Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit
For your accomplice ?

Ulr.

Father, do not raise

The devil you cannot lay, between us. This
Is time for union and for action, not

For family disputes. While you were tortured
Could I be calm?. Think you that I have heard
This fellow's tale without some feeling? You
Have taught me feeling for you and myself;
For whom or what else did you ever teach it?

Sie. Oh! my dead father's curse! 'tis working now. Ulr. Let it work on! the grave will keep it down! Ashes are feeble foes: it is more easy

To baffle such than countermine a mole,
Which winds its blind but living path beneath you.
Yet hear me still!-If you condemn me, yet
Remember who hath taught me once too often
To listen to him! Who proclaimed to me

That there were crimes made venial by the occasion ?
That passion was our nature? that the goods
Of heaven waited on the goods of fortune?
Who showed me his humanity secured
By his nerves only? Who deprived me of
All power to vindicate myself and race
In open day? By his disgrace which stamped
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on
Himself a felon's brand! The man who is
At once both warm and weak, invites to deeds

He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange

That I should act what you could think? We have done
With right and wrong; and now must only ponder
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim,

He

Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown,
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew
Known as our foe-but not from vengeance.
Was a rock in our way which I cut through,
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us
And our true destination-but not idly.
As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me
His life; when due, I but resumed the debt.

He, you, and I, stood o'er a gulf wherein

I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first
The torch-you showed the path; now trace me that
Of safety-or let me!

Sie.

I have done with life!

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers lifeFamiliar feuds and vain recriminations

Of things which cannot be undone. We have

No more to learn or hide: I know no fear,

And have within these very walls men whom

(Although you know them not) dare venture all things.
You stand high with the State: what passes here
Will not excite her too great curiosity.

Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye,

Stir not, and speak not;-leave the rest to me:

We must have no third babblers thrust between us.

When Ulric has gone out to put his intention into practice, the old count, resolved to save Gabor, strips off his jewels, and, giving them to him, points out a passage by which he may escape. He does so ; and Ulric, upon his return, finds his prey gone, and himself, therefore, in danger of being denounced. He immediately announces his intention of joining the Black Band,' with whom he has been always secretly in league. The countess and Ida enter: the count, in his despair, tells his wife that she has given birth to a demon. Ida, indignant at hearing this, says

Ida. (taking Ulric's hand.) Who shall dare say this

of Ulric ?

Sie. Ida, beware! there's blood upon that hand.

Ida. (stooping to kiss it.) I'd kiss it off, though it were mine!

Them both!-My Josephine, we are now alone!

Would we had ever been so -All is over

For me! Now open wide, my sire, thy grave;
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son
In mine!

The race of Siegendorf is past!

Thus this tragedy concludes: it is beyond question the worst that Lord Byron ever wrote. There are some attempts at humour in the character of the Intendant, but they are very feeble. Much of the verse is prosaic, and, with the exception of the quotations we have made, there are no really impassioned passages in the whole play. The well-sustained mystery of the plot is its best character; and to all the praise which that deserves Miss Lee is, as we have said, entitled, as well as to many of the best things in the dialogue.

CHAPTER XIII.

In the latter part of the year 1821 Mr. Leigh Hunt left England, to take up his residence in Italy. He was induced to adopt this proceeding partly on account of the state of his health, which rendered a change of climate highly advisable, if not absolutely necessary; and still more, perhaps, because Mr, Shelley was then living at Pisa, and because his invitation to his friend was warmly backed by Lord Byron's. It was proposed, as the most effectual means of rendering a service to Mr. Hunt, that a periodical publication should be established, to which his friends should contribute; and it was reasonably enough expected that the names of Lord Byron and Mr. Shelley, added to the reputation which Mr. Hunt had already acquired in the literary world, would be enough to ensure the success of this project. Mr. Medwin gives, in Lord Byron's words, an account of this affair. We cannot but feel some disgust at the coarse strain in which Lord Byron speaks of his friend, and the careless tone in which he talks of his own intention to assist him, as if he were bestowing charity on him. This, however, was too often Lord Byron's way of thinking and speaking of all men who stood beneath him in the advantages of birth and wealth. Mr. Hunt has, we suppose, too much sense to care about 'the matter, or to feel hurt that it should be known his means are not of the most extensive kind; and, as there is much real and well-deserved praise bestowed upon his constancy and intrepidity, he has the less reason to object to Lord Byron's quizzing him for his affectation and conceit. The passage we allude to is this:

I have got Hunt with me,' said Lord Byron. I will tell you how I became acquainted with him.'

One of the first visits I paid to Hunt was in prison. I remember Lady Byron was with me in the carriage, and I made her wait longer than I intended at the gate of the King's Bench.

When party feeling ran highest against me, Hunt was the only editor of a paper, the only literary man, who dared say a word in my justification. I shall always be grateful to him for the part he took on that occasion. It was manly in him to brave the obloquy of standing alone.

Shelley and myself furnished some time ago a suite of apartments in my house for him, which he now occupies. I believe I told you of a plan we had in agitation for his benefit. His principal object in coming out was to establish a literary journal, whose name is not yet fixed.

I have promised to contribute, and shall probably make it a vehicle for some occasional poems ;-for instance, I mean to translate Ariosto. I was strongly advised by Tom Moore, long ago, not to have any connexion with such a company as Hunt, Shelley, and Co.; but I have pledged myself, and besides could not now, if I had ever so great a disinclination for the scheme, disappoint all Hunt's hopes. He has a large family, has undertaken a long journey, and undergone a long series of persecutions.

'Moore tells me that it was proposed to him to contribute to the new publication, but that he had declined it. You see I cannot get out of the scrape. The name is not yet decided upon,-half-a-dozen have been rejected.

Hunt would have made a fine writer, for he has a great deal of fancy and feeling, if he had not been spoiled by circumstances. He was brought up at the Blue-coat foundation, and had never till lately been ten miles from St. Paul's. What poetry is to be expected from such a course of education? He has his school, however, and a host of disciples. A friend of mine calls " Rimini," Nimini Pimini; and "Foliage" Follyage. Perhaps he had a tumble in "climbing trees in the Hesperides!"'* But" Rimini" has a great deal of merit. There never were so many fine things spoiled as in " Rimini."

The first number of the Liberal' was published in the beginning of 1822, after a due flourish of trumpets; but its contents were by no means calculated to satisfy the expectations which had been raised. It is not our purpose to allude to any other part of this work than that with which Lord Byron was concerned.

*The motto to his book entitled 'Foliage.'

We have mentioned, in a previous part of this volume (p. 484), the anger which was excited in Lord Byron's mind at the chastisement bestowed on 'Don Juan' by Mr. Southey. We there, in his lordship's own words, informed the reader that he had written a Vision of Judgment,' by way of parody on Southey's :-it remains for us now to notice the poem itself.

The publication had been delayed long after it had been completed, because the author's friends thought it would add little to his fame; and Lord Byron himself did not seem too anxious, after the first burst of his anger had subsided, that it should be made. At length, in the first number of The Liberal,' it did appear.

The Vision of Judgment' is written in the Oltava Rima: it begins by describing the gate of heaven, where St. Peter is said to be dozing through indolence; his keys having grown rusty, and the lock dull, because so few persons had applied there for admittance of late. The death of George the Third is then told, and some observations made upon his life, which are indecent, coarse, untrue, and pitiful. The afflictions of the deceased king ought to have protected him from some of the things which are set down in ribald verse against him. Lord Byron's own feelings, his pride, his generosity, his respect for his own station, ought to have prevented him doing what the most infamous scribbler that ever disgraced literature would have blushed at being guilty of. To leave these animadversions, which are wrung from us-and a subject on which we cannot trust ourselves to say all that we feel we proceed with the poem. The soul of the king is carried to heaven's portal by an angelic troop. Satan follows them; and in the description of his appearance is some touch of sublimity: But bringing up the rear of this bright host

A spirit of a different aspect waved

His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost;
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved

Eternal wrath on his immortal face,

And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

The Archangel Michael issues from the gate, and asks Satan what he would have. The fallen spirit claims the king's soul. He alleges against him all the political evils of his reign, with which he had as much to do as the people of the next generation; and taxes him with