poor, good master always called me ‘Old Piety,’ when I preached to him. When he paid me his last visit, he said. ‘Well, good friend. I shall never be so happy again as I was in old Southwell.” His real opinion of the advantages of this town, as a place of residence, will be seen in a subsequent letter, where he most strenuously recommends it, in that point of view, to Mr. Dallas.

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siderable eminence in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he is exactly to an hour, 2 years younger than myself. I found him grown considerably, and, as you will suppose, very glad to see his former Patron. He is nearly my height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know;—I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every body here conceives me to be an invalid. The University at present is very gay, from the fêtes of divers kinds. I supped out last night, but eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a bottle of claret, went to bed at 2 and rose at 8. I have commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. The Masters and the Fellows all very polite, but look a little askance—don’t much admire lampoons—truth always disagreeable.

“Since my last letter I have determined to reside another year at Granta, as my rooms, &c. &c. are finished in great style, several old friends come up again, and many new acquaintances made; consequently my inclination leads me forward, and I shall return to college in October, if still alive. My life here has been one continued routine of dissipation—out at different places every day, engaged to more dinners, &c. &c. than

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my stay would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in my head and tears in my eyes; for I have just parted with my ‘Cornelian,’ who spent the evening with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my engagement to devote the hours of the Sabbath to friendship:—Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for London; you will address your answer to ‘Gordon’s Hotel, Albemarle-street’ where I sojourn during my visit to the metropolis.

“I rejoice to hear you are interested in my protegé: he has been my almost constant associate since October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. His voice first attracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his manners attached me to him for ever. He departs for a mercantile house in town in October, and we shall probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall leave to his decision either entering as a partner through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the latter, but he may alter his opinion previous to that period;—however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time or distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. In short, we shall put Lady E. Butler and Miss Ponsonby to the blush, Pylades and Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe like Nisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and David the ‘go by.’ He certainly is perhaps more attached to me than even I am in return. During the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and winter, without passing one tiresome moment, and separated each time with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see us together, he in the only being I esteem, though I like many*.

* It may be as well to mention hare the sequel of this enthusiastic attachment. In the year 1811 young Edleston died of a consumption, and the following letter, addressed by Lord Byron to the mother of his fair Southwell correspondent, will show with what melancholy faithfulness, among the many his heart had then to mourn for, he still dwelt on the memory of his young college friend. “Cambridge, Oct 28th, 1811, “DEAR MADAM, “I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to Miss * * * *, indeed gave to

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“The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other day; I supped with him at his tutor’s—entirely a whig party. The opposition muster strong here now, and Lord Huntingdon, the Duke of Leinster, &c. &c. are to join us in October, so every thing will be splendid. The music is all over at present. Met with another ‘accidency’—upset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady—look’d very blue—spectators grinned—‘curse ’em!’ Apropos, sorry to say, been drunk every day, and not quite sober yet—however, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegetables, consequently it does me no harm—sad dogs all the Cantabs. Mem.—we mean to reform next January. This place is a monotony of endless variety—like it—hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold well? or do the ancients demur? What ladies have bought? * * * * *

“Saw a girl at St. Mary’s the image of Anne * * *, thought it was her—all in the wrong—the lady stared, so did I—I blushed, so did not the lady—sad thing—wish women had more modesty. Talking of women. puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny—how is she? Got a headache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. My protegé breakfasts with me; parting spoils my appetite—excepting from Southwell. Mem. I hate Southwell. Yours, &c.”

her, and now I am going to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, Miss * * * * should have preserved it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me at No. 8, St. James’s-street, London, and I will replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she was always so kind us to feel interested in the fate of him that formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver of that cornelian died in May last of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives that I have lost between May and the end of August. “Believe me, dear madam, yours very sincerely, “Byron. “P.S. I go to London to-morrow.” The cornelian heart was, of course, returned, and Lord Byron, at the same time, reminded that he had left it with Miss * * * * as a deposit, not a gift.

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“You write most excellent epistles—a fig for other correspondents, with their nonsensical apologies for ‘knowing nought about it,’—you send me a delightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of dissipation (very pleasant for all that), and, strange to tell) I get thinner, being now below 11 stone considerably. Stay in town a month, perhaps 6 weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a favour, irradiate Southwell for 3 days with the light of my countenance; but nothing shall ever make me reside there again. I positively return to Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, or in truth I should cut the University. An extraordinary circumstance occurred to me at Cambridge, a girl so very like ** made her appearance, that nothing but the most minute inspection could have undeceived me. I wish I had asked if she had ever been at H * * *.

“What the devil would Ridge have? is not 50 in a fortnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient sale? I hear many of the London booksellers have them, and Crosby, has sent copies to the principal watering-places. Are they liked or not in Southwell? * * * * * I wish Boatswain had swallowed Damon! How is Bran? by the immortal gods, Bran ought to be a Count of the Holy Roman Empire. * * *

“The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to you, who have rusticated all your life—the annals of routs, riots, balls and boxing-matches, cards and crim. cons, parliamentary discussion, political details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle-street Institution and aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brooks’s and Buonaparte, opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax-work, and weathercocks, can’t accord with your insulated ideas of decorum and other silly expressions not inserted in our vocabulary.

“Oh! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left thee, and how I curse the heavy hours I dragged along, for so many months, amongst the Mohawks who inhabit your kraals!—However, one thing I do not regret, which is having pared off a sufficient quantity of flesh to

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enable me to slip into ‘an eel skin,’ and vie with the slim beaux of modern times; though, I am sorry to say, it seems to be the mode amongst gentlemen to grow fat, and I am told I am at least 14 lb. below the fashion. However, I decrease instead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, as violent exercise in London is impracticable; but I attribute the phenomenon to our evening squeezes at public and private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning (the 14th, my letter was begun yesterday): he says the Poems go on as well as can be wished, the 75 sent to town are circulated, and a demand for 50 more complied with, the day he dated his epistle, though the advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu.

“P.S. Lord Carlisle, on receiving my Poems, sent, before he opened the book, a tolerably handsome letter:—I have not heard from him since. His opinions I neither know nor care about; if he is the least insolent, I shall enroll him with Butler* and the other worthies. He is in Yorkshire, poor man! and very ill! He said he had not had time to read the contents, but thought it necessary to acknowledge the receipt of the volume immediately. Perhaps the earl ‘bears no brother near the throne,’—if so, I will make his sceptre totter in his hands.—Adieu!”

“London begins to disgorge its contents—town is empty—consequently I can scribble at leisure, as occupations are less numerous. In a fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but expect epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does not proceed rapidly in Notts—very possible. In town things wear a more promising aspect, and a man whose works are praised by reviewers, admired by duchesses, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not dedicate much consideration to rustic readers. I have now a review before me, entitled

* In the Collection of his Poems printed for private circulation, he had inserted some severe verges on Doctor Butler, which he omitted in the subsequent publication,—at the same time explaining why he did so in a note little less severe than the verses.

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‘Literary Recreations,’ where my bardship is applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but think him a very discerning gentleman, and myself a devilish clever fellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just to give an agreeable relish to the praise. You know I hate insipid, unqualified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the 13th Number of ‘Literary Recreations’ for the last month. I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the article—it is printed in a periodical publication—and though I have written a paper (a review of Wordsworth*), which appears in the same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it—even the editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he would introduce my Poetical Lordship to her Highness, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly in common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim her relationship with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an excursion for some days afterwards, and as the duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction till the winter, when I shall favour the lady, whose taste I shall not dispute, with my most sublime and edifying conversation. She is now in the Highlands, and Alexander took his departure a few days ago, for the same blessed seat of ‘dark rolling winds.’

“Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a third—at least so he says. In every bookseller’s window I see my own name and say nothing, but enjoy my

* This first attempt of Lord Byron at reviewing (for it will be seen that he, once or twice afterwards, tried his hand at this least poetical of employments) is remarkable only as showing how plausibly he could assume the established tone and phraseology of these minor judgment-seats of criticism. For instance:—“The volumes before us are by the Author of Lyrical Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly met with a considerable share of public applause. The characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth’s muse are simple and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious, verse,—strong and sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments. Though the present work may not equal his former efforts, many of the poems possess a native elegance,” &c. &c. &c. If Mr. Wordsworth ever chanced to cast his eye over this article, how little could he have suspected that under that dull prosaic mask lurked one who, in five short years from thence, would rival even him in poetry.

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fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more, and ‘a Friend to the Cause of Literature’ begs I will gratify the public with some new work ‘at no very distant period.’ Who would not be a bard?—that is to say, if all critics would be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I doubt not, for this gentle encouragement. If so, have at ’em! By the by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after in the morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily got Hutton’s account. I shall extend the Poem to 8 or 10 books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be published or not must depend on circumstances. So much for egotism! My laurels have turned my brain, but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms will probably restore me to modesty.

“P.S. Remember me to Dr. P.”

“On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands*. A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tandem (a species of open carriage) through the

* This plan (which he never put in practice) had been talked of by him before he left Southwell, and is thus noticed in a letter of his fair correspondent to her brother:—“How can you ask if Lord B. Is going to visit the Highlands In the summer? Why, don’t you know that he never knows his own mind for ten minutes together? I tell him he is as fickle as the winds, and as uncertain as the waves.”

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western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase shelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular conveyances. On the coast we shall hire a vessel and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides, and, if we have time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Iceland, only 800 miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla. This last intention you will keep a secret, as my nice mamma would imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the accustomed maternal warwhoop.

“Write to me before I set off, I conjure you by the 5th rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with the books—I thought that worthy had not done much in the country. In town they have been very successful; Carpenter (Moore’s publisher) told me a few days ago they sold all theirs immediately, and had several inquiries made since, which, from the books being gone, they could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness of Headfort, the Duchess of Gordon, &c. &c. were among the purchasers, and Crosby says the circulation will be still more extensive in the winter; the summer season being very bad for a sale, as most people are absent from London. However, they have gone off extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on my journey through Newark, but cannot approach. Don’t tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes I travel a different road. If you have a letter, order it to be

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left at Ridge’s shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, Newark, about 6 or 8 in the evening. If your brother would ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him—he can return the same night, or sup with us and go home the next morning—the Kingston Arms is my inn.

“Next January (but this is entre nous only, and pray let it be so, or

* We observe here, as in other parts of his early letters, that sort of display and boast of rakishness which is but too common a folly at this period of life, when the young aspirant to manhood persuades himself that to be profligate is to be manly. Unluckily, this boyish desire of being thought worse than he really was remained with Lord Byron, as did some other feelings and foibles of his boyhood, long after the period when, with others, they are past and forgotten: and his mind, indeed, was but beginning to outgrow them, when he was snatched away.

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my maternal persecutor will be throwing her tomahawk at any of my curious projects) I am going to sea, for four or five months, with my cousin Capt. Bettesworth, who commands the Tartar, the finest frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish to look at a naval life. We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or—to the d—l; and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four and twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself.

“Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I have written 214 pages of a novel,—one poem of 380 lines*, to be published (without my name) in a few weeks, with notes,—560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. Apropos, I have been praised to the skies in the Critical Review†, and abused greatly in another publication‡. So much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book; it

* The Poem afterwards enlarged and published under the title of “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.” It appears from this that the ground-work of that satire had been laid some time before the appearance of the article in the Edinburgh Review.

† Sept. 1807. This Review, in pronouncing upon the young author’s future career, showed itself somewhat more “prophet-like” than the great oracle of the north. In noticing the Elegy on Newstead Abbey, the writer says, “We could not but had with something of prophetic rapture, the hope conveyed in the closing stanza: “Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray,” &c. &c.

‡ The first number of a monthly publication called “the Satirist,” in which there appeared afterwards some low and personal attacks upon him.

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keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, nor do the humblest escape,—so I bear it like a philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse my censor only quotes two lines from different poems, in support of his opinion. Now the proper way to cut up is to quote long passages, and make them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of praise, and more than my modesty will allow said on the subject. Adieu.