That the taste of the actors at best is so so. (3) Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so's the committee.

Ink. Ay-yours are the plays for exciting our "pity

And fear," as the Greek says: "for purging the mind,"

I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have pray'd

For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to be play'd.

Is it cast yet? Both.

The actors are fighting for parts,

Have taken already, and still will continue
To take what they can, from a groat to a guinea,
Of pension or place;-but the subject 's a bore.
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming.
Ink.
Scamp! don't you feel sore?
What say you to this?

Scamp.
They have merit, I own;
Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown.
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your
lectures?

Scamp. It is only time past which comes under

my strictures.

Lady Bluem. Sir George (1) thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle;

And my Lord Seventy-four, (2) who protects our dear Bard,

And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, (3) Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. Tra. And you, Scamp!

Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already sc harass'd

With old schools, and new schools, and no schools. and all schools.

Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be I should like to know who.

[fools.

Ink.
And I should not be sorry
To know who are not:-it would save us some worry.
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing
control

This "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul."
Oh! my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathise!-I
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly,

I feel so elastic-" so buoyant-so buoyant!" (4)
Ink. Tracy! open the window.
Tra.
I wish her much joy on't.
Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot
[not
Upon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse which lifts

(1) The late Sir George Beaumont-a constant friend of Mr. Wordsworth.-L. E.

(2) The venerable Earl of Lonsdale. This nobleman on one occasion liberally offered to build, and completely furnish and man, a ship of seventy-four guns, towards the close of the American war, for the service of his country, at his own expense ;-hence the sobriquet in the text.-L. E. (3) "Pedlars," and "boats," and "waggons!" O ye shades Of Pope and Dryden! are we come to this? That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hiss

Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain. [tain: 'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true foun"T is the vision of heaven upon earth: 'tis the gas Of die soul: 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, And making them substance! 't is something divine:Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine?

Both. I thank you; not any more, sir, till I dine. Ink. Apropos--Do you dine with Sir Humphry (5) to-day?

Tra. I should think with Duke Humphry was more

For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champaigne
Tra. And the sweet lobster-salad!
Both.
I honour that meal;
For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely-feel.
Ink. True; feeling is truest then, far beyond
question:

I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion! Lady Blueb. Pshaw!-never mind that; for one moment of feeling

Is worth-God knows what.
Ink.

"Tis at least worth concealing For itself, or what follows-But here comes your carriage.

Sir Rich. (aside.) I wish all these people were d-d with my marriage!

[Exeunt.

The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell"
Can sneer at him who drew "Achitophel!"
Don Juan, Canto III.-L. E.

(4) Fact from life, with the words. (5) The late Sir Humphry Davy, President of the Royal Society.-L. E.

(6) The late Miss Lydia White, whose hospitable functions have not yet been supplied to the circle of London artists and literati-an accomplished, clever, and truly amiable, but very eccentric lady. The name in the text could only have been suggested by the jingling resemblance ! it bears to Lydia.-L. E.

PREFACE.

THE Conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of the most remarkable events in the annals of the most singular government, city, and people of modern history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary-her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is to be found in all her chronicles, and particularly detailed in the Lives of the Doges, by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded upon the subject.

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of

(1) Lord Byron finished the composition of this tragedy on the 16th July, 1820. He at the time intended to keep it by him for six years before sending it to the press; but resolutions of this kind are, in modern days, very seldom adhered to. It was published in the end of the same year; and, to the poet's great disgust, and in spite of his urgent and repeated remonstrances, was produced on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre early in 1821. The extracts from his letters given by Mr. Moore in his Life, sufficiently explain his feelings on this occasion.

Marino Faliero was, greatly to his satisfaction, commended warmly for the truth of its adhesion to Venetian history and manners, as well as the antique severity of its structure and language, by that eminent master of Italian and classical literature, the late Ugo Foscolo. Mr. Gifford also delighted him by pronouncing it "English-genuine English." It was, however, little favoured by the contemporary critics. There was, indeed, only one who spoke of it as quite worthy of Lord Byron's reputation. "Nothing," said he, "has for a long time afforded us so much pleasure, as the rich promise of dramatic excellence unfolded in this production of Lord Byron. Without question, no such tragedy as Marino Faliero has appeared in English, since the day when Otway also was inspired to his masterpiece by the interests of a Venetian story and a Venetian conspiracy. The story of which Lord Byron has possessed himself is, we think, by far the finer of the two,-and we say possessed, because we believe he has adhered almost to the letter of the transactions as they really took place." -The language of the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviewers, Mr. Jeffrey and Bishop Heber, was in a far different strain. The former says

"Marino Faliero has undoubtedly considerable beauties, both dramatic and poetical; and might have made the fortune of any young aspirant for fame: but the name of Byron raises expectations which are not so easily satisfied; and judging of it by the lofty standard which he himself has established, we are compelled to say, that we cannot but regard it as a failure, both as a poem and a play. This may be partly accounted for from the inherent difficulty of uniting these two sorts of excellence-of confining the daring and digressive genius of poetry within the forms and limits of a regular drama, and, at the same time, imparting its warm and vivifying spirit

On the original MS. sent from Ravenna, Lord Byron has writ ten :-" Begun April 4th, 1820-completed July 16th, 1820-finished Copying August 16th-17th, 1820; the which copying makes ten times the toil of composing, considering the weather-thermometer 90 in the shade-and my domestic duties."-L. E.

"It was planned at Venice, and as far back as 1817." Galt.-P. E.

talents and of courage. I find him commander-inchief of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same time in check; an exploit to which I know none similar in history, except that of Cæsar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at Genoa and Rome,—at which last he received the news of his election to the dukedom; his absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his own succession at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, many years before,

to the practical preparation and necessary details of a complete theatrical action. These, however, are difficulties with which dramatic adventurers have long had to struggle; and over which, though they are incomparably most formidable to the most powerful spirits, there is no reason to doubt that the powers of Lord Byron would have triumphed. The true history of his failure, therefore, we conceive, and the actual cause of his miscarriage on the present occasion, is to be found in the bad choice of his subject-his selection of a story which not only gives no scope to the peculiar and commanding graces of his genius, but runs continually counter to the master currents of his fancy. His great gifts are exquisite tenderness, and demoniacal sublimity; the power of conjuring up at pleasure those delicious visions of love and beauty, and pity and purity, which melt our hearts within us with a thrilling and etherial softness-and of wielding, at the same time, that infernal fire which blasts and overthrows all things with the dark and capricious fulminations of its scorn, rancour, and revenge. With the consciousness of these great powers, and as if in wilful perversity to their suggestions, he has here chosen a story which, in a great measure, excludes the agency of either; and resolutely conducted it, so as to secure himself against their intrusion;-a story without love or hatred-misanthropy or pity-containing nothing voluptuous and nothing terrific-but depending, for its grandeur, on the anger of a very old and irritable man; and, for its attraction, on the elaborate representations of conjugal dignity and domestic honour, the sober and austere triumphs of cold and untempted chastity, and the noble propriety of a pure and disciplined understanding. These, we think, are not the most promising themes for any writer whose business is to raise powerful emotions; nor very likely, in any hands, to redeem the modern drama from the imputation of want of spirit, interest, and excitement. But, for Lord Byron to select them for a grand dramatic effort, is as if a swift-footed racer were to tie his feet together at the starting, or a valiant knight to enter the lists without his arms. No mortal prowess could succeed under such disadvantages. The story, in so far as it is original in our drama, is extremely improbable, though, like most other very improbable stories, derived from authentic sources; but, in the main, it is original; being, indeed, merely another Venice Preserved, and continually recalling, though certainly without eclipsing, the memory of the first. Except that Jaffier is driven to join the conspirators by the natural impulse of love and misery, and the Doge by a resentment so outrageous as to exclude all sympathy, and that the disclosure, which is produced by love in the old play, is here ascribed to mere friendship,-the general action and catastrophe of the two pieces are almost identical; while, with regard to the writing and management, it must be owned that, if Lord Byron has most sense and vigour, Otway has by far the most passion and pathos; and that though his conspirators are better orators and reasoners than the gang of Pierre and Reynault, the tenderness of Belvidera is as much more touching, as it is more natural, than the stoical and self-satisfied decorum of Angiolina."

After an elaborate disquisition on the Unities, (a valuable one, undoubtedly, but too long to be extracted here,) Bishop Heber thus concludes:

"We cannot conceive a greater instance of the efficacy of system

when podesta and captain at Treviso, boxed the cars of the bishop, who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto "saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square; but he does not tell us whether he was punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, and with the title of Count,

to blind the most acute perception, than the fact that Lord Byron, in works avowedly and exclusively intended for the closet, has piqued himself on the observance of rules, which (be their advantage on the stage what it may) are evidently, off the stage, a matter of perfect indifference. The only object of adhering to the unifies is to preserve the illusion of the scene. To the reader they are obviously useless. It is true, that, in the closet, not only are their supposed advantages destroyed, but their inconveniences are also, in a great measure, neutralised and it is true also, that poetry so splendid has often accompanied them, as to make us wholly overlook, in the blaze of greater excellences, whatever inconveniences result from them, either in the closet or the theatre. But even diminished difficulties are not to be needlessly courted, and though, in the strength and dexterity of the combatant, we soon lose sight of the cumbrous trappings by which he has chosen to distinguishi himself; yet, if those trappings are at once cumbersome and pedantic, not only will his difficulty of success be increased, but his failure, if he fails, will be rendered the more signal and ridiculous.

"Marino Faliero has, we believe, been pretty generally pronounced a failure by the public voice, and we see no reason to call for a revision of their sentence. It contains, beyond all doubt, many pas sages of commanding eloquence, and some of genuine poetry; and the scenes, more particularly, in which Lord Byron has neglected the absurd creed of his pseudo-Hellenic writers, are conceived and elaborated with great tragic effect and dexterity. But the subject is decidedly ill-chosen. In the main tissue of the plot, and in all the busiest and most interesting parts of it, it is, in fact, no more than another Venice Preserved, in which the author has had to contend (nor has be contended successfully) with our recollections of a former and deservedly popular play on the same subject. And the only respect in which it differs is, that the Jaffier of Lord Byron's plot is drawn in to join the conspirators, not by the natural and intelligible motives of poverty, aggravated by the sufferings of a beloved wife, and a deep and well-grounded resentment of oppression, but by his outrageous anger for a private wrong of no very atrocious nature. The Doge of Venice, to chastise the vulgar libel of a foolish boy, attempts to overturn that republic of which he is the first and most trusted servant; to massacre all his ancient friends and fellowsoldiers, the magistracy and nobility of the land. With such a resentment as this, thus simply stated and taken singly, who ever sympathised, or who but Lord Byron would have expected in such a cause to be able to awaken sympathy? It is little to the purpose to say that this is all historically true. A thing may be true without being probable; and such a case of idiosyncrasy as is implied in a resentment so sudden and extravagant, is no more a fitting subject for the poet, than an animal with two heads would be for an artist of a different description.

"It is true that, when a long course of mutual bickering had preceded, when the mind of the prince had been prepared, by due degrees, to hate the oligarchy with which he was surrounded and over-ruled, and to feel or suspect, in every act of the senate, a studied and persevering design to wound and degrade him, a very slight addition of injury might make the cup of anger overflow; and the insufficient punishment of Steno (though to most men this pu nishment seems not unequal to the offence) might have opened the last flood-gate to that torrent which had been long gathering strength from innumerable petty insults and aggressions.

"It is also possible that an old man, doatingly fond of a young and beautiful wife, yet not insensible to the ridicule of such an unequal alliance, might for months or years have been tormenting himself with the suspected suspicions of his countrymen; have smarted, though convinced of his consort's purity, under the idea that others were not equally candid, and have attached, at length, the greater importance to Steno's ribaldry, fron. apprehending this last to be no more than an overt demonstration of the secret thoughts of half the little world of Venice.

"And we cannot but believe that, if the story of Faliero (unpro mising as we regard it in every way of telling) had fallen into the hands of the barbarian Shakspeare, the commencement of the play would have been placed considerably earlier; that time would have been given for the gradual developement of those strong lines of character which were to decide the fate of the hero, and for the working of those subtle but not instantaneous poisons which were to destroy the peace, and embitter the feelings, and confuse the understanding, of a brave and high-minded but proud and irritable veteran.

"But the misfortune is (and it is, in a great measure, as we conceive, to be ascribed to Lord Byron's passion for the unities) that, instead of placing this accumulation of painful feelings before our eyes, even our ears are made very imperfectly acquainted with them. Of the previous encroachments of the oligarchy on the ducal power We see nothing. Nay, we only hear a very little of it, and that in general terms, and at the conclusion of the piece; in the form of an apology for the Doge's past conduct, not as the constant and painful feeling which we ought to have shared with him in the first instance, if we were to sympathise in his views and wish success to his enterprise. The

by Lorenzo, Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura, printed in 1796, all of which I have looked over in the original language. The moderus, Darù, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his jealousy, but I find this nowhere asserted by the national historians.

fear that his wife might be an object of suspicion to his countrymen is, in like manner, scarcely hinted at; and no other reason for such a fear is named than that which, simply taken, could never have produced it-a libel scribbled on the back of a chair. We are, therefore, through the whole tragedy, under feelings of surprise rather than of pity or sympathy, as persons witnessing portentous events from causes apparently inadequate. We see a man become a traitor for no other visible cause (however other causes are incidentally insinuated) than a single vulgar insult, which was more likely to recoil on the perpetrator than to wound the object; and we cannot pity a death incurred in such a quarrel."*

The following extract from a letter of January, 1821, will show the author's own estimate of the piece thus criticised. After repeating his hope, that no manager would be so audacious as to trample on his feelings by producing it on the stage, he thus proceeds:

"It is too regular-the time, twenty-four hours-the change of place not frequent-nothing melo-dramatic-no surprises-no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities for tossing their heads and kicking their heels'—and no love, the grand ingredient of a modern play. I am persuaded that a great tragedy is not to be produced by following the old dramatists-who are full of gross faults, pardoned only for the beauty of their language,-but by writing naturally and regularly, and producing regular tragedies, like the Greeks; but not in imitation,merely the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times and circumstances, and of course no chorus. You will laugh, and say, Why don't you do so?' I have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero; but many people think my talent essentially un-dramatic,' and I am not at all clear that they are not right. If Marino Faliero don't fail-in the perusal-I shall, perhaps, try again (but not for the stage); and as I think that love is not the principal passion for tragedy (and yet most of ours turn upon it), you will not find me a popular writer. Unless it is love furious, criminal and hapless, it ought not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do; it is then for the gallery and second-price boxes. If you want to have a notion of what I am trying, take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. If I said the original, it would be an impudent presumption of mine; but the translations are so inferior to the originals, that I think I may risk it. Then judge of the simplicity of plot,' and do not judge me by your old mad dramatists; which is like drinking usquebaugli, and then proving a fountain. Yet, after all, I suppose you do not mean that spirits is a nobler element than a clear spring bubbling up in the sun? and this I take to be the difference between the Greeks and those turbid mountebanks-always excepting Ben Jonson, who was a scholar and a classic. Or, take up a translation of Alfieri, and try the interest, etc. of these my new attempts in the old line, by him in English; and then tell me fairly your opinion. But don't measure me by YOUR OWN old or new tailor's yard. Nothing so easy as intricate confusion of plot and rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedy, has ten

On the subject of Marino Faliero Mr. Galt observes:-"This drama, to be properly appreciated, both in its taste and feeling, should be considered as addressed to the Italians of the epoch at which it was written. Had it been written in the Italian instead of the English language, and could it have come out in any city of Italy, the effect would have been prodigious. It is indeed a work not to be estimated by the delineations of character, nor the force of passion expressed in it, but altogether by the apt and searching sarcasms of the political allusions. Viewed with reference to the time and place in which it was composed, it would probably deserve to be ranked as a high and bold effort: simply as a drama, it may not be entitled to rank above tragedies of the second or third class. It is perhaps, as it stands, not fit to succeed in representation, but it is so rich in matter that it would not be a difficult task to make out of little more than the third part a tragedy which would not dishonour the English stage."-P. E.

That such is not the opinion now entertained by the practical men of Drury Lane is evident, from the fact that two of Byron's tragedies have since his death been produced on the stage; and that, during his life-time, the same judges entertained a more favourable estimate of his dramatic powers than his critics were pleased to express, will perhaps be inferred from the following anecdote, which we quote from Galt:-"When Lord Byron was a member of the managing (query-mis-managing?) committee of Drury Lane Theatre, Bartley was speaking with him on the decay of the drama, and took occasion to urge his Lordship to write a tragedy for the stage. cannot,' was the reply: 'I don't know how to make the people go on and off in the scenes, and know not where to find a fit character' Take your own,' said Bartley, meaning, in the honesty of his heart, [ one of his Laras or Childe Harolds. Much obliged to you,' was the reply and exit in a huff. Byron thought he spoke literally of his own real character."-P. E.

I

Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that "Altri scrissero che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," etc. etc.; but this appears to have been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Navagero; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, that "per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alla congiura, ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava a farsi

times the bustle of Congreve; but are they to be compared? and yet she drove Congreve from the theatre."

Again, February 16, he thus writes:

"You say the Doge will not be popular: did I ever write for popularity? I defy you to show a work of mine (except a tale or two) of a popular style or complexion. It appears to me that there is room for a different style of the drama; neither a servile following of the old drama, which is a grossly erroneous one, nor yet too French, like those who succeeded the older writers. It appears to me that good English, and a severer approach to the rules, might combine something not dishonourable to our literature. I have also attempted to make a play without love; and there are neither rings, nor mistakes, nor starts, nor outrageous canting villains, nor melodrama in it. All this will prevent its popularity, but does not persuade me that it is therefore faulty. Whatever fault it has will arise from deficiency in the conduct, rather than in the conception, which is simple and severe.

"Reproach is useless always, and irritating-but my feelings were very much hurt, to be dragged like a gladiator to the fate of a gladiator by that retiarius,' Mr. Elliston. As to his defence and offers of compensation, what is all this to the purpose? It is like Louis XIV. who insisted upon buying at any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his horse. I could not shoot my tragedy, but I would have flung it into the fire rather than have had it represented."

[In another letter his Lordship says:

"The play may be good or bad, but I flatter myself that it is original, as a picture of that kind of passion, which to my mind is so natural, that I am convinced that I should have done precisely what the Doge did on those provocations.”—P. E.]

The poet originally designed to inscribe this tragedy to his friend, the late Mr. Douglas Kinnaird; but the dedication, then drawn up, has remained till now in MS. It is in these words:

TO THE HONOURABLE DOUGLAS KINNAIRD.

"My dear Douglas,

"I dedicate to you the following tragedy, rather on account of your good opinion of it, than from any notion of my own that it may be worthy of your acceptance. But if its merits were ten times greater than they possibly can be, this offering would still be a very adequate acknowledgment of the active and steady friendship with which, for a series of years, you have honoured

"Your obliged

"and affectionate friend,

"BYRON."

At another moment, the poet resolved to dedicate this tragedy to Goethe, whose praises of Manfred had highly delighted him; but this dedication shared the fate of that to Mr. Kinnaird:-it did not reach the hands of Goethe till 1831, when it was presented to him at Weimar, by Mr. Murray, jun.; nor was it printed at all, until Mr. Moore included it in his Memoirs of Lord Byron. It is to be regretted that Mr. Moore, in doing so, omitted some passages, which, the MS. having since been lost, we cannot now restore. It is written," he says, "in the poet's most whimsical and mocking mood; and the unmeasured severity poured out in it upon the two favourite objects of his wrath and ridicule, compels me to deprive the reader of some of its most amusing passages." The world are in possession of so much of Lord Byron's sarcastic criticisms on his contemporaries, and the utter recklessness with which he threw them off is so generally appreciated, that one is at a loss to understand what purpose could be served by suppressing the fragments thus characterised.

"Sir,

"TO BARON GOETHE, etc. etc. etc.

"In the Appendix to an English work lately translated into German and published at Leipsic, a judgment of yours upon English poetry is quoted as follows: That in English poetry, great genius, universal power, a feeling of profundity, with sufficient tenderness and force, are to be found; but that altogether these do not constitute poets, etc, etc.

⚫ Goethe was ennobled, having the 'on prefixed to his name, but never received the title of Baron-L. E.

"I mention these poets by way of sample to enlighten you. They form but two bricks of our Babel (WINDSOR bricks, by the way), but may serve for a specimen of the building.

"It is, moreover, asserted that the predominant character of the whole body of the present English poetry is a disgust and contempt for life. But I rather suspect, that by one single work of prose, you yourself have excited a greater contempt for life, than all the English volumes of poesy that ever were written. Madame de Staël says, that

Werther has occasioned more suicides than the most beautiful woman;' and I really believe that he has put more individuals out of this world than Napoleon himself,-except in the way of his profession. Perhaps, Illustrious Sir, the acrimonious judgment passed by a celebrated northern journal upon you in particular, and the Germans in general, has rather indisposed you towards English poetry as well as criticism. But you must not regard our critics, who are at bottom good-natured fellows, considering their two professions,-taking up the law in court, and laying it down out of it. No one can more lament their hasty and unfair judgment, in your particular, than I do; and I so expressed myself to your friend Schlegel, in 1816, at Coppet.

In behalf of my ten thousand' living brethren, and of myself, I have thus far taken notice of an opinion expressed with regard to English poetry' in general, and which merited notice because it

was YOURS.

"My principal object in addressing you was to testify my sincere respect and admiration of a man who, for half a century, has led the literature of a great nation, and will go down to posterity as the first literary character of his age.

"You have been fortunate, Sir, not only in the writings which have illustrated your name, but in the name itself, as being sufficiently musical for the articulation of posterity. In this you have the advantage of some of your countrymen, whose names would perhaps be immortal also-if any body could pronounce them.

"It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this apparent tone of levity, that I am wanting in intentional respect towards you; but this will be a mistake: I am always flippant in prose. Considering you, as I really and warmly do, in cominon with all your own, and with most other nations, to be by far the first literary character which has existed in Europe since the death of Voltaire, Í felt, and feel, desirous to inscribe to you the following work-not as being either a tragedy or a poem (for I cannot pronounce upon its pretensions to be either one or the other, or both, or neither), but as a mark of esteem and admiration from a foreigner to the man who has been hailed in Germany THE GREAT GOETHE.'

"I have the honour to be,
"with the truest respect,
"your most obedient
"and very humble servant,
"BYRON.

"Ravenna, gire 140. 1820.

"P. S.-I perceive that in Germany, as well as in Italy, there is a great struggle about what they call Classical' and Romantic,'terms which were not subjects of classification in England, at least when I left it four or five years ago. Some of the English scribblers, it is true, abused Pope and Swift, but the reason was that they themselves did not know how to write either prose or verse; but nobody thought them worth making a sect of. Perhaps there may be something of the kind sprung up lately, but I have not heard much about it, and it would be such bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it."

The illustrious Goethe was much gratified with this token of Lord Byron's admiration. He died at Weimar early in the year 1832-a year which swept away so many of the great men of the European world-among others, Cuvier and Scott. --L. E.