nificent-the illustrious publisher of that name-had just sent me a Java Gazette,' I know not why, or wherefore. Pulling it out, by way of curiosity, we found it to contain a dispute—the said Java Gazette' -on Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of disputing on the subject. But there is fame for you at six-and-twenty! Alexander had conquered India at the same age; but I doubt if he was disputed about, or his conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus, at Java. It was great fame to be named with Moore; greater to be compared with him; greatest pleasure, at least to be with him; and, surely an odd coincidence, that we should be dining together while they were quarrelling about us beyond the equinoctial line. Well, the same evening I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of Earl Grey's daughters a fine, tall, spirit-looking girl, with much of the patrician thorough-bred look of her father, which I dote upon play on the harp, so modestly and ingeniously, that she looked music. Well, I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence who talked delightfully, and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore and me put together. "Read S Of Dante, he says, that at no time has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever been much the favourite of his countrymen.' 'Tis false! There have been more editors and commentators (and imitators, ultimately) of Dante than of all their poets put together. Not a favourite! Why, they talk Dante-write Dante-and think and dream Dante at this moment (1821) to an excess, which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it. "In the same style this German talks of Condolas on the Arno-a precious fellow to dare to speak of Italy! : He says also that Dante's chief defect is a want, in a word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings!and Francesca of Rimini-and the father's feelings in Ugolino-and Beatrice-and La Pia!' Why, there is a gentleness in Dante beyond all gentleness when he is tender. It is true that treating of the Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not mnch scope or site for gentleness—but who but Dante could have introduced any gentleness' at all into Hell? Is there any in Milton's? No and Dante's Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. one o'clock. "I have found out, however, where the German is right-it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. Of all romances in miniature (and, perhaps, this is the best shape in which romance can appear), the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, the most exquisite.' He thinks!-he might be sure. But it is very well for a S- I feel sleepy, and may as well get me to bed. To-morrow there will be fine weather. "Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay." "What I feel most growing upon me are laziness, and a disrelish more powerful than indifference. If I rouse, it is into fury. I presume that I shall end (if not earlier by accident, or some such termination) like Swift- dying at top.' I confess I do not contemplate this with so much horror as he apparently did for some years before it happened. But Swift had hardly begun life at the very period (thirty-three) when I feel quite an old sort of feel. "Oh! there is an organ playing in the street-a waltz too! I must leave off to listen. They are playing a waltz, which I have heard ten thousand times at the balls in London, between 1812 and 1815. Music is a strange thing." "I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in England (I never saw her), who says she is given over of a decline, but could not go out of the world without thanking me for the delight which my poesy for several years, &c. &c. &c. It is signed simply N. N. A. and has not a word of cant' of preachment in it upon any opinions. She merely says that she is dying, and that as I had contributed so highly to her existing pleasure, she thought that she might say so, begging me to burn her letter-which, by the way, I can not do, as I look upon such a letter, in such circumstances, as better than a diploma from Gottingen. I once had a letter from Drontheim, in Norway (but not from a dying woman), in verse, on the same score of congratulation. These are the things which make one at times believe oneself a poct. But if I must believe that and such fellows, are poets also, it is better to be out of the corps." It is stated that Lord Byron never was made aware of the cause of his wife's separation from him. As an evidence of his feelings on that subject, Mr. Moore publishes the following letter, which his Lordship addressed to Lady Byron, in 1821, and observes upon it, that there are few of his readers who will not agree with him in thinking "that if its author had not right on his side, he had, at least, most ot those good feelings which are found generally to accompany it." Pisa, November 17th, 1821. "I have to acknowledge the receipt of "Ada's hair," which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl-perhaps from its being let grow. ; "I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I will tell you why I believe that they are the only two or three words of your handwriting in my possession. For your letters are returned, and except the two words, or rather the one word "Household" written twice in an old account-book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for two reasons... firstly, it was written in a style not very agreeable; and secondly, I wished to take your word without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people. "I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's birthdaythe 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting her perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or nearness every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften our mutnal feelings, which must always have one rallying point, as long as our child exists, which I pre sume we both hope will be long after either of her parents. "The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longer one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake; but now it is over, and irrevo cably so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and a few years less on yours, though it is no very extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and thought are generally so formed as to admit of no modification; and as we could not agree when younger, we should with difficulty do so now. I say all this, because I own to you, that, notwithstanding every thing, I considered our re-union as not impossible for more than a year after the separation, but then I gave up the hope entirely and for ever. But this very impossibility of re-union seems to me, at least, a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much of its kinduess as people who are never to meet may preserve perhaps more easily than nearer connections. For my own part, I am violent, but not malignaut; for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments. To you, who'are colder and more concentrated, I would just hint, that you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear you now (whatever I may have done) no resentment whatever. Remem-ber, that if you have injured me in aught, this forgiveness is something: and that, if I have injured you, it is something more still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving. "Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect upon any but two things-viz. that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet again. I think if you also consider the two corresponding points with reference to myself, it will be better for all three." NOEL BYRON. Your's ever, TO MR. MURRAY. "Pisa, December, 10th, 1821. "This day and this hour (one of the clock), my daughter is six years old. I wonder when I shall see her again, if ever I shall see her at all. "I have remarked a curious coincidence. which almost looks like a fatality. My mother, my wife, my daughter, my half-sister, my sister's mother, my natural daughter (as far at least as I am concerned); and myself, are only children. My father, by his marriage with Lady Conyers (an only child), had only my sister; and by second marriage with an only child, an only child again. Lord Byron, as you know, was one also, and so is my daughter, &c. "Is this not rather odd such a complication of only children? By the way, send me my daughter Ada's miniature. I have only the print, which gives little or no idea of her complexion. "Yours, &c. B." "Pisa, April 22, 1822. "You will regret to hear that I have received intelligence of the death of my daughter Allegia of a fever, in the convent of Bagno Cavallo, where she was placed for the last year, to commence her education. It is a heavy blow for many reasons, but must be borne, with time." "The body is embarked, in what ship I know not, neither could I enter into the details; but the Countess G. G. has had the goodness to give the necessary orders to Mr. Dunn, who supermtends the embarkation, and will write to you. I wish it to be buried in Harrow church. "There is a spot in the churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the church. Near the door, on the left hand as you enter, there is a monument with a tablet containing these words: 'When Sorrow weeps o'er Virtue's sacred dust, I recollect them (after seventeen years), not from any thing remarkable in them, but because from my seat in the gallery I had generally my eyes turned towards that monument. As near it as convenient I could wish Allegra to be buried, and on the wall a marble placed, with these words: In Memory of 'I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me.' 2d Samuel, xii, 28. "The funeral I wish to be as private as is consistent with decency; and I could hope that Henry Drury will, perhaps, read the service over her. If he should decline it, it can be done by the usual minister for the time being. I do not know that I need add more just now. In the following letter to Mr. Murray, Lord Byron alludes to a proposed bargain with Galignani, the Parisian publisher. "Recollect that I will have nothing to do with it, except so far as it may secure the copyright to yourself. I will have no bargain but with the English booksellers; and I desire no interest out of that country. Now that's fair and open, and a little handsomer than your dodging silence, to see what would come of it. You are an excellent fellow, mio caro Moray, but there is still a little leaven of Fleet Street about you now and then-a crumb of the old loaf. You have no right to act suspiciously with me, for I have given you no reason. I shall always be frank with you; as, for instance, whenever you talk with the votaries of Apollo arithmetically, it should be in guineas, not pounds-to poets as well as physicians, and bidders at auctions. "With regard to the price I fixed none, but left it to Mr. Kinnaird, Mr. Shelly, and yourself to arrange. Of course they would do their best; and as to yourself, I know you would make no difficulties. But VOL. VI. 2 N I agree with Mr. Kinnaird perfectly, that the concluding five hundred should be only conditional; and for my own sake, I wish it to be added, only in case of your selling a certain number, that number to be fixed by yourself. I hope this is fair. In every thing of this kind there must be risk; and till that be past, in one way or the other, I would not willingly add to it, particularly in times like the present. And pray always recollect that nothing could mortify me more-no failure on my own part-than having made you lose by any purchase from me. to undertake what you call a great work? "So you and Mr. Foscolo, &c. want me pyramid. I'll try no such thing-I hate -an epic poem, I suppose, or some such tasks. And then God send us all well this day three months, seven or eight years!'. better employed than in sweating poesy, let alone years. If one's years cannot be a man had better be a ditcher. And' works, too!-is Childe Harold nothing? You have so many divine poems, is it nothing to have written a human one? without any of your worn-out machinery.. Why, man, I could have spun the thoughts of the four cantos of that poem into twenty, had I wanted to book-make; and its pasion into as many modern tragedies. › Since you want length, you shall have enough of Juan-for I'll make fifty cantos. I say "Now to business; unto you, verily it is not so; or, as the foreigner said to the waiter, after asking him to bring a glass of water, to which the man answered, 'I will, sir,'—' You will!—G—d d d—n,—I say, you mush!' And I will submit this to the decision of any person or persons, to be appointed by both, on a fair examination of the circumstances of this as compared with the preceding publications. So, there's for you. There is always some row or other pre viously to all our publications: it should seem that, on approximating, we can never quite get over the natural antipathy of author and bookseller, and that more particularly the ferine nature of the latter must break forth. "I once wrote from the fulness of my mind and the love of fame (not as an end, but as a means, to obtain that influence over men's minds which is power in itself and in its consequences); and now from habit and from avarice; so that the effect may probably be as different as the inspiration. I have the same facility, and indeed necessity, of composition, to avoid idleness (though idleness in a hot country is a pleasure), but a much greater indifference to what is to become of it, after it has served my immediate purpose. How ever, I should on no account like to — but I won't go on, like the Archbishop of Granada, as I am very sure that you dread the fate of Gil Blas, and with good reason. Yours, &c." Lord Byron had a sensitive dread of ridicule. "In writing thus to him,” says Mr. Moore," I had more particularly in recollection a fancy of this kind respecting myself, which he had not long before my present visit to him at Venice, taken into his head. In a ludicrons, and now perhaps forgotten, publication of mine, giving an account of the adventures of an English: family in Paris, there had occurred the following description of the chief hero of the tale : A fine, sallow, sublime sort of Werter-faced man, With mustachios which gave (what we read of so oft) The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft On seeing this doggerel, my noble friend, —as I might, indeed, with a little more thought, have anticipated,-conceived the notion that I meant to throw rididule on his whole race of poetic heroes; and accordingly, as Llearned from persons then in frequent intercourse with him, flew out inta one of his fits of half-humorous rage against me. This he now confessed himself, and, in laughing over the circumstance with me, owned that he had even gone so far as, in his first moments of wrath, to contemplate some little retaliation for this perfidious hit at his heroes. But when I recollected,' said he, what pleasure it would give the whole tribe of blockheads. and Blues to see you and me turning out against each other, I gave up the idea.' He was, indeed, a striking instance of what may be almost invariably observed, that they who best know how to wield the weapon of ridicule themselves, are the most alive to its power in the hands of others, I remember, one day, in the year 1813, I think, as we were conversing together about critics, and their influence on the public, For my part,' he exclaimed, I don't care what they say of me, so they don't quiz me.' 'Oh, you need not fear that, I answered, with something, perhaps, of a half-suppressed smile on my features, nobody could quiz you.' You could, you villain!' he replied, clenching his hand at me, and looking, at the same time, with comie earnestness into my face. 6 "On the day preceding that of my departure from Venice, my noble host, on arriving from La Mira to dinner, told me, with all the glee of a schoolboy who had 6 been just granted a holiday, that, as this was my last evening, the contessa had given him leave to make a night of it;' and that accordingly he would not only accompany me to the opera, but that we should sup together at some cafe (as in the olden times) afterwards. Observing a volume in his gondola, with a number of paper marks between the leaves, I inquired of him what it was? Only a book,' he answered, from which I am trying to crib, as I do wherever I can; and, that's the way I get the character of an original poet.'. On taking it up and looking into it, I exclaimed, ・ Alı, my old friend, Agathon!' What he cried archly, you have been beforehand with me there, have you? Though in thus imputing to himself premeditated plagiarisms, he was, of course, but jesting; it was, I am inclined to think, his practice, when engaged in the composition of any work, to excite his vein by the perusal of others, on the same subject or plan, from which the slightest hint caught by his imagination, as he read, was sufficient to kindle there such a train of thonghit as, but for that spark, had never been awakened, and of which he himself soon forgot the source. In the present instance, the inspiration he sought was of no very elevating nature; the antispiritual doctrines of the sophist in this romance being what chiefly, I suspect, attracted his attention to its pages, as not unlikely to supply, him with fresh argument and sarcasm for those deprecating views of human nature and its destiny, which he was now, with all the wantonness of unbounded genius, enforeing in Don Juan.'” The following is an odd expression of Byron's taste: "I wish you good night, with a Venetian benediction, Benedeito te, e la terra che ti fara !— May you be blessed, and the earth which you will make—is it not pretty? You would think it still prettier, if you had heard it, as 1 did, two hours ago, from the lips of a Venetian girl, with large black eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a Juno; tall and energetic as a Pythoness, with eyes flashing, and her dark hair streaming in the moonlight-one of those women who may be made any thing. I am sure if I put a poniard into the hand of this one, she would plunge it where I told ber-and into me if I offended her. I like this kind of animal, and am sure that I should have preferred Medea to any woman that ever breathed." : The following is a spirited pen and ink portrait of Lord Byron. "The personal appearance of Lord Byron has been so frequently described, 1 both by pen and pencil, that were it not the bounden duty of the biographer to attempt some sketch, the task would seem superfluous. Of his face, the beauty may be pronounced to have been of the highest order, as combining at once regularity of features with the most varied and inte resting expression. The same facility, in deed, of change observable in the move ments of his mind was seen also in the free play of his features, as the passing thoughts within darkened or shone through them. His eyes, though of a light gray, were capable of all extremes of expres sion, from the most joyous hilarity to the deepest sadness, from the very sunshine of benevolence to the most concentrated scorn or rage. Of this latter passion, I had once an opportunity of seeing what fiery interpreters they could be, on my telling him, thoughtlessly, enongh, that a friend of mine had said to me Beware of Lord Byron; he will, some day or other, do something very wicked.' Was it man or woman said so? he exclaimed, sud denly turning round upon me with a look of such intense anger as, though it lasted not an instant, could not easily be forgot, and of which no better idea can be given than in the words of one who, speaking of Chatterton's eyes, says that fire rolled at the bottom of them. But it was in the mouth and chin that the great beauty as well as expression of his fine countenance lay. Many pictures have been painted of him (says a fair critic of his feaures) with various success; but the excessive beauty of his lips escaped every painter and sculptor. In their ceaseless play they represented every emotion, whether pale with anger, curled in disdain, smiling in triumph, or dimpled with archness and love. It would be injustice to the reader not to borrow from the same pencil a few more touches of portraiture. This ex treme facility of expression was some times painful, for I have seen him look absolutely ugly. I have seen him look so hard and cold, that you must hate him, and then, in a moment, brighter than the sun, with such playful softness in his look, such affectionate eagerness kindling in his eyes, and dimpling his lips into some thing more sweet than a smile, that you forgot the man, the Lord Byron, in the picture of beanty presented to you, and gazed with intense cariosity, I had almost said, as if to satisfy yourself, that thes looked the god of poetry, the god of the Vatican, when he conversed with the sons and daughters of man.' His head was remarkably small-so much so as to be rather out of proportion with his face. The forehead though a little too narrow, was high, and appeared more so from his having his hair (to preserve it, as he said) shaved over the temples: while the glossy, dark-brown curls, clustering over his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When to this is added, that his nose, though handsomely, was rather thickly shaped, that his teeth were white and regular, and his complexion colourless, as good an idea perhaps as it is in the power of mere words to convey may be conceived of his features. In height he was, as he himself has informed us, five feet eight inches and a half, and to the length of his limbs he attributed his being such a good swimmer. His hands were very white, and, according to his own notion of the size of hands as indicating birth, aristocratically small. The lameness of his right foot, though an obstacle to grace, but little impeded the activity of his movements; and from this circumstance, as well as from the skill with which the foot was disgnised by means of long trowsers, it would be difficult to conceive a defect of this kind less obtruding itself as a deformity; while the diffidence which a constant consciousness of the infirmity gave to his first approach and address made, in him, even lanieness a source of interest." Mr. Murray put a request to Lord Byron to write a work on Italy. His reasons for not writing it, atid a summary of all the knew of Italy, are contained in the following extract from one of his letters: "You ask me for a volume of manners, &c. on Italy. Perhaps I am in the case to know more of them than most Englishmen, because I have lived among the na tives, and in parts of the country where Englishmen never resided before; bat there are many reasons why I do not ehoose to treat in print on such a subject. I have lived in their houses, and in the heart of their families, sometimes merely as amico di casa', and sometimes as amico di cuore, of the Dama, and in neither case do I feel myself authorised in making a book of them. Their moral is not your moral; their life is not your life; you would not understand it: it is not English or French, nor German, which you would all understand. The conventual education, the cavalier servitude, the habits of thought and living are so entirely different, and the difference becomes so much more striking the more you live intimately with them, that I know not how to make you comprehend a people who are at once temperate and profligate, serious în their characters and buffoons in their amusements, capable of impressions and passions which are at once sudden and durable (what yon find in no other nation), and who |