-those of the higher classes in England have become very corrupt (I smothered my laugh). Do you think, if I was to live in America, they would ever make me a judge of the Ten-Pound Court? Is it true that an Englishman is always insulted in travelling through America ?" We assured him not. He then told us more laughable stories of the ridiculous biographies made of him, especially by the French. One of them represented him as a gloomy miserable mortal, keeping the skull of his mistress as a drinking-cup.-I told him that was pretty much the idea we had of him, as we considered him a sort of vampire (he laughed heartily). He said "Bracebridge Hall" was beautifully written, but, as for the characters, they exist only in the brain of W. I. There are no old English gentlemen-no yeomen. The English have lost every thing good in their character. Their morals are particularly bad (here I thought he really was quizzing us). In fine, he kept us for an hour and a half constantly amused, and dismissed us well satisfied with our interview. His manners are most charming and fascinating; and if he is, as they say, a devil, he is certainly a merry one-nothing gloomy. His voice is low and soft, and at first sounds affected. Now who is it? Who is this man about whom I have written a whole letter? It is Childe Harold, Corsair, Don Juan-in plain English, Lord Byron.'

Another account of Lord Byron's manner of living is given by M. Beyle, an ingenious French officer, who has distinguished himself by some agreeable works in various branches of light literature. It appears in Madame Belloc's Life of Lord Byron,' and is one of the most valuable parts of her book. It is highly striking, and not less accurate. The following is a translation from the French, in which the letter is written:

'It will afford me great pleasure, Madame, to furnish you with such information as I am able to impart respecting Lord Byron, for the work which you are preparing. It is true that I once passed several months in the society of this truly great poet; but I feel, nevertheless, that to speak of him in accurate terms is by no means easy. I never saw Lord Byron at any of those critical moments which lay open the whole of an individual's character. What I know of him is little more than the recollection of my own feelings when in his presence. To describe these recollections is hardly possible without talking much of myself; and how can I presume to talk of myself after having named Lord Byron ?

'It was in the autumn of 1816 that I first met him, at the theatre

of La Scala at Milan, in the box of M. Louis de Brême. I was much struck with the expression of Lord Byron's eyes as he was listening to a sestetto, in Mayer's opera of "Elena." I never in my life saw any thing more beautiful or more expressive. Even now, if I wish to figure to myself the expression in which a painter ought to depict true genius, the sublime head of Lord Byron appears immediately before me. I experienced a momentary feeling of enthusiasm, and, forgetting the just repugnance which every man of becoming pride ought to have against courting the acquaintance of an English nobleman, I begged M. de Brême to introduce me to Lord Byron. On the following day I dined at M. de Brême's with him and the celebrated Monti, the author of the "Basvigliana." The conversation turned on the subject of poetry, and it was asked which were the twelve best verses that had been written in English, Italian, or French, during the last century. The Italians who were present agreed unanimously that the twelve first verses of the "Mascheroniana"* were the best that had been produced in their language for more than a hundred years. Monti was so good as to recite them to us. I looked at Lord Byron, who was in an ecstacy. The haughty shade over his features, or, as it may be more proper to call it, the air of a man who finds it necessary to repel all importunate familiarities, which was always a blemish to his fine countenance, disappeared altogether, and gave way to an expression of perfect good temper. The first canto of the "Mascheroniana," which Monti, at the loud request of his auditors, recited almost entirely, caused a very powerful sensation to the author of "Childe Harold." I can never forget the divine expression of his features: they displayed the serene air of power and genius, and, to my thinking, Lord Byron could not at this moment be reproached with the slightest affectation.

The tragic systeins of Alfieri and of Schiller were contrasted in the course of the conversation. The English poet said it was highly ridiculous that in Alfieri's "Philip II." Don Carlos should find himself, without any difficulty, from the very first scene, tête-à-tête with the consort of the jealous Philip. Monti, who is so happy in the practice of the art of poetry, urged, in the course of this discussion, arguments so singular respecting its theory, that Lord Byron, leaning towards the person sitting next him, said, speaking of Monti, "Il ne sait

A poem of Monti's upon Buonaparte, composed in 1801, on the death of Lorenzo Mascheroni, the celebrated geometrician.

comment il est poête”—“ He does not know the means by which he has been made a poet."

From this day I was in the constant practice of spending almost every evening with Lord Byron. Whenever this singular man was in an elevated mood, and spoke with enthusiasm, his sentiments were noble, grand, and generous-in short, on a level with his genius; but in what may be called the mere prosaic moments of his life, the sentiments of the poet seemed to be of a very ordinary cast. He had a considerable share of little vanity, a continual and childish fear of appearing ridiculous, and sometimes indulged in that kind of hypocrisy which the English call cant. I always fancied that Lord Byron was ready to make a compromise with the prejudices of others, if, by doing so, he could obtain some praise for himself.

There was one point in his character which struck the Italians as very remarkable; it was that they perceived at once this great poet prided himself much more upon being a descendant of the Byrons of Normandy, who followed the Duke William to the conquest of England, than upon being the author of "Parisina" and of "Lara." I was so fortunate as to excite his curiosity by giving him some personal details respecting Napoleon and the retreat from Moscow, which in 1816 was not, as it has since become, merely a common-place. This kind of merit which I possessed procured me the honour of several tête-àtête promenades in the immense and solitary lobby of La Scala. The great man appeared for about half an hour in every evening, and upon these occasions I enjoyed the finest conversation that I ever met witha volcano of new ideas and generous sentiments, mingled in such a manner that I fancied I experienced these sentiments for the first time. All the rest of the evening the great man was so much of the Englishman and the lord, that I could never make up my mind to accept his invitation to dine with him, which he several times repeated. He was at this time engaged in the composition of a part of "Childe Harold.” Every morning he wrote a hundred verses, which, in the evening, he reduced to twenty or thirty. In the interval between these periods of labour he stood in need of repose, and he used to find the necessary distraction of his thoughts from their more serious efforts in sitting after dinner with his elbows on the table, and chattering away, as was said, in the most agreeable and good-teinpered manner.

'I observed that in his moments of genius Lord Byron admired Napoleon as Napoleon himself admired Corneille. In his ordinary moods, when Lord Byron thought himself a great nobleman, he sought

occasions of ridiculing the exile of Saint Helena, Lord Byron had a certain feeling of envy for the brilliant parts of Napoleon's character. He was even vexed at hearing his sublime sayings; and we could always put him in an ill temper by repeating the famous proclamation to the army in Egypt-"Soldiers, remember that from the summits of yonder pyramids forty centuries are looking down upon you!" Lord Byron would more readily have pardoned Napoleon if he had been more of the flat and insipid character of Washington. The most pleasant part of all this, however, was, that the despotic and odious part of Napoleon's heart was not that which most shocked the sympathies of the English peer.

'One evening, while Lord Byron was doing me the honour to walk with me up and down the large lobby at La Scala, he was informed that the Austrian officer then on guard at the theatre had just arrested his secretary, M. Polidori, a physician who was always with him. Lord Byron's appearance then assumed a striking resemblance to that of Napoleon when he was enraged. Seven or eight persons accompanied him to the guard-house: he was perfectly magnificent with suppressed indignation and energy, for a whole hour, while exposed to the vulgar anger of the officer on guard. When we returned to M. de Brême's box we began ironically to praise those aristocratic principles which were in general so much to Lord Byron's taste: he was sensible of the joke, and went out of the box quite furious; without, however, having once departed from the most perfect politeness. The next day the secretary was obliged to leave Milan.

M. de Brême requested me, a short time after this, to take Lord Byron to the Museum of Brera. I admired the profound sentiment with which the great poet comprehended at once the painters of the most opposite styles, Raphael, Guercino, Luini, Titian, &c. Guercino's picture of Agar put forth by Abraham seemed to electrify him. Admiration rendered us all dumb from this moment: he improvised for an hour, and in my opinion much better than Madame de Stael.

What struck me most in this remarkable man, and particularly on those occasions when he chose to speak ill of Napoleon, was that he had, to my thinking at least, no real knowledge of mankind; his pride, his rank, his poetical glory, had always prevented him from treating and being treated by them in the proper light of an equal. His haughtiness and his want of confidence had always kept them at too great a distance for him to observe them accurately. On the other hand, it was impossible not to admire a profusion of just and fine ideas

brig of Balgounie on a mare's foal, she gets out of a difficulty in a very ingenious manner. The first line runs thus:

Brig of Balgounie, though wight be thy wa'.

The English reader need not be told that wight is an old Saxon word, signifying strong; but as Madame did not know this, and as no gallant English wight was at hand to explain it, she substitutes another word, which is proverbially different from white, and gives the English line

and translates it

Brig of Balgounie, black's thy wa';

Pont de Balgounie, votre mur est noir.

In another place she wonders very much that, after the coroner's jury had given a verdict of wilful murder against William Lord Byron, and he had been found guilty of homicide upon his trial, he should be liberated on pleading the privilege of his peerage. It is not surprising that she should not know the difference between the crime of murder (for which in England we hang lords and commoners alike) and homicide, nor that the verdict of a coroner's jury is not conclusive as to a party's guilt; but it is a little astonishing that she did not ask some Englishman, and there is not a footman in Paris who could not have told her. She says, however, that she has great difficulty in believing that the English legislation contains a law which exempts peers of the realm from being sentenced in a case of murder;' and we hope this is a difficulty which she will not get over, since, with all her prejudices against England, we are really not quite such barbarians as she takes us for.

Notwithstanding the little faults we have mentioned, and many others which we could point out, Madame Belloc's is a very ingenious book; very creditable to her good taste as well as to her talents; and one for which we ought to be very grateful to her, because its end and aim are to make Lord Byron more universally and accurately known among her countrymen. For ourselves, we assure her that we are deeply impressed with this sentiment, and that, if our homage be worth the acceptance, we lay it with all humility at her feet; begging her to believe, that, although we have taken the liberty of laughing at her, it has been in perfect good humour, and that we do not like people at

* Vide page 38.