“I have traversed the seat of war in the peninsula; I have been in some of the most oppressed provinces of Turkey; but never, under the most despotic of infidel governments, did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return, in the very heart of a Christian country. And what are your remedies? After months of inaction, and months of action worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the grand specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state-physicians, from the days of Draco to the present time. After feeling the pulse and shaking the head over the patient, prescribing the usual course of warm water and bleeding—the warm water of your mawkish police, and the lancets of your military—these convulsions must terminate in death, the sure consummation of the prescriptions of all political Sangrados. Setting aside the palpable injustice and the certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital punishments sufficient on your statutes? Is there not blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be poured forth to ascend to heaven and testify against you? How will you carry this bill into effect? Can you commit a whole county to their own prisons? Will you erect a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like scarecrows? or will you proceed (as you must, to bring this measure into effect,) by decimation; place the country under martial law; depopulate and lay waste all around you, and restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable gift to the crown in its former condition of a royal chase and an asylum for outlaws? Are these the remedies for a starving and desperate populace? Will the famished wretch who has braved your bayonets be appalled by

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your gibbets? When death is a relief, and the only relief it appears that you will afford him, will he be dragooned into tranquillity? Will that which could not be effected by your grenadiers be accomplished by your executioners? If you proceed by the forms of law, where is your evidence? Those who refused to impeach their accomplices, when transportation only was the punishment, will hardly be tempted to witness against them when death is the penalty. With all due deference to the noble lords opposite, I think a little investigation, some previous inquiry, would induce even them to change their purpose. That most favourite state measure, so marvellously efficacious in many and recent instances, temporizing, would not be without its advantage in this. When a proposal is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate, you deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper with the minds of men; but a death-bill must be passed off hand, without a thought of the consequences.”

“Sheridan’s liking for me (whether he was not mystifying me, I do not know, but Lady Caroline Lamb and others told me that he said the same both before and after he knew me) was founded upon ‘English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.’ He told me that he did not care about poetry (or about mine—at least, any but that poem of mine), but he was sure, from that and other symptoms, I should make an orator, if I would but take to speaking and grow a parliament man. He never ceased harping upon this to me to the last; and I remember my old tutor, Dr. Drury, had the same notion when I was a boy; but it never was my turn of inclination to try. I spoke once or twice, as all young peers do, as a kind of introduction into public life; but dissipation, shyness, haughty and reserved opinions, together with the short time I lived in England after my majority (only about five years in all), prevented me from resuming the experiment. As far as it went, it was not discouraging, particularly my first speech (I spoke three or four times in all), but just after it, my poem of Childe Harold was published, and nobody ever thought about my prose afterwards, nor indeed did I; it became to me a secondary and neglected object, though I sometimes wonder to myself if I should have succeeded.”

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His immediate impressions with respect to the success of his first speech may be collected from a letter addressed soon after to Mr. Hodgson.

“We are not answerable for reports of speeches in the papers, they are always given incorrectly, and on this occasion more so than usual, from the debate in the Commons on the same night. The Morning Post should have said eighteen years. However, you will find the speech, as spoken, in the Parliamentary Register, when it comes out. Lords Holland and Grenville, particularly the latter, paid me some high compliments in the course of their speeches as you may have seen in the papers, and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered me. I have had many marvellous eulogies repeated to me since, in person and by proxy, from divers persons ministerial—yea, ministerial!—as well as oppositionists; of them I shall only mention Sir F. Burdett. He says it is the best speech by a lord since the ‘Lord knows when,’ probably from a fellow-feeling in the sentiments. Lord H. tells me I shall beat them all if I persevere, and Lord G. remarked that the construction of some of my periods are very like Burke’s!! And so much for vanity. I spoke very violent sentences with a sort of modest impudence, abused every thing and every body, and put the Lord Chancellor very much out of humour; and if I may believe what I hear, have not lost any character by the experiment. As to my delivery, loud and fluent enough, perhaps a little theatrical. I could not recognise myself or any one else in the newspapers. * * *

“My poesy comes out on Saturday. Hobbouse is here; I shall tell him to write. My stone is gone for the present, but I fear is part of my habit. We all talk of a visit to Cambridge.

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Of the same date as the above is the following letter to Lord Holland, accompanying a copy of his new publication, and written in a tone that cannot fail to give a high idea of his good feeling and candour.

‘Forgiveness to the injured doth belong,’

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It was within two days after his speech in the House of Lords, that Childe Harold appeared*;—and the impression which it produced upon the public was as instantaneous as it has proved deep and lasting. The permanence of such success genius alone could secure, but to its instant and enthusiastic burst, other causes, besides the merit of the work, concurred.

There are those who trace in the peculiar character of Lord Byron’s genius strong features of relationship to the times in which he lived; who think that the great events which marked the close of the last century, by giving a new impulse to men’s minds, by habituating them to the daring and the free, and allowing full vent to “the flash and outbreak of fiery spirits,” had led naturally to the production of such a poet as Byron; and that he was, in short, as much the child and representative of the Revolution, in poesy, as another great man of the age, Napoleon, was in statesmanship and warfare. Without going the full length of this notion, it will, at least, be conceded, that the free loose which had been given to all the passions and energies of the human mind, in the great struggle of that period, together with the constant spectacle of such astounding vicissitudes as were passing, almost daily, on the theatre of the world, had created, in all minds, and in every walk of intellect, a taste for strong excitement, which the stimulants supplied from ordinary sources were insufficient to gratify;—that a tame deference to established authorities had fallen into disrepute, no less in literature than in politics, and that the poet who should breathe into his songs the fierce and passionate spirit of the age, and assert, untrammeled and unawed, the high dominion of genius, would be the most sure of an audience toned in sympathy with his strains.

It is true that, to the licence on religious subjects, which revelled through the first acts of that tremendous drama, a disposition of an

* To his sister, Mrs. Leigh, one of the first presentation copies was sent, with the following inscription in it:— “To Augusta, my dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever loved me much better than I deserved, this volume is presented by her father’s son, and most affectionate brother, “B.”

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opposite tendency had, for some time, succeeded. Against the wit of the scoffer not only piety, but a better taste, revolted; and had Lord Byron, in touching on such themes in Childe Harold, adopted a tone of levity or derision (such as, unluckily, he sometimes afterwards descended to), not all the originality and beauty of his work would have secured for it a prompt or uncontested triumph. As it was, however, the few dashes of scepticism with which he darkened his strain, far from checking his popularity, were among those attractions which, as I have said, independent of all the charms of the poetry, accelerated and heightened its success. The religious feeling that has sprung up through Europe since the French revolution—like the political principles that have emerged out of the same event—in rejecting all the licentiousness of that period, have preserved much of its spirit of freedom and inquiry; and, among the best fruits of this enlarged and enlightened piety is the liberty which it disposes men to accord to the opinions, and even heresies, of others. To persons thus sincerely, and, at the same time, tolerantly, devout, the spectacle of a great mind, like that of Byron, labouring in the eclipse of scepticism, could not be otherwise than an object of deep and solemn interest. If they had already known what it was to doubt, themselves, they would enter into his fate with mournful sympathy; while, if safe in the tranquil haven of faith, they would look with pity on one who was still a wanderer. Besides, erring and dark as might be his views at that moment, there were circumstances in his character and fate that gave a hope of better thoughts yet dawning upon him. From his temperament and youth, there could be little fear that he was yet hardened in his heresies, and as, for a heart wounded like his, there was, they knew, but one true source of consolation, so it was hoped that the love of truth, so apparent in all he wrote, would, one day, enable him to find it.

Another, and not the least of those causes which concurred with the intrinsic claims of his genius to give an impulse to the tide of success that now flowed upon him, was, unquestionably, the peculiarity of his personal history and character. There had been, in his very first introduction of himself to the public, a sufficient portion of singularity to excite strong attention and interest. While all other youths of

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talent, in his high station, are heralded into life by the applauses and anticipations of a host of friends, young Byron stood forth alone, unannounced by either praise or promise,—the representative of an ancient house, whose name, long lost in the gloomy solitudes of Newstead, seemed to have just awakened from the sleep of half a century in his person. The circumstances that, in succession, followed,—the prompt vigour of his reprisals upon the assailants of his fame,—his disappearance, after this achievement, from the scene of his triumph, without deigning even to wait for the laurels which he had earned, and his departure on a far pilgrimage, whose limits he left to chance and fancy,—all these successive incidents had thrown an air of adventure round the character of the young poet, which prepared his readers to meet half-way the impressions of his genius. Instead of finding him, on a nearer view, fall short of their imaginations, the new features of his disposition now disclosed to them far outwent, in peculiarity and interest, whatever they might have preconceived; while the curiosity and sympathy awakened by what he suffered to transpire of his history were still more heightened by the mystery of his allusions to much that yet remained untold. The late losses, by death, which he had sustained, and mourned, it was manifest, so deeply, gave a reality to the notion formed of him by his admirers which seemed to authorise them in imagining still more; and what has been said of the poet Young, that he found out the art of “making the public a party to his private sorrows,” may be, with infinitely more force and truth, applied to Lord Byron.

On that circle of society with whom he came immediately in contact, these personal influences acted with increased force from being assisted by others, which, to female imaginations especially, would have presented a sufficiency of attraction, even without the great qualities joined with them. His youth,—the noble beauty of his countenance, and its constant play of lights and shadows,—the gentleness of his voice and manner to women, and his occasional haughtiness to men,—the alleged singularities of his mode of life, which kept curiosity alive and inquisitive,—all these lesser traits and habitudes concurred towards the quick spread of his fame; nor can it be denied that, among many purer

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sources of interest in his Poem, the allusions which he makes to instances of “successful passion” in his career* were not without their influence on the fancies of that sex, whose weakness it is to be most easily won by those who come recommended by the greatest number of triumphs over others.

That his rank was also to be numbered among these extrinsic advantages appears to have been,—partly, perhaps, from a feeling of modesty at the time,—his own persuasion. “I may place a great deal of it,” said he to Mr. Dallas, “to my being a lord.” It might be supposed that it is only on a rank inferior to his own such a charm could operate; but this very speech is, in itself, a proof, that in no class whatever is the advantage of being noble more felt and appreciated than among nobles themselves. It was, also, natural that, in that circle, the admiration of the new poet should be, at least, quickened by the consideration that he had sprung up among themselves, and that their order had, at length, produced a man of genius, by whom the arrears of contribution, long due from them to the treasury of English literature, would be at once fully and splendidly discharged.

Altogether, taking into consideration the various points I have here enumerated, it may be asserted, that never did there exist before, and, it is most probable, never will exist again, a combination of such vast mental power and surpassing genius, with so many other of those advantages and attractions, by which the world is, in general, dazzled and captivated. The effect was, accordingly, electric;—his fame had not to wait for any of the ordinary gradations, but seemed to spring up, like the palace of a fairy tale, in a night. As he himself briefly described it in

* Little knew she, that seeming marble heart, Now mask’d in silence, or withheld by pride, Was not unskilful in the spoiler’s art, And spread its snares licentious far and wide.” CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO II. We have here another instance of his propensity to self-misrepresentation. However great might have been the irregularities of his college life, such phrases as the “art of the spoiler” and “spreading snares” were in nowise applicable to them.

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his Memoranda,—“I awoke one morning and found myself famous.” The first edition of his work was disposed of instantly; and, as the echoes of its reputation multiplied on all sides, “Childe Harold” and “Lord Byron” became the theme of every tongue. At his door, most of the leading names of the day presented themselves,—some of them persons whom he had much wronged in his Satire, but who now forgot their resentment in generous admiration. From morning till night the most flattering testimonies of his success crowded his table,—from the grave tributes of the statesman and the philosopher down to (what flattered him still more) the romantic billet of some incognita, or the pressing note of invitation from some fair leader of fashion; and, in place of the desert which London had been to him but a few weeks before, he now not only saw the whole splendid interior of High Life thrown open to receive him, but found himself, among its illustrious crowds, the most distinguished object.

The copyright of the Poem, which was purchased by Mr. Murray for 600l., he presented, in the most delicate and unostentatious manner, to Mr. Dallas, saying, at the same time, that he “never would receive money for his writings;”—a resolution, the mixed result of generosity and pride, which he afterwards wisely abandoned, though borne out by the example of Swift† and Voltaire, the latter of whom gave most of his copyrights to Prault and other booksellers, and received books, not money, for those he disposed of otherwise. To his young friend, Mr. Harness, it had been his intention, at first, to dedicate the work, but, on further consideration, he relinquished his design; and in a letter to that gentleman (which, with some others, is unfortunately lost) alleged, as his reason for this change, the prejudice which, he foresaw, some parts of the poem would raise against himself, and his fear lest, by any pos-

* “After speaking to him of the sale, and settling the new edition, I said, ‘How can I possibly think of this rapid sale, and the profits likely to ensue, without recollecting—’ ‘What?’—‘Think what sum your work may produce.’ ‘I shall be rejoiced, and wish it doubled and trebled; but do not talk to me of money. I never will receive money for my writings.’”—Dallas’s Recollections.

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sibility, a share of the odium might so far extend itself to his friend, as to injure him in the profession to which he was about to devote himself.

Not long after the publication of Childe Harold, the noble author paid me a visit, one morning, and, putting a letter into my hands, which he had just received, requested that I would undertake to manage for him whatever proceedings it might render necessary. This letter, I found, had been delivered to him by Mr. Leckie (a gentleman well known by a work on Sicilian affairs), and came from a once active and popular member of the fashionable world, Colonel Greville,—its purport being to require of his lordship, as author of “English Bards, &c.” such reparation as it was in his power to make for the injury which, as Colonel Greville conceived, certain passages in that satire, reflecting upon his conduct, as manager of the Argyle Institution, were calculated to inflict upon his character. In the appeal of the gallant colonel, there were some expressions of rather an angry cast, which Lord Byron, though fully conscious of the length to which he himself had gone, was but little inclined to brook, and, on my returning the letter into his hands, he said, “To such a letter as that there can be but one sort of answer.” He agreed, however, to trust the matter entirely to my discretion, and I had, shortly after, an interview with the friend of Colonel Greville. By this gentleman, who was then an utter stranger to me, I was received with much courtesy, and with every disposition to bring the affair intrusted to us to an amicable issue. On my premising that the tone of his friend’s letter stood in the way of negotiation, and that some obnoxious expressions which it contained must be removed before I could proceed a single step towards explanation, he most readily consented to remove this obstacle. At his request I drew a pen across the parts I considered objectionable, and he undertook to send me the letter, re-written, next morning. In the mean time I received from Lord Byron the following paper for my guidance.

“With regard to the passage on Mr. Way’s loss, no unfair play was hinted at, as may be seen by referring to the book; and it is expressly added that the managers were ignorant of that transaction. As to the prevalence of play at the Argyle, it cannot be denied that

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there were billiards and dice;—Lord B. has been a witness to the use of both at the Argyle Rooms. These, it is presumed, come under the denomination of play. If play be allowed, the President of the Institution can hardly complain of being termed the ‘Arbiter of Play,’—or what becomes of his authority?

“Lord B. has no personal animosity to Colonel Greville. A public institution, to which he, himself, was a subscriber, he considered himself to have a right to notice publicly. Of that institution, Colonel Greville was the avowed director;—it is too late to enter into the discussion of its merits or demerits.

“Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, for the real or supposed injury, to Colonel G.’s friend and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord B.—begging them to recollect that, while they consider Colonel G.’s honour, Lord B. must also maintain his own. If the business can be settled amicably, Lord B. will do as much as can and ought to be done by a man of honour towards conciliation;—if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in the manner most conducive to his further wishes.”

In the morning I received the letter, in its new form, from Mr. Leckie, with the annexed note.

While upon this subject, I shall avail myself of the opportunity which it affords of extracting an amusing account given by Lord Byron

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himself of some affairs of this description, in which he was, at different times, employed as mediator.

“I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have always contrived to settle the business without compromising the honour of the parties, or leading them to mortal consequences, and this too sometimes in very difficult and delicate circumstances, and having to deal with very hot and haughty spirits,—Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, captains, and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, of course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed company. I have had to carry challenges from gentlemen to noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to counsellors, and once from a clergyman to an officer in the life-guards; but I found the latter by far the most difficult,

‘to compose The bloody duel without blows,’

the business being about a woman; I must add too, that I never saw a woman behave so ill, like a cold-blooded, heartless b— as she was,—but very handsome, for all that. A certain Susan C * * was she called. I never saw her but once; and that was to induce her but to say two words (which in no degree compromised herself), and which would have had the effect of saving a priest or a lieutenant of cavalry. She would not say them, and neither N * * or myself (the son of Sir E. N * *, and a friend to one of the parties) could prevail upon her to say them, though both of us used to deal in some sort with womankind. At last I managed to quiet the combatants without her talisman, and, I believe, to her great disappointment; she was the damnedest b— that I ever saw, and I have seen a great many. Though my clergyman was sure to lose either his life or his living, he was as warlike as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly be pacified; but then he was in love, and that is a martial passion.”

However disagreeable it was to find the consequences of his Satire thus rising up against him in a hostile shape, he was far more embarrassed in those cases where the retribution took a friendly form. Being now daily in the habit of meeting and receiving kindnesses from persons who,

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either in themselves, or through their relatives, had been wounded by his pen, he felt every fresh instance of courtesy from such quarters to be (as he sometimes, in the strong language of scripture, expressed it) like “heaping coals of fire upon his head.” He was, indeed, in a remarkable degree, sensitive to the kindness or displeasure of those he lived with; and had he passed a life subject to the immediate influence of society, it may be doubted whether he ever would have ventured upon those unbridled bursts of energy, in which he, at once, demonstrated and abused his power. At the period when he ran riot in his Satire, society had not yet caught him within its pale; and in the time of his Cains and Don Juans, he had again broken loose from it. Hence, his instinct towards a life of solitude and independence, as the true element of his strength. In his own domain of imagination he could defy the whole world; while, in real life, a frown or smile could rule him. The facility with which he sacrificed his first volume, at the mere suggestion of his friend, Mr. Becher, is a strong proof of this pliableness; and in the instance of Childe Harold, such influence had the opinions of Mr. Gifford and Mr. Dallas on his mind, that he not only shrunk from his original design of identifying himself with his hero, but surrendered to them one of his most favourite stanzas, whose heterodoxy they had objected to; nor is it too much, perhaps, to conclude, that had a more extended force of such influence then acted upon him, he would have consented to omit the sceptical parts of his poem altogether. Certain it is that, during the remainder of his stay in England, no such doctrines were ever again obtruded on his readers; and in all those beautiful creations of his fancy, with which he brightened that whole period. keeping the public eye in one prolonged gaze of admiration, both the bitterness and the licence of his impetuous spirit were kept effectually under control. The world, indeed, had yet to witness what he was capable of, when emancipated from this restraint. For, graceful and powerful as were his flights while society had still a hold of him, it was not till let loose from the leash that he rose into the true region of his strength; and though almost in proportion to that strength was, too frequently, his abuse of it, yet so magnificent are the very excesses of such energy, that it is impossible, even while we condemn, not to admire.

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The occasion by which I have been led into these remarks,—namely, his sensitiveness on the subject of his Satire,—is one of those instances that show how easily his gigantic spirit could be, if not held down, at least entangled, by the small ties of society. The aggression of which he had been guilty was not only past, but, by many of those most injured, forgiven; and yet,—highly, it must be allowed, to the credit of his social feelings,—the idea of living familiarly and friendly with persons, respecting whose character or talents there were such opinions of his on record, became, at length, insupportable to him; and, though far advanced in a fifth edition of “English Bards, &c.” he came to the resolution of suppressing the Satire altogether; and orders were sent to Cawthorn, the publisher, to commit the whole impression to the flames. At the same time, and from similar motives,—aided, I rather think, by a friendly remonstrance from Lord Elgin, or some of his connexions,—the “Curse of Minerva,” a poem levelled against that nobleman, and already in progress towards publication, was also sacrificed; while the “Hints from Horace,” though containing far less personal satire than either of the others, shared their fate.

To exemplify what I have said of his extreme sensibility to the passing sunshine or clouds of the society in which he lived, I need but cite the following notes, addressed by him to his friend Mr. William Bankes, under the apprehension that this gentleman was, for some reason or other, displeased with him.

“I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech you made to me last night, and my hope is, that it was only one of your profane jests. I should be very sorry that any part of my behaviour should give you cause to suppose that I think higher of myself, or otherwise of you, than I have always done. I can assure you that I am as much the humblest of your servants as at Trin. Coll.; and if I have not been at home when

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you favoured me with a call, the loss was more mine than yours. In the bustle of buzzing parties, there is, there can be, no rational conversation; but when I can enjoy it, there is nobody’s I can prefer to your own.

“And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, otherwise than I trust we have long thought. You told me not long ago that my temper was improved, and I should be sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your friendship is of more account to me than all those absurd vanities in which, I fear, you conceive me to take too much interest. I have never disputed your superiority, or doubted (seriously) your good will, and no one shall ever ‘make mischief between us’ without the sincere regret on the part of your ever affectionate, &c.

“P.S. I shall see you, I hope, at Lady Jersey’s. Hobhouse goes also.”

In the month of April he was again tempted to try his success in the House of Lords, and, on the motion of Lord Donoughmore for

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taking into consideration the claims of the Irish catholics, delivered his sentiments strongly in favour of the proposition. His display, on this occasion, seems to have been less promising than in his first essay. His delivery was thought mouthing and theatrical, being infected, I take for granted (having never heard him speak in Parliament), with the same chanting tone that disfigured his recitation of poetry,—a tone contracted at most of the public schools, but more particularly, perhaps, at Harrow, and encroaching just enough on the boundaries of song to offend those ears most by which song is best enjoyed and understood.

“At the opposition meeting of the Peers, in 1812, at Lord Grenville’s, when Lord Grey and he read to us the correspondence upon Moira’s negotiation, I sate next to the present Duke of Grafton, and said, ‘What is to be done next?’—‘Wake the Duke of Norfolk’ (who was snoring away near us), replied he: ‘I don’t think the negotiators have left any thing else for us to do this turn.’

“In the debate, or rather discussion, afterwards in the House of Lords upon that very question, I sate immediately behind Lord Moira, who was extremely annoyed at Grey’s speech upon the subject; and, while Grey was speaking, turned round to me repeatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward question to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to me, ‘It was not so, it was so and so,’ &c. I did not know very well what to think, but I sympathised with the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject.”

The subject of the catholic claims was, it is well known, brought forward a second time this session by Lord Wellesley, whose motion for a future consideration of the question was carried by a majority of one. In reference to this division, another rather amusing anecdote is thus related.

“Lord * * affects an imitation of two very different Chancellors, Thurlow and Loughborough, and can indulge in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the catholic question, when we were either equal or within one (I forget which), I had been sent for in great haste

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to a ball, which I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, to emancipate five millions of people. I came in late, and did not go immediately into the body of the House, but stood just behind the woolsack. * * turned round, and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer (who had come to him for a few minutes on the woolsack, as is the custom of his friends), ‘Damn them’ they’ll have it now—by G—d! the vote that is just come in will give it them.”

During all this time, the impression which he had produced in society, both as a poet and a man, went on daily increasing; and the facility with which he gave himself up to the current of fashionable life, and mingled in all the gay scenes through which it led, showed that the novelty, at least, of this mode of existence had charms for him, however he might estimate its pleasures. That sort of vanity which is almost inseparable from genius, and which consists in an extreme sensitiveness on the subject of self, Lord Byron, I need not say, possessed in no ordinary decree; and never was there a career in which this sensibility to the opinions of others was exposed to more constant and various excitement than that on which he was now entered. I find in a note of my own to him, written at this period, some jesting allusions to the “circle of star-gazers” whom I had left around him at some party on the preceding night;—and such, in fact, was the flattering ordeal he had to undergo wherever he went. On these occasions,—particularly before the range of his acquaintance had become sufficiently extended to set him wholly at his ease,—his air and port were those of one whose better thoughts were elsewhere, and who looked with melancholy abstraction on the gay crowd around him. This deportment, so rare in such scenes, and so accordant with the romantic notions entertained of him, was the result partly of shyness, and partly, perhaps, of that love of effect and impression to which the poetical character of his mind naturally led. Nothing, indeed, could be more amusing and delightful than the contrast which his manner afterwards, when we were alone, presented to his proud reserve in the brilliant circle we had just left. It was like the bursting gaiety of a boy let loose from school, and seemed as if there was no extent of fun or tricks of which he was not capable. Finding him invariably thus

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lively when we were together, I often rallied him on the gloomy tone of his poetry, as assumed; but his constant answer was (and I soon ceased to doubt of its truth), that, though thus merry and full of laughter with those he liked, he was, at heart, one of the most melancholy wretches in existence.

“Know all men by these presents, that you, Thomas Moore, stand indicted—no—invited, by special and particular solicitation, to Lady C. L * *’s to-morrow even, at half-past nine o’clock, where you will meet with a civil reception and decent entertainment. Pray, come—I was so examined after you this morning, that I entreat you to answer in person.

“I should have answered your note yesterday, but I hoped to have seen you this morning. I must consult with you about the day we dine with Sir Francis. I suppose we shall meet at Lady Spencer’s to-night. I did not know that you were at Miss Berry’s the other night, or I should have certainly gone there.

“I am too proud of being your friend to care with whom I am linked in your estimation, and, God knows, I want friends more at this time than at any other. I am ‘taking care of myself’ to no great purpose. If you knew my situation in every point of view, you would excuse apparent and unintentional neglect. * * * * * * * *
I shall leave town, I think; but do not you leave it without seeing me.

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I wish you, from my soul, every happiness you can wish yourself; and I think you have taken the road to secure it. Peace be with you! I fear she has abandoned me. Ever, &c.”

“On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw Bellingham launched into eternity, and at three the same day I saw * * * launched into the country. * * * *

“I believe, in the beginning of June, I shall be down for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat you up ’en passant’ with Hobhouse, who is endeavouring, like you and every body else, to keep me out of scrapes.

“P.S. My best wishes and respects to Mrs. * *;—she is beautiful. I may say so even to you, for I never was more struck with a countenance.”

Among the tributes to his fame, this spring, it should have been mentioned that, at some evening party, he had the honour of being

* He had taken a window opposite for the purpose, and was accompanied on the occasion by his old schoolfellows, Mr. Bailey and Mr. John Madocks. They went together from some assembly, and, on their arriving at the spot, about three o’clock in the morning, not finding the house that was to receive them open, Mr. Madocks undertook to rouse the inmates, while Lord Byron and Mr. Bailey sauntered, arm and arm, up the street. During this interval, rather a painful scene occurred. Seeing an unfortunate woman lying on the steps of a door, Lord Byron, with some expression of compassion, offered her a few shillings; but, instead of accepting them, she violently pushed away his hand, and, starting up with a yell of laughter, began to mimic the lameness of his gait. He did not utter a ward, but “I could feel,” said Mr. Bailey, “his arm trembling within mine, as we left her.” I may take this opportunity of mentioning another anecdote connected with his lameness. In coming out, one night, from a ball, with Mr. Rogers, as they were on their way to their carriage, one of the link-boys ran on before Lord Byron, crying “This way, my lord.” “He seems to know you,” said Mr. Rogers. “Know me!” answered Lord Byron, with some degree of bitterness in his tone—“every one knows me,—I am deformed.”

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presented, at that royal personage’s own desire, to the Prince Regent. “The Regent,” says Mr. Dallas, “expressed his admiration of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and continued a conversation, which so fascinated the poet, that, had it not been for an accidental deferring of the next levee, he bade fair to become a visitor at Carlton House, if not a complete courtier.”

“I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, been very negligent, but till last night I was not apprized of Lady Holland’s restoration, and I shall call to-morrow to have the satisfaction, I trust, of hearing that she is well.—I hope that neither politics nor gout have assailed your lordship since I last saw you, and that you also are ‘as well as could be expected.’

“The other night, at a ball, I was presented by order to our gracious Regent, who honoured me with some conversation, and professed a predilection for poetry.—I confess it was a most unexpected honour, and I thought of poor B—s’s adventure, with some apprehensions of a similar blunder. I have now great hope, in the event of Mr. Pye’s decease, of ‘warbling truth at court,’ like Mr. Mallet of indifferent memory.—Consider, 100 marks a year! besides the wine and the disgrace; but then

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remorse would make me drown myself in my own butt before the year’s end, or the finishing of my first dithyrambic.—So that, after all, I shall not meditate our laureate’s death by pen or poison.

“Will you present my best respects to Lady Holland, and believe me hers and yours very sincerely.”

The second letter, entering much more fully into the particulars of this interview with Royalty, was in answer, it will be perceived, to some inquiries which Sir Walter Scott (then Mr. Scott) had addressed to him on the subject; and the whole account reflects even still more honour the Sovereign himself than on the two poets.

“I have just been honoured with your letter.—I feel sorry that you should have thought it worth while to notice the ‘evil works of my nonage,’ as the thing is suppressed voluntarily, and your explanation is too kind not to give me pain. The Satire was written when I was very young and very angry, and fully bent on displaying my wrath and my wit, and now I am haunted by the ghosts of my wholesale assertions. I cannot sufficiently thank you for your praise; and now, waving myself, let me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He ordered me to be presented to him at a ball; and after some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your immortalities: he preferred you to every bard past and present, and asked which of your works pleased me most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I thought the ‘Lay.’ He said his own opinion was nearly similar. In speaking of the others. I told him that I thought you more particularly the poet of Princes, as they never appeared more fascinating than in ‘Marmion’ and the ‘Lady of the Lake.’ ‘He was pleased to coincide, and to dwell on the description of your Jameses as no less royal than poetical. He spoke alternately of Homer and yourself, and seemed

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well acquainted with both; so that (with the exception of the Turks and your humble servant) you were in very good company. I defy Murray to have exaggerated his royal highness’s opinion of your powers, nor can I pretend to enumerate all he said on the subject; but it may give you pleasure to hear that it was conveyed in language which would only suffer by my attempting to transcribe it, and with a tone and taste which gave me a very high idea of his abilities and accomplishments, which I had hitherto considered as confined to manners, certainly superior to those of any living gentleman.

During the summer of this year he paid visits to some of his noble friends, and, among others, to the Earl of Jersey and the Marquis of Lansdowne. “In 1812,” he says, “at Middleton (Lord Jersey’s), amongst a goodly company of lords, ladies, and wits, &c., there was * * *†

“Erskine, too! Erskine was there; good, but intolerable. He jested, he talked, he did every thing admirably, but then he would be applauded for the same thing twice over. He would read his own verses, his own paragraph, and tell his own story, again and again; and then ‘the Trial by Jury!!!’ I almost wished it abolished, for I sate next him at dinner. As I had read his published speeches, there was no occasion to repeat them to me.

“C * * (the fox-hunter), nicknamed ‘Cheek C * *’, and I sweated the claret, being the only two who did so. C * *, who loves his bottle,

† A review, somewhat too critical, of some of the guests is here omitted.

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and had no notion of meeting with a ‘bon-vivant’ in a scribbler*, in making my eulogy to somebody one evening, summed it up in—‘By G—d, he drinks like a man!’

“Nobody drank, however, but C * * and I. To be sure, there was little occasion, for we swept off what was on the table (a most splendid board, as may be supposed, at Jersey’s) very sufficiently. However, we carried our liquor discreetly, like the Baron of Bradwardine.”

In the month of August this year, on the completion of the new Theatre Royal, Drury-lane, the Committee of Management, desirous of procuring an Address for the opening of the theatre, took the rather novel mode of inviting, by an advertisement in the newspapers, the competition of all the poets of the day towards this object. Though the contributions that ensued were sufficiently numerous, it did not appear to the Committee that there was any one among the number worthy of selection. In this difficulty, it occurred to Lord Byron, whose popularity would give additional vogue to the solemnity of their opening, and to whose transcendant claims, as a poet, it was taken for granted (though without sufficient allowance, as it proved, for the irritability of the brotherhood), even the rejected candidates themselves would bow without a murmur. The first result of this application to the noble poet will be learned from what follows.

“The lines which I sketched off on your hint are still, or rather were, in an unfinished state, for I have just committed them to a flame more decisive than that of Drury. Under all the circumstances, I should

* For the first day or two, at Middleton, he did not join his noble host’s party till after dinner, but took his scanty repast of biscuits and soda water in his own room. Being told by somebody that the gentleman above-mentioned had pronounced such habits to be “effeminate,”

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hardly wish a contest with Philo-drama—Philo-Drury—Asbestos, H * *, and all the anonymes and synonymes of the Committee candidates. Seriously, I think you have a chance of something much better; for prologuizing is not my forte, and, at all events, either my pride or my modesty won’t let me incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried in next month’s Magazine, under ‘Essays on the Murder of Mr. Perceval,’ and ‘Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog,’ as poor Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior performances.

“I cannot answer your intelligence with the ‘like comfort,’ unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you may wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I fear, utterly inadequate to the London engagement into which the managers of Covent-garden have lately entered. His figure is fat, his features flat, his voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful, and, as Diggory says, ‘I defy him to extort that d—d muffin face of his into madness.’ I was very sorry to see him in the character of the ‘Elephant on the slack rope;’ for, when I last saw him, I was in raptures with his performance. But then I was sixteen,—an age to which all London then condescended to subside. After all, much better judges have admired, and may again; but I venture to ‘prognosticate a prophecy’ (see the Courier) that he will not succeed.

“So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on ‘the brow of the mighty Helvellyn’—I hope not for ever. My best respects to Lady H.—her departure, with that of my other friends, was a sad event for me, now reduced to a state of the most cynical solitude. ‘By the waters of Cheltenham I sat down and drank, when I remembered thee, oh Georgiana Cottage! As for our harps, we hanged them up upon the willows that grew thereby. Then they said, Sing us a song of Drury-lane,’ &c.—but I am dumb and dreary as the Israelites. The waters

he resolved to show the “fox-hunter” that he could be, on occasion, as good a bon-vivant as himself, and, by his prowess at the claret next day, after dinner, drew forth from Mr. C * * the eulogium here recorded.

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have disordered me to my heart’s content,—you were right, as you always are.

The request of the Committee for his aid having been, still more urgently, repeated, he, at length, notwithstanding the difficulty and invidiousness of the task, from his strong wish to oblige Lord Holland, consented to undertake it; and the following series of quick succeeding notes and letters, which he addressed, during the completion of the Address, to his noble friend, will, by the literary reader, at least, be thought well worth perusal,—as affording a proof (in conjunction with others, of still more interest, yet to be cited) of the pains he, at this time, took in improving and polishing his first conceptions, and the importance he wisely attached to a judicious choice of epithets as a means of enriching both the music and meaning of his verse. They also show, what, as an illustration of his character, is even still more valuable,—the exceeding pliancy and good humour with which he could yield to friendly suggestions and criticisms; nor can it be questioned, I think, but that the docility thus invariably exhibited by him, on points where most poets are found to be tenacious and irritable, was a quality natural to his disposition, and which might have been turned to account in far more important matters, had he been fortunate enough to meet with persons capable of understanding and guiding him.

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“Ecco!—I have marked some passages with double readings—choose between them—cut—add—reject—or destroy—do with them as you will—I leave it to you and the Committee—you cannot say so called ‘a non committendo.’ What will they do (and I do) with the hundred and one rejected Troubadours? ‘With trumpets, yea, and with shawms,’ will you be assailed in the most diabolical doggerel. I wish my name not to transpire till the day is decided. I shall not be in town, so it won’t much matter; but let us have a good deliverer. I think Elliston should be the man, or Pope; not Raymond, I implore you, by the love of Rhythmus!

“My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you be good enough to decide between the various readings marked, and erase the other; or our deliverer may be as puzzled as a commentator, and belike repeat both. If these versicles won’t do, I will hammer out some more endecasyllables.

“P.S. Tell Lady H. I have had sad work to keep out the Phœnix—I mean the Fire-Office of that name. It has insured the theatre, and why not the Address?”

“I send a recast of the four first lines of the concluding paragraph.

“This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obey’d, The drama’s homage by her Herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises, &c. &c.

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And do forgive all this trouble. See what it is to have to do even with the genteelest of us. Ever, &c

“Still ‘more matter for a May morning.’ Having patched the middle and end of the Address, I send one more couplet for a part of the beginning, which, if not too turgid, you will have the goodness to add. After that flagrant image of the Thames (I hope no unlucky wag will say I have set it on fire, though Dryden, in his ‘Annus Mirabilis,’ and Churchill, in his ‘Times,’ did it before me), I mean to insert this:

As flashing far the new Volcano shone And swept the skies with { meteors | lightnings } not their own, While thousands throng’d around the burning dome, &c. &c.

I think ‘thousands’ less flat than ‘crowds collected’—but don’t let me plunge into the bathos, or rise into Nat. Lee’s Bedlam metaphors. By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw from a housetop in Covent-garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the reflection on the Thames.

“The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better thus—(‘choose,’ or ‘refuse’—but please yourself, and don’t mind ‘Sir Fretful’)—

“As flash’d the volumed blaze, and { sadly | ghastly } shone The skies with lightnings awful as their own.

The last runs smoothest and, I think, best; but you know better than best. ‘Lurid’ is also a less indistinct epithet than ‘livid wave,’ and, if you think so, a dash of the pen will do.

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“You will think there is no end to my villanous emendations. The fifth and sixth lines I think to alter thus:

“Ye who beheld—oh sight admired and mourn’d, Whose radiance mock’d the ruin it adorn’d;

because ‘night’ is repeated the next line but one; and, as it now stands, the conclusion of the paragraph, ‘worthy him (Shakspeare) and you,’ appears to apply the ‘you’ to those only who were out of bed and in Covent-garden market on the night of conflagration, instead of the audience or the discerning public at large, all of whom are intended to be comprised in that comprehensive and, I hope, comprehensible pronoun.

“By the by, one of my corrections in the fair copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom—

“When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first; therefore I will let the old couplet stand, with its half rhymes ‘sought’ and ‘wrote*.’ Second thoughts in every thing are best, but, in rhyme, third and fourth don’t come amiss. I am very anxious on this business, and I do hope that the very trouble I occasion you will plead its own

* “Such are the names that here your plaudits sought, When Garrick acted, and when Brinsley wrote.” At present, the couplet stands thus:— “Dear are the days that made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.”

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excuse, and that it will tend to show my endeavour to make the most of the time allotted. I wish I had known it months ago, for in that case I had not left one line standing on another. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as I can, but never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began ‘Childe Harold,’ I had never tried Spenser’s measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other.

“There are but two decent prologues in our tongue—Pope’s to Cato—Johnson’s to Drury-lane. These, with the epilogue to the ‘Distrest Mother,’ and, I think, one of Goldsmith’s, and a prologue of old Colman’s to Beaumont and Fletcher’s Philaster, are the best things of the kind we have.

“I have just received your very kind letter, and hope you have met with a second copy corrected and addressed to Holland house, with some omissions and this new couplet,

“As glared each rising flash*, and ghastly shone The skies with lightnings awful as their own.

* At present, “As glared the volumed blaze.”

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As to remarks, I can only say I will alter and acquiesce in any thing. With regard to the part which

“I believe this is the third scrawl since yesterday—all about epithets. I think the epithet ‘intellectual’ won’t convey the meaning I intend; and, though I hate compounds, for the present I will try (col’ permesso) the word ‘genius-gifted patriarchs of our line*’ instead. Johnson has ‘many-coloured life,’ a compound—but they are always best avoided. However, it is the only one in ninety lines, but will be happy to give way to a better. I am ashamed to intrude any more remembrances on Lady H., or letters upon you; but you are, fortunately for me, gifted with patience already too often tried by

* This, as finally altered, is “Immortal names, embazon’d on our line”

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Will this do better? the metaphor is more complete.

“Till slowly ebb’d the { lava of the | spent volcanic } wave, And blackening ashes mark’d the Muse’s grave.

If not, we will say ‘burning’ wave, and instead of ‘burning clime,’ in the line some couplets back, have ‘glowing.’

“Is Whitbread determined to castrate all my cavalry lines*? I don’t see why t’other house should be spared; besides, it is the public, who ought to know better; and you recollect Johnson’s was against similar buffooneries of Rich’s—but, certes, I am not Johnson.

“Instead of ‘effects,’ say ‘labours’—‘degenerate’ will do, will it? Mr. Betty is no longer a babe, therefore the line cannot be personal.

* The lines he here alludes to, and which, in spite of all his efforts to retain them, were omitted by the Committee, ran thus: “Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores That late she deign’d to crawl upon all-fours. When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse, If you command, the steed must come in course. If you decree, the Stage must condescend To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, And gratify you more by showing less. Oh, since your Fiat stamps the Drama’s laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; That public praise be ne’er again disgraced, From { brutes to man recall | babes and brutes redeem } a nation’s taste; Then pride shall doubly nerve the actors’ powers, When Reason’s voice is echoed back by ours.” The last couplet but one was again altered in a subsequent copy thus:— “The past reproach let present scenes refute, Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute.”

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“Will this do?

“Till ebb’d the lava of { the burning | that molten } wave

with ‘glowing dome,’ in case you prefer ‘burning’ added to this ‘wave’ metaphorical. The word ‘fiery pillar’ was suggested by the ‘pillar of fire’ in the book of Exodus, which went before the Israelites through the Red Sea. I once thought of saying ‘like Israel’s pillar,’ and making it a simile, but I did not know,—the great temptation was leaving the epithet ‘fiery’ for the supplementary wave. I want to work up that passage, as it is the only new ground us prologuizers can go upon—

“This is the place where, if a poet Shined in description, he might show it.”

If I part with the possibility of a future conflagration, we lessen the compliment to Shakspeare. However, we will e’en mend it thus:

“Yes, it shall be—the magic of that name, That scorns the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame, On the same spot, &c. &c.

There—the deuce is in it, if that is not an improvement to Whitbread’s content. Recollect, it is the ‘name,’ and not the ‘magic,’ that has a noble contempt for those same weapons. If it were the ‘magic,’ my metaphor would be somewhat of the maddest—so the ‘name’ is the antecedent. But, my dear lord, your patience is not quite so immortal—therefore, with many and sincere thanks, I am

* The form of this couplet, as printed, is as follows:— “Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall.”

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“I have altered the middle couplet, so as I hope partly to do away with W.’s objection. I do think, in the present state of the stage, it had been unpardonable to pass over the horses and Miss Mudie, &c. As Betty is no longer a boy, how can this be applied to him? He is now to be judged as a man. If he acts still like a boy, the public will but be more ashamed of their blunder. I have, you see, now taken it for granted that these things are reformed. I confess, I wish that part of the Address to stand; but if W. is inexorable, e’en let it go. I have also new cast the lines and softened the hint of future combustion*, and sent them off this morning. Will you have the goodness to add, or insert, the approved alterations as they arrive? They ‘come like shadows, so depart;’ occupy me, and, I fear, disturb you.

“Do not let Mr. W. put his Address into Elliston’s hands till you have settled on these alterations. E. will think it too long:—much depends on the speaking. I fear it will not bear much curtailing, without chasms in the sense.

“P.S. On looking again, I doubt my idea of having obviated W.’s objection. To the other House, allusion is a ‘non sequitur’—but I wish to plead for this part, because the thing really is not to be passed over. Many after-pieces at the Lyceum by the same company have already attacked this ‘Augean Stable’—and Johnson, in his prologue against ‘Lunn’ (the harlequin manager, Rich),—‘Hunt,’—‘Mahomet,’ &c. is surely a fair precedent.”

* It had been, originally, “Though other piles may sink in future flame, On the same spot,” &c. &c.

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“Shakspeare certainly ceased to reign in one of his kingdoms, as George III. did in America and George IV. may in Ireland*. Now, we have nothing to do out of our own realms, and when the monarchy was gone, his majesty had but a barren sceptre. I have cut away, you will see, and altered, but make it what you please; only I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds—‘a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.’ I have altered ‘wave,’ &c. and the ‘fire,’ and so forth, for the timid.

“I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury by twelve on Saturday; and from thence I go on to Lord Jersey’s. It is impossible not to allude to the degraded state of the Stage, but I have lightened it, and endeavoured to obviate your other objections. There is a new couplet for Sheridan, allusive to his Monody. All the alterations I have marked thus |,— as you will see by comparison with the other copy. I have cudgelled my brains with the greatest willingness, and only wish I had more time to have done better.

“You will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory couplet inserted for the quiet of the Committee, and I have added, towards the end, the couplet you were pleased to like. The whole Address is seventy-three lines, still

* Some objection, it appears from this, had been made to the passage, “and Shakspeare ceased to reign.”

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perhaps too long; and, if shortened, you will save time, but, I fear, a little of what I meant for sense also.

“My sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H.—How she must laugh at all this!

“I wish Murray, my publisher, to print off some copies as soon as your lordship returns to town—it will ensure correctness in the papers afterwards.”

“Far be from him that hour which asks in vain Tears such as flow for Garrick in his strain; or, Far be that hour that vainly asks in turn Such verse for him as { crown’d his | wept o’er } Garrick’s urn.

“Sept. 30, 1812.

“Will you choose between these added to the lines on Sheridan*? I think they will wind up the panegyric, and agree with the train of thought preceding them.

“Now, one word as to the Committee—how could they resolve on a rough copy of an Address never sent in, unless you had been good enough to retain in memory, or on paper, the thing they have been good enough to adopt? By the by, the circumstances of the ease should make the Committee less ‘avidus gloriæ,’ for all praise of them would look plaguy suspicious. If necessary to be stated at all, the simple facts bear them out. They surely had a right to act as they pleased. My sole object is one which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown; viz. that I did nothing insidious—sent in no Address whatever—but, when applied to, did my best for them and myself; but above all, that there was no undue partiality, which will be what the rejected will endeavour to make out.

* These added lines, as may be seen by reference to the printed Address, were not retained.

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Fortunately—most fortunately—I sent in no lines on the occasion. For I am sure that had they, in that case, been preferred, it would have been asserted that I was known, and owed the preference to private friendship. This is what we shall probably have to encounter, but, if once spoken and approved, we sha’n’t be much embarrassed by their brilliant conjectures, and, as to criticism, an old author, like an old bull, grows cooler (or ought) at every baiting.

“The only thing would be to avoid a party on the night of delivery—afterwards, the more the better, and the whole transaction inevitably tends to a good deal of discussion. Murray tells me there are myriads of ironical Addresses ready—some, in imitation of what is called my style. If they are as good as the Probationary Odes, or Hawkins’s Pipe of Tobacco, it will not be bad fun for the imitated. “Ever, &c.”

“At Tetbury by noon.—I hope, after it is sent, there will be no more elisions. It is not now so long—78 lines—two less than allotted. I will alter all Committee objections, but I hope you won’t permit Elliston to have any voice whatever,—except in speaking it.”

The time comprised in this series of letters to Lord Holland,—which, as being exclusively on one subject, I have thought it right to give without interruption,—Lord Byron passed, for the most part, at Cheltenham; and during the same period the following letters to other correspondents were written.

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“Pray have the goodness to send those despatches, and a No. of the Edinburgh Review with the rest. I hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, thanked him in my name for his present, and told him that I shall be truly happy to comply with his request.—How do you go on? and when is the graven image, ‘with bays and wicked rhyme upon’t,’ to grace, or disgrace, some of our tardy editions?

“Send me ‘Rokeby.’ Who the devil is he?—no matter, he has good connexions, and will be well introduced. I thank you for your inquiries: I am so, so, but my thermometer is sadly below the poetical point. What will you give me or mine for a poem of six Cantos (when complete—no rhyme, no recompense), as like the last two as I can make them? I have some ideas that one day may be imbodied, and till winter I shall have much leisure.

“P.S. My last question is in the true style of Grub-street; but, like Jeremy Diddler, I only ‘ask for information.’—Send me Adair on Diet and Regimen, just republished by Ridgway.”

“The parcels contained some letters and verses, all (but one) anonymous and complimentary, and very anxious for my conversion from certain infidelities into which my good-natured correspondents conceive me to have fallen. The books were presents of a convertible kind. Also, ‘Christian Knowledge’ and the ‘Bioscope,’ a religious Dial of Life explained;—and to the author of the former (Cadell, publisher), I beg you will forward my best thanks for his letter, his present, and, above all, his good intentions. The ‘Bioscope’ contained a MS. copy of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, but evidently the composition of some one in the habit of writing, and of writing well. I do not know

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if he be the author of the ‘Bioscope’ which accompanied them; but whoever he is, if you can discover him, thank him from me most heartily. The other letters were from ladies, who are welcome to convert me when they please; and if I can discover them, and they be young, as they say they are, I could convince them perhaps of my devotion. I had also a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this world,—which I have answered.

“So you are Lucien’s publisher? I am promised an interview with him, and think I shall ask you for a letter of introduction, as ‘the gods have made him poetical.’ From whom could it come with a better grace than from his publisher and mine? Is it not somewhat treasonable in you to have to do with a relative of the ‘direful foe,’ as the Morning Post calls his brother?

“But my book on ‘Diet and Regimen,’ where is it? I thirst for Scott’s Rokeby; let me have your first-begotten copy. The Anti-jacobin Review is all very well, and not a bit worse than the Quarterly, and at least less harmless. By the by, have you secured my books? I want all the Reviews, at least the critiques, quarterly, monthly, &c. Portuguese and English, extracted, and bound up in one volume for my old age; and pray, sort my Romaic books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. Hobhouse—he has had them now a long time. If any thing occurs, you will favour me with a line, and in winter we shall be nearer neighbours.

“P.S. I was applied to, to write the Address for Drury-lane, but the moment I heard of the contest, I gave up the idea of contending against all Grub-street, and threw a few thoughts on the subject into the fire. I did this out of respect to you, being sure you would have turned off any of your authors who had entered the lists with such scurvy competitors. To triumph would have been no glory; and to have been defeated—’sdeath!—I would have choked myself, like Otway, with a quartern loaf; so, remember I had, and have, nothing to do with it, upon my honour!”

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“You heard that Newstead* is sold—the sum £140,000; sixty to remain in mortgage on the estate for three years, paying interest, of course. Rochdale is also likely to do well—so my worldly matters are mending. I have been here some time drinking the waters, simply because there are waters to drink, and they are very medicinal, and sufficiently disgusting. In a few days I set out for Lord Jersey’s, but return here, where I am quite alone, go out very little, and enjoy in its fullest extent the ’dolce far niente.’ What you are about, I cannot guess, even from your date;—not dauncing to the sound of the gitourney in the Halls of the Lowthers? one of whom is here, ill, poor thing, with a

* “Early in the autumn of 1812,” says Mr. Dallas, “he told me that he was urged by his man of business, and that Newstead must be sold.” It was accordingly brought to the hammer at Garraway’s, but not, at that time, sold, only £90,000 being offered for it. The private sale to which he alludes in this letter took place soon after,—Mr. Claughton, the agent for Mr. Leigh, being the purchaser. It was never, however, for reasons which we shall see, completed.

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phthisic. I heard that you passed through here (at the sordid inn where I first alighted), the very day before I arrived in these parts. We had a very pleasant set here; at first the Jerseys, Melbournes, Cowpers, and Hollands, but all gone; and the only persons I know are the Rawdons and Oxfords, with some later acquaintances of less brilliant descent.

“I have to ask you a thousand pardons for not fulfilling some orders before I left town; but if you knew all the cursed entanglements I had to wade through, it would be unnecessary to beg your forgiveness.—When will Parliament (the new one) meet?—in sixty days, on account of Ireland, I presume; the Irish election will demand a longer period for completion than the constitutional allotment. Yours, of course, is safe, and all your side of the question. Salamanca is the ministerial watchword, and all will go well with you. I hope you will speak more frequently, I am sure at least you ought, and it will be expected. I see Portman means to stand again. Good night.

“I sent in no Address whatever to the Committee; but out of nearly one hundred (this is confidential), none have been deemed worth acceptance; and in consequence of their subsequent application to me, I

* A mode of signature he frequently adopted at this time.

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have written a prologue, which has been received, and will be spoken. The MS. is now in the hands of Lord Holland.

“I write this merely to say, that (however it is received by the audience) you will publish it in the next edition of Childe Harold; and I only beg you at present to keep my name secret till you hear further from me, and as soon as possible I wish you to have a correct copy, to do with as you think proper.

“I have received no account of the reception of the Address, but see it is vituperated in the papers, which does not much embarrass an old author. I leave it to your own judgment to add it, or not, to your next edition when required. Pray comply strictly with my wishes as to the engraving, and believe me, &c.

“P.S. Favour me with an answer, as I shall not be easy till I hear that the proofs, &c. are destroyed. I hear that the Satirist has reviewed Childe Harold, in what manner I need not ask; but I wish to know if the old personalities are revived? I have a better reason for

* A miniature by Sanders. Besides this miniature, Sanders hod also painted a full length of his lordship, from which the portrait prefixed to this work is engraved. In reference to the latter picture, Lord Byron says, in a note to Mr. Rogers, “If you think the picture you saw at Murray’s worth your acceptance, it is yours; and you may put a glove or masque on it, if you like.”

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asking this than any that merely concerns myself; but in publications of that kind, others, particularly female names, are sometimes introduced.”

“I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry’s, are somewhat ruffled at the injudicious preference of the Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, ‘et tu Brute’-d me rather scurvily, for which I will send him, for the M. C., the next epigram I scribble, as a token of my full forgiveness.

“I wish to know how it went off at the second reading, and whether any one has had the grace to give it a glance of approbation. I have seen no paper but Perry’s, and two Sunday ones. Perry is severe, and the others silent. If, however, you and your Committee are not now dissatisfied with your own judgments, I shall not much embarrass myself about the brilliant remarks of the journals. My own opinion upon it is what it always was, perhaps pretty near that of the public.

“P.S. My best respects to Lady H., whose smiles will be very consolatory, even at this distance.”

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Will you have the goodness to get this Parody of a peculiar kind* (for all the first lines are Busby’s entire) inserted in several of the papers (correctly—and copied correctly; my hand is difficult)—particularly the Morning Chronicle? Tell Mr. Perry I forgive him all he has said, and may say against my address, but he will allow me to deal with the doctor—(audi alteram partem)—and not betray me. I cannot think what has befallen Mr. Perry, for of yore we were very good friends, but no matter, only get this inserted.

“I have a poem on Waltzing for you, of which I make you a present; but it must be anonymous. It is in the old style of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.

“P.S. With the next edition of Childe Harold you may print the first fifty or a hundred opening lines of the ‘Curse of Minerva’ down to the couplet beginning

“Mortal (’twas thus she spoke, &c.

Of course, the moment the Satire begins, there you will stop, and the opening is the best part.”

* Among the Addresses sent in to the Drury-lane Committee was one by Dr. Busby, entitled a Monologue, of which the Parody was enclosed in this letter. A short specimen of this trifle will be sufficient. The four first lines of the Doctor’s Address are as follows:— “When energizing objects men pursue, What are the prodigies they cannot do? A magic Edifice you here survey, Shot from the ruins of the other day!” Which verses are thus ridiculed, unnecessarily, in the Parody:— “‘When energizing objects men pursue, The Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. ‘A modest Monologue you here survey,’ Hiss’d from the theatre the ‘other day.’”

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“Many thanks, but I must pay the damage, and will thank you to tell me the amount for the engraving. I think the ‘Rejected Addresses’ by far the best thing of the kind since the Rolliad, and wish you had published them. Tell the author ‘I forgive him, were he twenty times over a satirist;’ and think his imitations not at all inferior to the famous ones of Hawkins Browne. He must be a man of very lively wit, and less scurrilous than wits often are: altogether, I very much admire the performance, and wish it all success. The Satirist has taken a new tone, as you will see: we have now, I think, finished with Childe Harold’s critics. I have in hand a Satire on Waltzing, which you must publish anonymously; it is not long, not quite two hundred lines, but will make a very small boarded pamphlet. In a few days you shall have it.

“P.S. The editor of the Satirist ought to be thanked for his revocation; it is done handsomely, after five years’ warfare.”

“Thanks, as usual. You go on boldly; but have a care of glutting the public, who have by this time had enough of Childe Harold. ‘Waltzing’ shall be prepared. It is rather above two hundred lines, with an introductory Letter to the Publisher. I think of publishing, with Childe Harold, the opening lines of the ‘Curse of Minerva,’ as far as the first speech of Pallas,—because some of the readers like that part better than any I have ever written, and as it contains nothing to affect the subject of the subsequent portion, it will find a place as a Descriptive Fragment.

“The plate is broken? between ourselves, it was unlike the picture;

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and besides, upon the whole, the frontispiece of an author’s visage is but a paltry exhibition. At all events, this would have been no recommendation to the book. I am sure Sanders would not have survived the engraving. By the by, the picture may remain with you or him (which you please), till my return. The one of two remaining copies is at your service till I can give you a better; the other must be burned peremptorily. Again, do not forget that I have an account with you, and that this is included. I give you too much trouble to allow you to incur expense also.

“You best know how far this ‘Address riot’ will affect the future sale of Childe Harold. I like the volume of ‘Rejected Addresses’ better and better. The other parody which Perry has received is mine also (I believe). It is Dr. Busby’s speech versified. You are removing to Albemarle-street, I find, and I rejoice that we shall be nearer neighbours. I am going to Lord Oxford’s, but letters here will be forwarded. When at leisure, all communications from you will be willingly received by the humblest of your scribes. Did Mr. Ward write the review of Horne Tooke’s Life in the Quarterly? it is excellent.”

“On my return here from Lord Oxford’s, I found your obliging note, and will thank you to retain the letters, and any other subsequent ones to the same address, till I arrive in town to claim them, which will probably be in a few days. I have in charge a curious and very long MS. poem, written by Lord Brooke (the friend of Sir Philip Sidney), which I wish to submit to the inspection of Mr. Gifford, with the following queries;—first, whether it has ever been published, and, secondly (if not), whether it is worth publication? It is from Lord Oxford’s library, and must have escaped or been overlooked amongst the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. The writing is Lord Brooke’s, except a different hand towards the close. It is very long, and in the six-line stanza. It is not for me to hazard an opinion upon its merits; but I would take the liberty, if not too troublesome, to submit it to Mr.

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Gifford’s judgment, which, from his excellent edition of Massinger, I should conceive to be as decisive on the writings of that age as on those of our own.

“Now for a less agreeable and important topic.—How came Mr. Mac-Somebody, without consulting you or me, to prefix the Address to his volume* of ‘Dejected Addresses?’ Is not this somewhat larcenous? I think the ceremony of leave might have been asked, though I have no objection to the thing itself; and leave the ‘hundred and eleven’ to tire themselves with ‘base comparisons.’ I should think the ingenuous public tolerably sick of the subject, and, except the Parodies, I have not interfered, nor shall; indeed I did not know that Dr. Busby had published his Apologetical Letter and Postscript, or I should have recalled them. But I confess I looked upon his conduct in a different light before its appearance. I see some mountebank has taken Alderman Birch’s name to vituperate Dr. Busby; he had much better have pilfered his pastry, which I should imagine the more valuable ingredient—at least for a puff.—Pray secure me a copy of Woodfall’s new Junius, and believe me, &c.”

“The multitude of your recommendations has already superseded my humble endeavours to be of use to you, and, indeed, most of my principal friends are returned. Leake from Joannina, Canning and Adair from the city of the Faithful, and at Smyrna no letter is necessary, as the consuls are always willing to do every thing for personages of respectability. I have sent you three, one to Gibraltar, which, though of no great necessity, will, perhaps, put you on a more intimate footing with a very pleasant family there. You will very soon find out that a man of

* “The Genuine Rejected Addresses, presented to the Committee of Management for Drury-lane Theatre; preceded by that written by Lord Byron and adopted by the Committee:”—published by B. M’Millan.

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any consequence has very little occasion for any letters but to ministers and bankers, and of them you have already plenty, I will be sworn.

“It is by no means improbable that I shall go in the spring, and if you will fix any place of rendezvous about August, I will write or join you.—When in Albania, I wish you would inquire after Dervise Tahiri and Vascillie (or Basil), and make my respects to the viziers, both there and in the Morea. If you mention my name to Suleyman of Thebes, I think it will not hurt you; if I had my dragoman, or wrote Turkish, I could have given you letters of real service; but to the English they are hardly requisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of little advantage. Liston you know already, and I do not, as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephesus and the Troad, and let me hear from you when you please. I believe G. Forresti is now at Yanina, but if not, whoever is there will be too happy to assist you. Be particular about firmauns; never allow yourself to be bullied, for you are better protected in Turkey than any where; trust not the Greeks; and take some knick-nackeries for presents—watches, pistols, &c. &c. to the Beys and Pachas. If you find one Demetrius, at Athens or elsewhere, I can recommend him as a good dragoman. I hope to join you, however; but you will find swarms of English now in the Levant.