His Lordship then presented the petition from Major Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the circumstances at Huddersfield, and of interruptions given to the right of petitioning in several places in the northern parts of the kingdom, and which his Lordship moved should be laid on the table.

Several lords having spoken on the question,

Lord BYRON replied, that he had, from motives of duty, presented this petition to their Lordships' consideration. The noble Earl had contended that it was not a petition, but a speech; and that, as it contained no prayer, it should not be received. What was the necessity of a prayer? If that word were to be used in its proper sense, their Lordships could not expect that any man should pray to others. He had only to say, that the petition, though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of address, but was couched in respectful language towards their Lordships; he should therefore trust their Lordships would allow the petition to be received.



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APPENDIX III.

LADY CAROLINE LAMB AND BYRON.

1. The following letter is one of the first which Lady Caroline wrote to Byron, in the spring of 1812:

"The Rose Lord Byron gave Lady Caroline Lamb died in despight of every effort made to save it; probably from regret at its fallen Fortunes. Hume, at least, who is no great believer in most things, says that many more die of broken hearts than is supposed. When Lady Caroline returns from Brocket Hall, she will dispatch the Cabinet Maker to Lord Biron, with the Flower she wishes most of all others to resemble, as, however deficient its beauty and even use, it has a noble and aspiring mind, and, having once beheld in its full lustre the bright and unclouded sun that for one moment condescended to shine upon it, never while it exists could it think any lower object worthy of its worship and Admiration. Yet the sunflower was punished for its temerity; but its fate is more to be envied than that of many less proud flowers. It is still permitted to gaze, though at the humblest distance, on him who is superior to every other, and, though in this cold foggy atmosphere it meets no doubt with many disappointments, and though it never could, never will, have reason to boast of any peculiar mark of condescension or attention from the bright star to whom it pays constant homage, yet to behold it sometimes, to see it gazed at, to hear it admired, will repay all. She hopes, therefore, when brought by the little Page, it will be graciously received without any more Taunts and cuts about 'Love of what is New.'

"Lady Caroline does not plead guilty to this most unkind charge, at least no further than is laudable, for that which is rare and is distinguished and singular ought to be more prized and sought after than what is commonplace and disagreeable. How can the other accusation, of being easily pleased, agree with this? The very circumstance of seeking out that which is of high value shows at least a mind not readily satisfied. But to attempt excuses for faults would be impossible with Lady Caroline. They have so long been rooted in a soil suited to their growth that a far less penetrating eye than Lord Byron's might perceive them—even on the shortest acquaintance. There is not one, however, though long indulged, that shall not be instantly got rid of, if L'd Byron thinks it worth while to name them. The reproof and abuse of some, however severe and just, may be valued more than the easily gained encomiums of the rest of the world.

"Miss Mercer, were she here, would join with Lady Caroline in a last request during their absence, that, besides not forgetting his new acquaintances, he would eat and drink like an English man till their return. The lines upon the only dog ever loved by L'd Byron are beautiful. What wrong then, that, having such proof of the faith and friendship of this animal, L'd Byron should censure the whole race by the following unjust remarks:

"'Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands; But long e'er I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands.'

"March 27th, 1812, Good Friday."



* * * * *



2. The following are the lines written by Lady Caroline when she burned Byron in effigy at Brocket Hall (endorsed, in Mrs. Leigh's handwriting, "December, 1812"):

"ADDRESS SPOKEN BY THE PAGE AT BROCKET HALL, BEFORE THE BONFIRE.

"Is this Guy Faux you burn in effigy? Why bring the Traitor here? What is Guy Faux to me? Guy Faux betrayed his country, and his laws. England revenged the wrong; his was a public cause. But I have private cause to raise this flame. Burn also those, and be their fate the same. [Puts the Basket in the fire under the figure. See here are locks and braids of coloured hair Worn oft by me, to make the people stare; Rouge, feathers, flowers, and all those tawdry things, Besides those Pictures, letters, chains, and rings— All made to lure the mind and please the eye, And fill the heart with pride and vanity— Burn, fire, burn; these glittering toys destroy. While thus we hail the blaze with throats of joy. Burn, fire, burn, while wondering Boys exclaim, And gold and trinkets glitter in the flame. Ah! look not thus on me, so grave, so sad; Shake not your heads, nor say the Lady's mad. Judge not of others, for there is but one To whom the heart and feelings can be known. Upon my youthful faults few censures cast. Look to the future—and forgive the past. London, farewell; vain world, vain life, adieu! Take the last tears I e'er shall shed for you. Young tho' I seem, I leave the world for ever, Never to enter it again—no, never—never!"



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3. The following letter was apparently written in the summer of 1812:

"You have been very generous and kind if you have not betray'd me, and I do not think you have. My remaining in Town and seeing you thus is sacrificing the last chance I have left. I expose myself to every eye, to every unkind observation. You think me weak, and selfish; you think I do not struggle to withstand my own feelings, but indeed it is exacting more than human nature can bear, and when I came out last night, which was of itself an effort, and when I heard your name announced, the moment after I saw nothing more, but seemed in a dream. Miss Berry's very loud laugh and penetrating eyes did not restore me. She, however, [was] good natur'd and remain'd near me, and Mr. Moor (sic), though he really does not approve one feeling I have, had kindness of heart to stay near me. Otherwise I felt so ill I could not have struggled longer. Lady Cahir said, 'You are ill; shall we go away?' which I [was] very glad to accept; but we could not get through, and so I fear it caus'd you pain to see me intrude again. I sent a groom to Holmes twice yesterday morning, to prevent his going to you, or giving you a letter full of flippant jokes, written in one moment of gaiety, which is quite gone since. I am so afraid he has been to you; if so, I entreat you to forgive it, and to do just what you think right about the Picture.

"I have been drawing you Mad. de Stael, as the last I sent was not like. If you do not approve this, give it Murray, and pray do not be angry with me.

"Do not marry yet, or, if you do, let me know it first. I shall not suffer, if she you chuse be worth you, but she will never love you as I did. I am going to the Chapple Royal at St. James. Do you ever go there? It begins at 1/2 past 5, and lasts till six; it is the most beautiful singing I ever heard; the choristers sing 'By the waters of Babylon.'

"The Peers sit below; the Women quite apart. But for the evening service very few go; I wonder that more do not,—it is really most beautiful, for those who like that style of music. If you never heard it, go there some day, but not when it is so cold as this. How very pale you are! What a contrast with Moore! 'Mai io l'ho veduto piu bello che jeri, ma e la belta della morte,' or a statue of white marble so colourless, and the dark brow and hair such a contrast. I never see you without wishing to cry; if any painter could paint me that face as it is, I would give them any thing I possess on earth,—not one has yet given the countenance and complexion as it is. I only could, if I knew how to draw and paint, because one must feel it to give it the real expression."



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4. The following letter was evidently written at the time when the separation of Lord and Lady Byron was first rumoured:

"Melbourne House, Thursday.

"When so many wiser and better surround you, it is not for me to presume to hope that anything I can say will find favour in your sight; but yet I must venture to intrude upon you, even though your displeasure against me be all I gain for so doing. All others may have some object or interest in their's; I have none, but the wish to save you. Will you generously consent to what is for the peace of both parties? and will you act in a manner worthy of yourself? I am sure in the end you will consent. Even were everything now left to your own choice, you never could bring yourself to live with a person who felt desirous of being separated from you. I know you too well to believe this possible, and I am sure that a separation nobly and generously arranged by you will at once silence every report spread against either party. Believe me, Lord Byron, you will feel happier when you act thus, and all the world will approve your conduct, which I know is not a consideration with you, but still should in some measure be thought of. They tell me that you have accused me of having spread injurious reports against you. Had you the heart to say this? I do not greatly believe it; but it is affirmed and generally thought that you said so. You have often been unkind to me, but never as unkind as this.

"Those who are dear to you cannot feel more anxious for your happiness than I do. They may fear to offend you more than I ever will, but they cannot be more ready to serve you. I wish to God that I could see one so superior in mind and talents and every grace and power that can fascinate and delight, happier. You might still be so, Lord Byron, if you would believe what some day you will find true. Have you ever thought for one moment seriously? Do you wish to heap such misery upon yourself that you will no longer be able to endure it? Return to virtue and happiness, for God's sake, whilst it is yet time. Oh, Lord Byron, let one who has loved you with a devotion almost profane find favour so far as to incline you to hear her. Sometimes from the mouth of a sinner advice may be received that a proud heart disdains to take from those who are upon an equality with themselves. If this is so, may it now, even now, have some little weight with you. Do not drive things to desperate extremes. Do not, even though you may have the power, use it to ill. God bless and sooth you, and preserve you. I cannot see all that I once admired and loved so well ruining himself and others without feeling it deeply. If what I have said is unwise, at least believe the motive was a kind one; and would to God it might avail.

"I cannot believe that you will not act generously in this instance.

"Yours, unhappily as it has proved for me,

"CAROLINE.

"Those of my family who have seen Lady Byron have assured me that, whatever her sorrow, she is the last in the world to reproach or speak ill of you. She is most miserable. What regret will yours be evermore if false friends or resentment impel you to act harshly on this occasion? Whatever my feelings may be towards you or her, I have, with the most scrupulous care for both your sakes, avoided either calling, or sending, or interfering. To say that I have spread reports against either is, therefore, as unjust as it is utterly false. I fear no enquiry."



* * * * *



5. The following letter probably refers to the publication of the lines, "Fare thee Well," in April, 1816:

"At a moment of such deep agony, and I may add shame—when utterly disgraced, judge, Byron, what my feelings must be at Murray's shewing me some beautiful verses of yours. I do implore you for God sake not to publish them. Could I have seen you one moment, I would explain why. I have only time to add that, however those who surround you may make you disbelieve it, you will draw ruin on your own head and hers if at this moment you shew these. I know not from what quarter the report originates. You accused me, and falsely; but if you could hear all that is said at this moment, you would believe one, who, though your enemy, though for ever alienated from you, though resolved never more, whilst she lives, to see or speak to or forgive you, yet would perhaps die to save you.

"Byron, hear me. My own misery I have scarce once thought of. What is the loss of one like me to the world? But when I see such as you are ruined for ever, and utterly insensible of it, I must [speak out]. Of course, I cannot say to Murray what I think of those verses, but to you, to you alone, I will say I think they will prove your ruin."



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6. In 1824, after the death of Byron, and after the publication of Captain Medwin's 'Recollections of Lord Byron', Lady Caroline Lamb sent a letter to Mr. Henry Colburn, the publisher, enclosing one to be given to Medwin and published. Both are given here, and the latter should be read in substantiation or correction of what is stated in the notes. The letter is printed 'verbatim et literati'.

(1) Lady Caroline Lamb to Henry Colburn.

"[November (?), 1824.]

"MY DEAR SIR,—Walter who takes this will explain my wishes. Will you enable him to deliver my letter to Captain Medwin, and will you publish it? you are to give him ten pound for it; I will settle it with you. I am on my death bed, do not fail to obey my wishes. I send you my journals but do not publish them until I am dead.

"Yours,

"CAROLINE LAMB."



(2) Lady Caroline Lamb to Captain Thomas Medwin.

[Endorsed, "This copy to be carefully preserved." Hy. Cn. (Henry Colburn?).]

"[November (?), 1824.]

"SIR,—I hope you will excuse my intruding upon your time, with the most intense interest I have just finished your book which does you credit as to the manner in which it is executed and after the momentary pain in part which it excites in many a bosom, will live in despight of censure—and be gratefully accepted by the Public as long as Lord Byron's name is remembered—yet as you have left to one who adored him a bitter legacy, and as I feel secure the lines 'remember thee—thou false to him thou fiend to me'—were his—and as I have been very ill & am not likely to trouble any one much longer—you will I am sure grant me one favour—let me to you at least confide the truth of the past—you owe it to me—you will not I know refuse me.

"It was when the first Child Harold came out upon Lord Byron's return from Greece that I first had the misfortune to be acquainted with him—at that time I was the happiest and gayest of human beings I do believe without exception—I had married for love and love the most romantic and ardent—my husband and I were so fond of each other that false as I too soon proved he never would part with me. Devonshire House was at that time closed from my Uncle's death for one year—at Melbourne House where I lived the Waltzes and Quadrilles were being daily practised, Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, the Duke of Devonshire, Miss Milbanke and a number of foreigners coming there to learn—You may imagine what forty or fifty people dancing from 12 in the morning until near dinner time all young gay and noisy were—in the evenings we either had opposition suppers or went out to Balls and routs—such was the life I then led when Moore and Rogers introduced Lord Byron to me—What you say of his falling upstairs and of Miss Milbanke is all true. Lord Byron 3 days after this brought me a Rose and Carnation and used the very words I mentioned in Glenarvon—with a sort of half sarcastic smile—saying, 'Your Ladyship I am told likes all that is new and rare for a moment'—I have them still, and the woman who through many a trial has kept these relics with the romance of former ages—deserves not that you should speak of her as you do. Byron never never could say I had no heart. He never could say, either, that I had not loved my husband. In his letters to me he is perpetually telling me I love him the best of the two; and my only charm, believe me, in his eyes was, that I was innocent, affectionate, and enthusiastic.

Recall those words, and let me not go down with your book as heartless. Tell the truth; it is bad enough; but not what is worse. It makes me so nervous to write that I must stop—will it tire you too much if I continue? I was not a woman of the world. Had I been one of that sort, why would he have devoted nine entire months almost entirely to my society; have written perhaps ten times in a day; and lastly have press'd me to leave all and go with him—and this at the very moment when he was made an Idol of, and when, as he and you justly observe, I had few personal attractions. Indeed, indeed I tell the truth. Byron did not affect—but he loved me as never woman was loved. I have had one of his letters copied in the stone press for you; one just before we parted. See if it looks like a mere lesson. Besides, he was then very good, to what he grew afterwards; &, his health being delicate, he liked to read with me & stay with me out of the crowd. Not but what we went about everywhere together, and were at last invited always as if we had been married—It was a strange scene—but it was not vanity misled me. I grew to love him better than virtue, Religion—all prospects here. He broke my heart, & still I love him—witness the agony I experienced at his death & the tears your book has cost me. Yet, sir, allow me to say, although you have unintentionally given me pain, I had rather have experienced it than not have read your book. Parts of it are beautiful; and I can vouch for the truth of much, as I read his own Memoirs before Murray burnt them. Keep Lord Byron's letter to me (I have the original) & some day add a word or two to your work from his own words, not to let every one think I am heartless. The cause of my leaving Lord Byron was this; my dearest Mother, now dead, grew so terrified about us—that upon hearing a false report that we were gone off together she was taken dangerously ill & broke a blood vessel. Byron would not believe it, but it was true. When he was convinced, we parted. I went to Ireland, & remained there 3 months. He wrote, every day, long kind entertaining letters; it is these he asked Murray to look out, and extract from, when he published the journal; but I would not part with them—I have them now—they would only burn them, & nothing of his should be burnt. At Dublin, God knows why, he wrote me the cruel letter part of which he acknowledges in Glenarvon (the 9th of November, 1812)—He knew it would destroy my mind and all else—it did so—Lady Oxford was no doubt the instigator. What will not a woman do to get rid of a rival? She knew that he still loved me—I need not tire you with every particular. I was brought to England a mere wreck; & in due time, Lady Melbourne & my mother being seriously alarmed for me, brought me to town, and allowed me to see Lord Byron. Our meeting was not what he insinuates—he asked me to forgive him; he looked sorry for me; he cried. I adored him still, but I felt as passionless as the dead may feel.—Would I had died there!—I should have died pitied, & still loved by him, & with the sympathy of all. I even should have pardoned myself—so deeply had I suffered. But, unhappily, we continued occasionally to meet. Lord Byron liked others, I only him—The scene at Lady Heathcote's is nearly true—he had made me swear I was never to Waltz. Lady Heathcote said, Come, Lady Caroline, you must begin, & I bitterly answered—oh yes! I am in a merry humour. I did so—but whispered to Lord Byron 'I conclude I may waltz now' and he answered sarcastically, 'with every body in turn—you always did it better than any one. I shall have a pleasure in seeing you."—I did so you may judge with what feelings. After this, feeling ill, I went into a small inner room where supper was prepared; Lord Byron & Lady Rancliffe entered after; seeing me, he said, 'I have been admiring your dexterity.' I clasped a knife, not intending anything. 'Do, my dear,' he said. 'But if you mean to act a Roman's part, mind which way you strike with your knife—be it at your own heart, not mine—you have struck there already.' 'Byron,' I said, and ran away with the knife. I never stabbed myself. It is false. Lady Rancliffe & Tankerville screamed and said I would; people pulled to get it from me; I was terrified; my hand got cut, & the blood came over my gown. I know not what happened after—but this is the very truth. After this, long after, Ld. Byron abused by every one, made the theme of every one's horror, yet pitied me enough to come & see me; and still, in spight of every one, William Lamb had the generosity to retain me. I never held my head up after—never could. It was in all the papers, and put not truly. It is true I burnt Lord Byron in Effigy, & his book, ring & chain. It is true I went to see him as a Carman, after all that! But it is also true, that, the last time we parted for ever, as he pressed his lips on mine (it was in the Albany) he said 'poor Caro, if every one hates me, you, I see, will never change—No, not with ill usage!' & I said, 'yes, I am changed, & shall come near you no more.'—For then he showed me letters, & told me things I cannot repeat, & all my attachment went. This was our last parting scene—well I remember it. It had an effect upon me not to be conceived—3 years I had worshipped him.

"Shortly after he married, once, Lady Melbourne took me to see his Wife in Piccadilly. It was a cruel request, but Lord Byron himself made it. It is to this wedding visit he alludes. Mrs. Leigh, myself, Lady Melbourne, Lady Noel, & Lady Byron, were in the room. I never looked up. Annabella was very cold to me. Lord Byron came in & seemed agitated—his hand was cold, but he seemed kind. This was the last time upon this earth I ever met him. Soon after, the battle of Waterloo took place. My Brother was wounded, & I went to Brussels. I had one letter while at Paris from Ld. Byron; a jesting one; hoping I was as happy with the regiment as he was with his 'Wife Bell.' When I returned, the parting between them occurred—& my page affair—& Glenarvon. I wrote it in a month under circumstances would surprise every body, but which I am not at liberty to mention. Besides, it has nothing to do with your book and would only tire you. Previous to this, I once met, & once only, Lady Byron. It was just after the separation occurred. She was so altered I could hardly know her—she appeared heart broken. What she then said to me I may not repeat—she was however sent away, she did not go willingly.

"She accused me of knowing every thing, & reproached me for not having stopped the marriage. How could I! She had been shewn my letters, and every one else. It is utterly false that she ever opened the desk—the nurse had nothing to do with the separation—

"From that hour, Lady Byron & I met no more, & it was after this, that, indignant & miserable, I wrote Glenarvon. Lady B. was more angry at it than he was—From that time, I put the whole as much as I could from my mind. Ld. Byron never once wrote to me—and always spoke of me with contempt. I was taken ill in March this year—Mrs. Russell Hunter & a nurse sat up with me. In the middle of the night I fancied I saw Ld. Byron—I screamed, jumped out of bed & desired them to save me from him. He looked horrible, & ground his teeth at me; he did not speak; his hair was straight; he was fatter than when I knew him, & not near so handsome. I felt convinced I was to die. This dream took possession of my mind. I had not dreamed of him since we had parted. It was, besides, like no other dream except one of my Mother that I ever had. I am glad to think it occurred before his death as I never did & hope I never shall see a Ghost. I have even avoided enquiring about the exact day for fear I should believe it—it made enough impression as it was. I told William, and my Brother & Murray at the time. Judge what my horror was, as well as grief, when, long after, the news came of his death, it was conveyed to me in two or 3 words—'Caroline, behave properly, I know it will shock you—Lord Byron is dead'—This letter I received when laughing at Brockett Hall. Its effect or some other cause produced a fever from which I never yet have recovered—It was also singular that the first day I could go out in an open Carriage, as I was slowly driving up the hill here,—Lord Byron's Hearse was at that moment passing under these very walls, and rested at Welwyn. William Lamb, who was riding on before me, met the procession at the Turnpike, & asked whose funeral it was. He was very much affected and shocked—I of course was not told; but, as I kept continually asking where & when he was to be buried, & had read in the papers it was to be at Westminster Abbey, I heard it too soon, & it made me very ill again."



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APPENDIX IV.

LETTERS OF BERNARD BARTON.

The two following letters were written to Byron in 1814, by Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet (see Letter 238, [Foot]note 1):—

I

"Woodbridge, Suffolk, Apl. 14th, 1814.

"MY LORD,—I received this morning the reply with which your Lordship honour'd my last, and now avail myself of the permission you have so kindly granted to state as briefly as I can the circumstances which have induced me to make this application, and the extent of my wishes respecting your Lordship's interference.

"Eight years since, I went into business in this place as a Merchant. I was then just of age, and, shortly after, married. The business in which I was engaged was of a very precarious Nature; and after vainly trying for 4 Years to make the best of it, I was compell'd to relinquish it altogether. Just then, to add to my distress, I lost my best, my firmest, my tenderest friend—the only being for whose sake I ever desir'd wealth, and the only one who could have cheer'd the gloom of Poverty. My Capital being a borrow'd one, I returned it as far as I could to the person who had lent it. Since that time, my Lord, I have been struggling to make the best of a Clerkship of L80 per ann., out of which I have to meet every expence, and still to maintain a respectable appearance in a Place where I have resided under different circumstances. Had I enter'd my present Situation free of all debts, I should have made it an inviolable rule to have limited my expenditure to my Income; but beginning in debt, compell'd by peculiar circumstances to mix with those much superior to myself, I have gone on till I find it quite impossible to go on any longer, and I am compelled to seek for some asylum where, by rigid frugality and indefatigable exertion, I may free myself from my present humiliating embarrassments; but while I am here the thing seems impracticable. Your Lordship will naturally inquire why I do not avail myself of the influence of those friends by whom I am known. As you have, my Lord, done me the honour to encourage me to state my position frankly, I will, without hesitation, inform you. I am, nominally at least, a Quaker. The persons to whom I should, in my present difficulties, naturally look for assistance are among the most respectable of that body; but my attachments to literary and metaphysical studies, and a line of conduct not compatible with the strictness of Quaker discipline, have, I am afraid, brought me into disrepute with those to whom I should otherwise have confided my situation. Were I to disclose it, it would only be consider'd as a fit judgment on me for my scepticism and infidelity.

"This, my Lord, is a brief but faithful statement of my present situation; it is, as I before told your Lordship, in every respect an untenable one. I must relinquish it, and throw myself an outcast on society. Can you, will you, my Lord, exert your influence to save me from irretrievable ruin? Can you, my Lord, in any possible way, afford employment to me? Can you take me into your service—a young man, not totally destitute of talents, eager to exert them, and willing to do anything or be anything in his power? If you can, my Lord, I will promise to serve you not servilely, but faithfully in any manner you shall point out. Do not, I beg of you, my Lord, refuse my application the moment you peruse it. The mouse, you know, once was able to show its gratitude to the lion; and it may be in my power, if your Lordship will but give me the opportunity, to evince my deep gratitude for any kindness you may show me, not by words, but deeds. Be assur'd you will not have cause to repent any interest you have taken or may take in my concerns. For the civility you shewed me on a former occasion, my Lord, I felt, as I ought, much indebted; but infinitely more for the generosity of feeling and soundness of judgment which dictated the letter you then did me the honour to address to me. Ever since then I have entertain'd the highest opinion both of your head and your heart. Is it, then, strange, my Lord, that, surrounded by difficulties, perplexed at every step I take, I should look up to your Lordship for advice, and, if possible, for assistance? Be the consequences what they may, I have ventur'd on the presumption of doing so. If I have taken too great a liberty, I beg you, my Lord, to forgive me, and let the tale of my perplexities and my misfortunes, my impertinence and its punishment, be alike forgotten; it can, at any rate, only give your Lordship the trouble of reading a letter. If, on the other hand, your Lordship can in any way realize the hopes I have long enthusiastically cherished, why, the 'blessing of him who is ready to perish shall fall on you.' Be the event what it may, 'Crede Byron' is, your Lordship sees, my motto.

"I am, my Lord,

"Your Lordship's very obt. servt,

"B. BARTON.

"P. S.—I shall wait with no common anxiety to see whether your Lordship will so far forgive this intrusion as to answer it."



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2.

"Woodbridge, April 15th, 1814.

"My Lord,—I should be truly sorry if my importunity should defeat its own purpose, and, instead of interesting your Lordship on my behalf, should make you regret the indulgence you have already granted me; but I really feel as if I had staked every remaining hope on the cast of the die, and, therefore, before it is thrown, I wish, my Lord, to make one or two more observations.

"Although in my last, which, as I before observed, was hastily written, I express'd my wish to be allow'd, in some capacity or other, to serve your Lordship, yet I am not so foolish as to think of fastening myself on you, my Lord, bon gre ou malgre. One reason for my expressing that wish, was an idea that your Lordship might go abroad before long; and, added to my own wish to see something of the world on which fate has thrown me, it occurred to me at the moment, that on such an occasion the services of one who is warmly attach'd to you, perhaps romantically, for I know nothing of your Lordship but by your writings, might be acceptable.

"But, my Lord, although I have thus alluded to what would most gratify my own wishes, it was not intended to dictate to you the manner in which you might promote my interest. If your Lordship's superior judgment and greater knowledge of the world can suggest anything else for my consideration, it shall receive every attention.

"One more remark, my Lord, and I have done. I am very sensible that in this application to your Lordship I have been guilty of what would be term'd by some a piece of great impertinence, and by most an act of consummate folly. Will you allow me, my Lord, frankly to state to you the arguments on which my resolutions were founded?

"I have not address'd you, my Lord, on the impulse of the moment, dictated by desperation, and adopted without reflection. No, my Lord; I had, or, at least, I thought I had, better reasons. I remembered that you had once condescended to address me 'candidly, not critically,' that you had even kindly interested yourself on my behalf. I thought that, amid all the keenness and poignancy of your habitual feelings, as powerfully pourtrayed in your writings, I could discern the workings of a heart truly noble. I imagin'd that what to a superficial observer appear'd only the overflowings of misanthropy, were, in reality, the effusions of deep sensibility. I convinc'd myself, by repeated perusals of your different productions, that though disappointments the most painful, and sensations the most acute, might have stung your heart to its very core, it had yet many feelings of the most exalted kind. From these I hoped everything. Those hopes may be disappointed, but the opinions which gave rise to them have not been hastily form'd, nor will any selfish feeling of mortification be able to alter them.

"I do not, my Lord, intend the above as any idle complimentary apology for what I have done. I am not, God knows, just now in a complimentary mood; and if I were, you, my Lord, are one of the last persons on earth on whom I should be tempted to play off such trash as idle panegyrics. I esteem you, my Lord, not merely for your rank, still less for your personal qualities. The former I respect as I ought; of the latter I know nothing. But I feel something more than mere respect for your genius and your talents; and from your past conduct towards myself I cannot be insensible to your kindness. For these reasons, my Lord, I acted as I have done. I before told you that I consider'd you no common character, and I think your Lordship will admit that I have not treated you as such.

"Permit me once more, my Lord, to take my leave by assuring you that I am,

"With the truest esteem, "Your very obt. and humble servt., "BERNARD BARTON.

"P. S.—I hope your Lordship will find no difficulty in making out this scrawl; but really, not being able to mend my pen, I am forced to write with it backwards. When I have the good luck to find my pen-knife, I will endeavour to furnish myself with a better tool."



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Part of the draft of Byron's answer to these two letters is in existence, and runs as follows:

"Albany, April 16th, 1814.

"Sir,—All offence is out of the question. My principal regret is that it is not in my power to be of service. My own plans are very unsettled, and at present, from a variety of circumstances, embarrassed, and, even were it otherwise, I should be both to offer anything like dependence to one, who, from education and acquirements, must doubly feel sensible of such a situation, however I might be disposed to render it tolerable.

"As an adviser I am rather qualified to point out what should be avoided than what may be pursued, for my own life has been but a series of imprudences and conflicts of all descriptions. From these I have only acquired experience; if repentance were added, perhaps it might be all the better, since I do not find the former of much avail without it."



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APPENDIX V.

CORRESPONDENCE WITH WALTER SCOTT.

The following is Walter Scott's reply to Byron's letter of July 6, 1812:

"Abbotsford, near Melrose, 16th July, 1812.

"MY LORD,—I am much indebted to your Lordship for your kind and friendly letter; and much gratified by the Prince Regent's good opinion of my literary attempts. I know so little of courts or princes, that any success I may have had in hitting off the Stuarts is, I am afraid, owing to a little old Jacobite leaven which I sucked in with the numerous traditionary tales that amused my infancy. It is a fortunate thing for the Prince himself that he has a literary turn, since nothing can so effectually relieve the ennui of state, and the anxieties of power.

"I hope your Lordship intends to give us more of 'Childe Harold'. I was delighted that my friend Jeffrey—for such, in despite of many a feud, literary and political, I always esteem him—has made so handsomely the 'amende honorable' for not having discovered in the bud the merits of the flower; and I am happy to understand that the retractation so handsomely made was received with equal liberality. These circumstances may perhaps some day lead you to revisit Scotland, which has a maternal claim upon you, and I need not say what pleasure I should have in returning my personal thanks for the honour you have done me. I am labouring here to contradict an old proverb, and make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, namely, to convert a bare 'haugh' and 'brae', of about 100 acres, into a comfortable farm. Now, although I am living in a gardener's hut, and although the adjacent ruins of Melrose have little to tempt one who has seen those of Athens, yet, should you take a tour which is so fashionable at this season, I should be very happy to have an opportunity of introducing you to anything remarkable in my fatherland. My neighbour, Lord Somerville, would, I am sure, readily supply the accommodations which I want, unless you prefer a couch in a closet, which is the utmost hospitality I have at present to offer. The fair, or shall I say the sage, Apreece that was, Lady Davy that is, is soon to show us how much science she leads captive in Sir Humphrey; so your Lordship sees, as the citizen's wife says in the farce, 'Thread-needle Street has some charms,' since they procure us such celebrated visitants. As for me, I would rather cross-question your Lordship about the outside of Parnassus, than learn the nature of the contents of all the other mountains in the world. Pray, when under 'its cloudy canopy' did you hear anything of the celebrated Pegasus? Some say he has been brought off with other curiosities to Britain, and now covers at Tattersal's. I would fain have a cross from him out of my little moss-trooper's Galloway, and I think your Lordship can tell one how to set about it, as I recognise his true paces in the high-mettled description of Ali Pacha's military court.

"A wise man said—or, if not, I, who am no wise man, now say—that there is no surer mark of regard than when your correspondent ventures to write nonsense to you. Having, therefore, like Dogberry, bestowed all my tediousness upon your Lordship, you are to conclude that I have given you a convincing proof that I am very much

"Your Lordship's obliged and very faithful servant,

"WALTER SCOTT."



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APPENDIX VI.

"THE GIANT AND THE DWARF."

The reply of Leigh Hunt's friends to Moore's squib, "The 'Living Dog' and the 'Dead Lion'" (see Letter 291, p. 205, note 1 [Footnote 2]), ran as follows:

"THE GIANT AND THE DWARF.

"Humbly inscribed to T. Pidcock, Esq., of Exeter 'Change.

"A Giant that once of a Dwarf made a friend, (And their friendship the Dwarf took care shouldn't be hid), Would now and then, out of his glooms, condescend To laugh at his antics,—as every one did.

"This Dwarf-an extremely diminutive Dwarf,— In birth unlike G—y, though his pride was as big, Had been taken, when young, from the bogs of Clontarf, And though born quite a Helot, had grown up a Whig.

"He wrote little verses—and sung them withal, And the Giant's dark visions they sometimes could charm, Like the voice of the lute which had pow'r over Saul, And the song which could Hell and its legions disarm.

"The Giant was grateful, and offered him gold, But the Dwarf was indignant, and spurn'd at the offer: 'No, never!' he cried, 'shall my friendship be sold For the sordid contents of another man's coffer!

"'What would Dwarfland, and Ireland, and every land say? To what would so shocking a thing be ascribed? My Lady would think that I was in your pay, And the Quarterly say that I must have been bribed.

"'You see how I'm puzzled; I don't say it wouldn't Be pleasant just now to have just that amount: But to take it in gold or in bank-notes!—I couldn't, I wouldn't accept it—on any account.

"'But couldn't you just write your Autobiography, All fearless and personal, bitter and stinging? Sure that, with a few famous heads in lithography, Would bring me far more than my Songs or my singing.

"'You know what I did for poor Sheridan's Life; Your's is sure of my very best superintendence; I'll expunge what might point at your sister or wife,— And I'll thus keep my priceless, unbought independence!'

"The Giant smiled grimly: he couldn't quite see What diff'rence there was on the face of the earth, Between the Dwarf's taking the money in fee, And his taking the same thing in that money's worth.

"But to please him he wrote; and the business was done: The Dwarf went immediately off to 'the Row;' And ere the next night had pass'd over the sun, The MEMOIRS were purchas'd by Longman and Co.

"W. GYNGELL, Showman, Bartholomew Fair."



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APPENDIX VII.

ATTACKS UPON BYRON IN THE NEWSPAPERS FOR FEBRUARY AND MARCH, 1814.

I. 'THE COURIER'.

(1) LORD BYRON ('The Courier', February 1, 1814).

A new Poem has just been published by the above Nobleman, and the 'Morning Chronicle' of to-day has favoured its readers with his Lordship's Dedication of it to THOMAS MOORE, Esq., in what that paper calls "an elegant eulogium." If the elegance of an eulogium consist in its extravagance, the 'Chronicle's' epithet is well chosen. But our purpose is not with the Dedication, nor the main Poem, 'The Corsair', but with one of the pieces called Poems, published at the end of the 'Corsair'. Nearly two years ago (in March, 1812), when the REGENT was attacked with a bitterness and rancour that disgusted the whole country; when attempts were made day after day to wound every feeling of the heart; there appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' an anonymous 'Address to a Young Lady weeping', upon which we remarked at the time ('Courier of March' 7, 1812), considering it as tending to make the Princess CHARLOTTE of WALES view the PRINCE REGENT her father as an object of suspicion and disgrace. Few of our readers have forgotten the disgust which this address excited. The author of it, however, unwilling that it should sleep in the oblivion to which it had been consigned with the other trash of that day, has republished it, and, placed the first of what are called Poems at the end of this newly published work the Corsair, we find this very address:

"Weep daughter of a royal line, A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;"

Lord Byron thus avows himself to be the Author.

To be sure the Prince has been extremely disgraced by the policy he has adopted, and the events which that policy has produced; and the realm has experienced great decay, no doubt, by the occurrences in the Peninsula, the resistance of Russia, the rising in Germany, the counter-revolution in Holland, and the defeat, disgrace, and shame of BUONAPARTE. But, instead of continuing our observations, suppose we parody his Lordship's Address, and apply it to February 1814:

TO A YOUNG LADY.

February, 1814.

"View! daughter of a royal line, A father's fame, a realm's renown: Ah! happy that that realm is thine, And that its father is thine own!

"View, and exulting view, thy fate, Which dooms thee o'er these blissful Isles To reign, (but distant be the date!) And, like thy Sire, deserve thy People's smiles."



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(2) 'The Courier', February 2, 1814.

Lord BYRON, as we stated yesterday, has discovered and promulgated to the world, in eight lines of choice doggrel, that the realm of England is in decay, that her Sovereign is disgraced, and that the situation of the country is one which claims the tears of all good patriots. To this very indubitable statement, the 'Morning Chronicle' of this day exhibits an admirable companion picture, a genuine letter from Paris, of the 25th ult.



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(3) 'The Courier', February 3, 1814.

"'The Courier' is indignant," says the 'Morning Chronicle', "at the discovery now made by Lord BYRON, that he was the author of 'the Verses to a Young Lady weeping,' which were inserted about a twelvemonth ago in the 'Morning Chronicle'. The Editor thinks it audacious in a hereditary Counsellor of the KING to admonish the 'Heir Apparent'. It may not be 'courtly' but it is certainly 'British', and we wish the kingdom had more such honest advisers."

The discovery of the author of the verses in question was not made by Lord BYRON. How could it be? When he sent them to the 'Chronicle, without' his name, he was just as well informed about the author as he is now that he has published them in a pamphlet, 'with' his name. The discovery was made to the public. They did not know in March, 1812, what they know in February, 1814. They did not suspect then what they now find avowed, that a Peer of the Realm was the Author of the attack upon the PRINCE; of the attempt to induce the Princess CHARLOTTE of WALES to think that her father was an object not of reverence and regard, but of disgrace.

But we "think it audacious in an hereditary Counsellor of the KING to admonish the Heir Apparent." No! we do not think it audacious: it is constitutional and proper. But are anonymous attacks the constitutional duty of a Peer of the Realm? Is that the mode in which he should admonish the Heir Apparent? If Lord BYRON had desired to admonish the PRINCE, his course was open, plain, and known—he could have demanded an audience of the PRINCE; or, he could have given his admonition in Parliament. But to level such an attack—What!—"Kill men i' the dark!" This, however, is called by the 'Chronicle' "certainly 'British'," though it might not be 'courtly', and a strong wish is expressed that "the country had many more such honest advisers" or admonishers. —Admonishers indeed! A pretty definition of admonition this, which consists not in giving advice, but in imputing blame, not in openly proffering counsel, but in secretly pointing censure.



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(4) BYRONIANA NO. I ('The Courier', February 5, 1814).

The Lord BYRON has assumed such a poetico-political and such a politico-poetical air and authority, that in our double capacity of men of letters and politicians, he forces himself upon our recollection. We say 'recollection' for reasons which will bye and by, be obvious to our readers, and will lead them to wonder why this young Lord, whose greatest talent it is to forget, and whose best praise it would be to be forgotten, should be such an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. SAM ROGERS'S 'Pleasures of Memory'.

The most virulent satirists have ever been the most nauseous panegyrists, and they are for the most part as offensive by the praise as by the abuse which they scatter.

His Lordship does not degenerate from the character of those worthy persons, his poetical ancestors:

"The mob of Gentlemen who wrote with ease"

who of all authors dealt the most largely in the alternation of flattery and filth. He is the severest satirical and the civilest dedicator of our day; and what completes his reputation for candour, good feeling, and honesty, is that the persons whom he most reviles, and to whom he most fulsomely dedicates, are identically the same.

We shall indulge our readers with a few instances:—the most obvious case, because the most recent, is that of Mr. THOMAS MOORE, to whom he has dedicated, as we have already stated, his last pamphlet; but as we wish to proceed orderly, we shall postpone this and revert to some instances prior in order of time; we shall afterwards show that his Lordship strictly adheres to HORACE'S rule, in maintaining to the end the ill character in which he appeared at the outset. His Lordship's first dedication was to his guardian and relative, the Earl of CARLISLE. So late as the year 1808, we find that Lord BYRON was that noble Lord's "most affectionate kinsman, etc., etc."

Hear how dutifully and affectionately this ingenuous young man celebrates, in a few months after (1809), the praises of his friend:

"No Muse will cheer with renovating smile, The paralytic puling of CARLISLE; What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer, Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer! So dull in youth, so drivelling in age, His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage. But Managers, for once, cried 'hold, enough,' Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, And case his volumes in congenial calf: Yes! doff that covering where Morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines."

And in explanation of this affectionate effusion, our lordly dedicator subjoins a note to inform us that Lord CARLISLE'S works are splendidly bound, but that "the rest is all but leather and prunella," and a little after, in a very laborious note, in which he endeavours to defend his consistency, he out-Herods Herod, or to speak more forcibly, out-Byrons Byron, in the virulence of his invective against "his guardian and relative, to whom he dedicated his volume of puerile poems." Lord CARLISLE has, it seems, if we are to believe his word, for a series of years, beguiled "the public with reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense," and Lord BYRON concludes by asking,

"What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards."

"So says POPE," adds Lord BYRON. But POPE does not say so; the words "knaves and fools," are not in POPE, but interpolated by Lord BYRON, in favour of his "guardian and relative." Now, all this might have slept in oblivion with Lord CARLISLE'S Dramas, and Lord BYRON'S Poems; but if this young Gentleman chooses to erect himself into a spokesman of the public opinion, it becomes worth while to consider to what notice he is entitled; when he affects a tone of criticism and an air of candour, he obliges us to enquire whether he has any just pretensions to either, and when he arrogates the high functions of public praise and public censure, we may fairly inquire what the praise or censure of such a being is worth:

"Thus bad begins, but worse remains behind."



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(5) BYRONIANA NO. 2 ('The Courier', February 8, 1814).

"Crede Byron" is Lord Byron's armorial motto; 'Trust Byron' is the translation in the Red-book. We cannot but admire the ingenuity with which his Lordship has converted the good faith of his ancestors into a sarcasm on his own duplicity.

"Could nothing but your chief reproach, Serve for a motto on your coach?"

Poor Lord Carlisle; he, no doubt, trusted in his affectionate ward and kinsman, and we have seen how the affectionate ward and kinsman acknowledged, like Macbeth, "the double trust" only to abuse it. We shall now show how much another Noble Peer, Lord Holland, has to trust to from his ingenuous dedicator.

Some time last year Lord Byron published a Poem, called The Bride of Abydos, which was inscribed to Lord Holland, "with every sentiment of regard and respect by his gratefully obliged and sincere friend, BYRON." "Grateful and sincere!" Alas! alas; 'tis not even so good as what Shakespeare, in contempt, calls "the sincerity of a cold heart." "Regard and respect!" Hear with what regard, and how much respect, he treats this identical Lord Holland. In a tirade against literary assassins (a class of men which Lord Byron may well feel entitled to describe), we have these lines addressed to the Chief of the Critical Banditti:

"Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway, Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay, While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes, To Hollands hirelings, and to learnings foes!"

By which it appears, that

"—These wolves that still in darkness prowl; This coward brood, which mangle, as their prey, By hellish instinct, all that cross their way;"

are hired by Lord Holland, and it follows, very naturally, that the "hirelings" of Lord Holland must be the "foes of learning."

This seems sufficiently caustic; but hear, how our dedicator proceeds:

"Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot, His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot! Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse! Long, long, beneath that hospitable roof Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof, And grateful to the founder of the feast Declare the Landlord can translate, at least!"

Lord Byron has, it seems, very accurate notions of gratitude, and the word "grateful" in these lines, and in his dedication of 'The Bride of Abydos', has a delightful similarity of meaning. His Lordship is pleased to add, in an explanatory note to this passage, that Lord Holland's life of Lopez de Vega, and his translated specimens of that author, are much "BEPRAISED by these disinterested guests." Lord Byron well knows that bepraise and bespatter are almost synonimous. There was but one point on which he could have any hope of touching Lord Holland more nearly; and of course he avails himself, in the most gentlemanly and generous manner, of the golden opportunity.

When his club of literary assassins is assembled at Lord Holland's table, Lord Byron informs us

"That lest when heated with the unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, My LADY skims the cream of each critique; Breathes o'er each page her purity of soul, Reforms each error, and refines the whole."

Our readers will, no doubt, duly appreciate the manliness and generosity of these lines; but, to encrease their admiration, we beg to remind them that the next time Lord Byron addresses Lord Holland, it is to dedicate to him, in all friendship, sincerity, and gratitude, the story of a young, a pure, an amiable, and an affectionate bride!

The verses were bad enough, but what shall be said, after such verses, of the insult of such a dedication!

We forbear to extract any further specimens of this peculiar vein of Lord Byron's satire; our "gorge rises at it," and we regret to have been obliged to say so much. And yet Lord Byron is, "with all regard and respect, Lord Holland's sincere and grateful friend!" It reminds us of the respect which Lear's daughters shewed their father, and which the poor old king felt to be "worse than murder."

Some of our readers may perhaps observe that, personally, Lord Holland was not so ill-treated as Lord Carlisle; but let it be recollected, that Lord Holland is only an acquaintance, while Lord Carlisle was "guardian and relation," and had therefore peculiar claims to the ingratitude of a mind like Lord Byron's.

Trust Byron, indeed! "him," as Hamlet says

"Him, I would trust as I would adders fang'd."



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(6) BYRONIANA No. 3 ('The Courier', February 12, 1814). "Crede Byron"—"Trust Byron."

We have seen Lord Byron's past and present opinions of two Noble Persons whom he has honoured with his satire, and vilified by his dedications; let us now compare the evidence which he has given at different and yet not distant times, on the merits of his third Dedicatee, Mr. Thomas Moore. To him Lord Byron has inscribed his last poem as a person "of unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents; as the firmest of Irish patriots, and the first of Irish bards."

Before we proceed to give Lord Byron's own judgment of this "firmest of patriots," and this "best of poets," we must be allowed to say, that though we consider Mr. Moore as a very good writer of songs, we should very much complain of the poetical supremacy assigned to him, if Lord Byron had not qualified it by calling him the first only of Irish poets, and, as we suppose his Lordship must mean, of Irish poets of the present day. The title may be, for aught we know to the contrary, perfectly appropriate; but we cannot conceive how Mr. Moore comes by the high-sounding name of "patriot;" what pretence there is for such an appellation; by what effort of intellect or of courage he has placed his name above those idols of Irish worship, Messrs. Scully, Connell, and Dromgoole. Mr. Moore has written words to Irish tunes; so did Burns for his national airs; but who ever called Burns the "firmest of patriots" on the score of his contributions to the Scots Magazine?

Mr. Moore, we are aware, has been accused of tuning his harpsichord to the key-note of a faction, and of substituting, wherever he could, a party spirit for the spirit of poetry: this, in the opinion of most persons, would derogate even from his poetical character, but we hope that Lord Byron stands alone in considering that such a prostitution of the muse entitles him to the name of patriot. Mr. Moore, it seems, is an Irishman, and, we believe, a Roman Catholic; he appears to be, at least in his poetry, no great friend to the connexion of Ireland with England. One or two of his ditties are quoted in Ireland as laments upon certain worthy persons whose lives were terminated by the hand of the law, in some of the unfortunate disturbances which have afflicted that country; and one of his most admired songs begins with a stanza, which we hope the Attorney-General will pardon us for quoting:

"Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betrayed her, When Malachy wore the collar of gold, Which he won from her proud Invader; When her Kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, Ere, the emerald gem of the western world, Was set in the crown of a Stranger."

This will pretty well satisfy an English reader, that, if it be any ingredient of patriotism to promote the affectionate connexion of the English isles under the constitutional settlement made at the revolution and at the union; and if the foregoing verses speak Mr. Moore's sentiments, he has the same claims to the name of "patriot" that Lord Byron has to the title of "trustworthy;" but if these and similar verses do not speak Mr. Moore's political sentiments, then undoubtedly he has never written, or at least published any thing relating to public affairs; and Lord Byron has no kind of pretence for talking of the political character and public principles of an humble individual who is only known as the translator of Anacreon, and the writer, composer, and singer of certain songs, which songs do not (ex-hypothesi) speak the sentiments even of the writer himself.

But, hold—we had forgot one circumstance: Mr. Moore has been said to be one of the authors of certain verses on the highest characters of the State, which appeared from time to time in the 'Morning Chronicle', and which were afterwards collected into a little volume; this may, probably, be in Lord Byron's opinion, a clear title to the name of patriot, in which case, his Lordship has also his claim to the same honour; and, indeed that sagacious and loyal person, the Editor of the 'Morning Chronicle', seems to be of this notion; for when some one ventured to express some, we think not unnatural, indignation at Lord Byron's having been the author of some impudent doggrels, of the same vein, which appeared anonymously in that paper reflecting on his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and her Royal Highness his daughter, the Editor before-mentioned exclaimed—"What! and is not a Peer, an hereditary councillor of the Crown, to be permitted to give his constitutional advice?!!!"

If writing such vile and anonymous stuff as one sometimes reads in the 'Morning Chronicle' be the duty of a good subject, or the privilege of a Peer of Parliament, then indeed we have nothing to object to Mr. Moore's title of Patriot, or Lord Byron's open, honourable, manly, and constitutional method of advising the Crown.

To return, however, to our main object, Lord Byron's consistency, truth, and trustworthiness.

His Lordship is pleased to call Mr. Moore not only Patriot and Poet, but he acquaints us also, that "he is the delight alike of his readers and his friends; the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own."

Let us now turn to Lord Byron's thrice-recorded opinion of "this Poet of all Circles." We shall quote from a Poem which was republished, improved, amended, and reconsidered, not more than three years ago; since which time Mr. Moore has published no Poem whatsoever; therefore, Lord Byron's former and his present opinions are founded upon the same data, and if they do not agree, it really is no fault of Mr. Moore's, who has published nothing to alter them.

"Now look around and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works that please the age, While Little's lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves."

Here, by no great length of induction, we find Little's, i.e. Mr. Thomas Moore's lyrics, are trifling, "precious works," his Lordship ironically adds, that "please times from which," as his Lordship says, "taste and reason are passed away!"

Bye and by his Lordship delivers a still more plain opinion on Mr. Moore's fitness to be the "Poet of ALL circles."

"Who in soft guise, surrounded by a quire Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, Strikes his wild lyre, while listening dames are hush'd? 'Tis Little, young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay; Griev'd to condemn, the Muse must yet be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust!"

"O calum et terra!" as Lingo says. What! this purest of Patriots is immoral? What! "the Poet of all circles" is "the advocate of lust"? Monstrous! But who can doubt Byron? And his Lordship, in a subsequent passage, does not hesitate to speak still more plainly, and to declare, in plain round terms (we shudder while we copy) that Moore, the Poet, the Patriot "Moore, is lewd"!!!

After this, we humbly apprehend that if we were to "trust Byron," Mr. Moore, however he may be the idol of his own circle, would find some little difficulty in obtaining admittance into any other.

Lord Byron having thus disposed, as far as depended upon him, of the moral character of the first of Patriots and Poets, takes an early opportunity of doing justice to the personal honour of this dear "friend;" one, as his Lordship expresses it, of "the magnificent and fiery spirited" sons of Erin.

"In 1806," says Lord Byron, "Messrs. Jeffery and Moore met at Chalk Farm—the duel was prevented by the interference of the Magistracy, and on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the combatants, were found to have evaporated!"

"Magnificent and fiery spirit," with a vengeance!

We are far from thinking of Mr. Moore as Lord Byron either did or does; not so degradingly as his Lordship did in 1810; not so extravagantly as he does in 1813. But we think that Mr. Moore has grave reason of complaint, and almost just cause, to exert "his fiery spirit" against Lord Byron, who has the effrontery to drag him twice before the public, and overwhelm him, one day with odium, and another with ridicule.

We regret that Lord Byron, by obliging us to examine the value of his censures, has forced us to contrast his past with his present judgments, and to bring again before the public the objects of his lampoons and his flatteries. We have, however, much less remorse in quoting his satire than his dedications; for, by this time, we believe, the whole world is inclined to admit that his Lordship can pay no compliment so valuable as his censure, nor offer any insult so intolerable as his praise.



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(7) BYRONIANA No. 4 ('The Courier', February 17, 1814).

"'Don Pedro.' What offence have these men done?

"'Dogberry.' Many, Sir; they have committed false reports; moreover they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixthly and lastly, they have belied a Lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things, and, to conclude, they are lying knaves."

'Much Ado about Nothing.'

We have already seen how scurvily Lord Byron has treated three of the four persons to whom he has successively dedicated his Poems; but for the fourth he reserved a species of contumely, which we are confident our readers will think more degrading than all the rest. He has uniformly praised him! and him alone!!!—The exalted rank, the gentle manners, the polished taste of his guardian and relation, Lord Carlisle; the considerations due to Lord Holland, from his family, his personal character, and his love of letters; the amiability of Mr. Moore's society, the sweetness of his versification, and the vivacity of his imagination;—all these could not save their possessors from the brutality of Lord Byron's personal satire.

It was, then, for a person only, who should have none of these titles to his envy that his Lordship could be expected to reserve the fullness and steadiness of his friendship; and if we had any respect or regard for that small poet and very disagreeable person, Mr. Sam Rogers, we should heartily pity him for being "damned" to such "fame" as Lord Byron's uninterrupted praise can give.

But Mr. Sam Rogers has another cause of complaint against Lord Byron, and which he is of a taste to resent more. His Lordship has not deigned to call him "the firmest of patriots," though we have heard that his claims to that title are not much inferior to Mr. Moore's. Mr. Sam Rogers is reported to have clubb'd with the Irish Anacreon in that scurrilous collection of verses, which we have before mentioned, and which were published under the title of the Twopenny Post-bag, and the assumed name of "Thomas Brown." The rumour may be unfounded; if it be, Messrs. Rogers and Moore will easily forgive us for saying that, much as we are astonished at the effrontery with which Lord Byron has acknowledged his lampoon, we infinitely prefer it to the cowardly prudence of the author or authors of the Twopenny Post-bag lurking behind a fictitious name, and "devising impossible slanders," which he or they have not the spirit to avow.

But, to return to the more immediate subject of our lucubrations: It seems almost like a fatality, that Lord Byron has hardly ever praised any thing that he has not at some other period censured, or censured any thing that he has not, by and bye, praised or practised.

It does not often happen that booksellers are assailed for their too great liberality to authors; yet, in Lord Byron's satire, while Mr. Scott is abused, his publisher, Mr. Murray, is sneered at, in the following lines:

"And think'st them, Scott, by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance; Though Murray with his Miller may combine, To yield thy Muse just HALF-A-CROWN A LINE? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Low may they sink to merited contempt, And scorn remunerate the mean attempt."

Now, is it not almost incredible that this very Murray (the only remaining one of the booksellers whom his Lordship had attacked; Miller has left the trade)—is it not, we say, almost incredible that this very Murray should have been soon after selected, by this very Lord Byron, to be his own publisher? But what will our readers say, when we assure them, that not only was Murray so selected, but that this magnanimous young Lord has actually sold his works to this same Murray? and, what is a yet more singular circumstance, has received and pocketted, for one of his own "stale romances," a sum amounting, not to "half-a-crown," but to a whole crown, a line!!!

This fact, monstrous as it seems in the author of the foregoing lines, is, we have the fullest reason to believe, accurately true. And the "faded laurel," "the brains rac'd for lucre," "the merited contempt," "the scorn," and the "meanness," which this impudent young man dared to attribute to Mr. Scott, appear to have been a mere anticipation of his own future proceedings; and thus,

"—Even-handed Justice Commends the ingredients of his poison'd chalice To his own lips."

How he now likes the taste of it we do not know; about as much, we suspect, as the "incestuous, murderous, damned Dane" did, when Hamlet obliged him to "drink off the potion" which he had treacherously drugged for the destruction of others.



* * * * *



(8) BYRONIANA No. 5 ('The Courier', February 19, 1814).

"He professes no keeping oaths; in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool."

'All's Well that ends Well'.

We have, we should hope, sufficiently exposed the audacious levity and waywardness of Lord Byron's mind, and yet there are a few touches which we think will give a finish to the portrait, and add, if it be at all wanting, to the strength of the resemblance.

* * * * *

It must be amusing to those who know anything of Lord Byron in the circles of London, to find him magnanimously defying in very stout heroics,

"—all the din of Melbourne House And Lambes' resentment—"

and adding that he is "unscared" even by "Holland's spouse."

* * * * *

To those who may be in the habit of hearing his Lordship's political descants, the following extract will appear equally curious:

"Mr. Brougham, in No. 25 of the 'Edinburgh Review', throughout the article concerning Don Pedro Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed at the INFAMOUS principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions;" and in the text of this poem, to which the foregoing is a note, he advises the Editor of the Review to

"Beware, lest blundering Brougham destroy the sale; Turn beef to bannacks, cauliflower to kail."

Those who have attended to his Lordship's progress as an author, and observed that he has published four poems, in little more than two years, will start at the following lines:

"—Oh cease thy song! A bard may chaunt too often and too long; As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare; A FOURTH, alas, were more than we could bear."

And as the scene of each of these four Poems is laid in the Levant, it is curious to recollect, that when his Lordship informed the world that he was about to visit "Afric's coast," and "Calpe's height," and "Stamboul's minarets," and "Beauty's native clime," he enters into a voluntary and solemn engagement with the public,

"That should he back return, no letter'd rage Shall drag his common-place book on the stage; Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell, He'll leave topography to classic Cell, And, quite content, no more shall interpose, To stun mankind with poetry or prose."

And yet we have already had, growing out of this "Tour," four volumes of poetry, enriched with copious notes in prose, selected from his "common-place book." The whole interspersed every here and there with the most convincing proofs that instead of being "quite content," his Lordship has returned, as he went out, the most discontented and peevish thing that breathes.

But the passage of all others which gives us the most delight is that in which his Lordship attacks his critics, and declares that

"Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they too are penetrable stuff."

and adds,

"—I have— Learn'd to deride the Critic's stern decree, And break him on the wheel he meant for me."

We should now, with all humility, ask his Lordship whether he yet feels that "he too is penetrable stuff;" and we should further wish to know how he likes being "broken on the wheel he meant for others?"

When his Lordship shall have sufficiently pondered on those questions, we may perhaps venture to propound one or two more.



* * * * *



(9) From 'The Courier' (March 15, 1814).

The republication of some Satires, which the humour of the moment now disposes the writer to recall, was strenuously censured, the other day, in a Morning Paper. It was there said, amongst other things, that such a republication "contributes to exasperate and perpetuate the divisions of those whom nature and friendship have joined!" This is within six weeks after the deliberate republication of "Weep, daughter," etc., etc.; and thus we are informed of the exact moment at which all retort is to cease; at which misrepresentation towards the public and outrage towards the Personages much more than insulted in those lines, is to be no longer remembered. What privileges does this writer claim for his friends! They are to live in all "the swill'd insolence" of attack upon those on whose character, union, and welfare, the public prosperity mainly depends; they are to instruct the DAUGHTER to hold the FATHER disgraced, because he does not surrender the prime Offices of the State to their ambition. And if, after this, public disgust make the author feel, in the midst of the little circle of flatterers that remains to him, what an insight he has given into the guilt of satire before maturity, before experience, before knowledge; if the original unprovoked intruder upon the peace of others be thus taught a love of privacy and a facility of retraction; if Turnus have found the time,

"magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta, et cum spolia ista, diemque Oderit;"

if triumphing arrogance be changed into a sentimental humility, O! then 'Liberality' is to call out for him in the best of her hacknied tones; the contest is to cease at the instant when his humour changes from mischief to melancholy; 'affetuoso' is to be the only word; and he is to be allowed his season of sacred torpidity, till the venom, new formed in the shade, make him glisten again in the sunshine he envies!



* * * * *



II. MORNING POST.

(1) VERSES ('Morning Post', February 5, 1814).

Suggested by reading some lines of Lord Byron's at the end of his newly published work, entitled "The Corsair" which begin:

"Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line."

"'Far better be the thing that crawls, [1] Disgustful on a dungeon's walls; Far better be the worm that creeps, In icy rings o'er him who sleeps;'"

"Far better be the reptile scorn'd, Unseen, unheeded, unadorn'd, Than him, to whom indulgent heav'n, Has talents and has genius giv'n; If stung by envy, warp'd by pride, Such gifts, alas! are misapplied; Not all by nature's bounty blest In beauty's dazzling hues are drest; But who shall play the critic's part, If for the form atones the heart? But if the gloomiest thoughts prevail, And Atheist doctrines stain the tale; If calumny to pow'r addrest, Attempts to wound its Sovereign's breast; If impious it shall try to part, The Father from the Daughter's heart; If it shall aim to wield a brand, To fire our fair and native land; If hatred for the world and men, Shall dip in gall the ready pen:

"'Oh then far better 'tis to crawl, Harmless upon a dungeon's wall; And better far the worm that creeps, In icy rings o'er him who sleeps.'"



[Footnote 1: 'Vide' Lord Byron's works.]



* * * * *



(2) To LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 7, 1814).

"Bard of ungentle wayward mood! 'Tis said of thee, when in the lap, Thy nurse to tempt thee to thy food, Would squeeze a lemon in thy pap.

"At vinegar how danc'd thine eyes, Before thy tongue a want could utter, And oft the dame to stop thy cries, Strew'd wormwood on thy bread and butter.

"And when in childhood's frolic hour, Thou'dst plait a garland for thy hair; The nettle bloom'd a chosen flow'r, And native thistles flourish'd there.

"For sugar-plum thou ne'er did'st pine, Thy teeth no sweet-meat ever hurt— The sloe's juice was thy favourite wine, And bitter almonds thy desert.

"Mustard, how strong so e'er the sort is, Can draw no moisture from thine eye; Not vinegar nor aqua-fortis Could ever set thy face awry.

"Thus train'd a Satirist—thy mind Soon caught the bitter, sharp, and sour, And all their various pow'rs combin'd, Produc'd 'Childe Harold', and the 'Giaour'."



* * * * *



(3) LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 8, 1814).

We are very much surprized, and we are not the only persons who feel disgust as well as astonishment, at the uncalled for avowal Lord Byron has made of being the Author of some insolent lines, by inserting them at the end of his new Poem, entitled "The Corsair." The lines we allude to begin "Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line." Nothing can be more repugnant to every good heart, as well as to the moral and religious feelings of a country, which we are proud to say still cherishes every right sentiment, than an attempt to lower a father in the eyes of his child. Lord Byron is a young man, and from the tenor of his writings, has, we fear, adopted principles very contrary to those of Christianity. But as a man of honour and of feeling, which latter character he affects outrageously, he ought never to have been guilty of so unamiable and so unprovoked an attack. Should so gross an insult to her Royal Father ever meet the eyes of the illustrious young Lady, for whose perusal it was intended, we trust her own good sense and good heart will teach her to consider it with the contempt and abhorrence it so well merits. Will she weep for the disgrace of a Father who has saved Europe from bondage, and has accumulated, in the short space of two years, more glory than can be found in any other period of British history? Will she "weep for a realm's decay," when that realm is hourly emerging under the Government of her father, from the complicated embarrassments in which he found it involved? But all this is too evident to need being particularised. What seems most surprising is, that Lord Byron should chuse to avow Irish trash at a moment when every thing conspires to give it the lie. It is for the organ of the Party alone, or a few insane admirers of Bonaparte and defamers of their own country and its rulers, to applaud him. We know it is now the fashion for our young Gentlemen to become Poets, and a very innocent amusement it is, while they confine themselves to putting their travels into verse, like Childe Harolde, and Lord Nugent's Portugal. Nor is there any harm in Turkish tales, nor wonderful ditties, of ghosts and hobgoblins. We cannot say so much for all Mr. Moore's productions, admired as he is by Lord Byron. In short, the whole galaxy of minor poets, Lords Nugent and Byron, with Messrs. Rogers, Lewis, and Moore, would do well to keep to rhyme, and not presume to meddle with politics, for which they seem mighty little qualified. We must repeat, that it is innocent to write tales and travels in verse, but calumny can never be so, whether written by poets in St. James's-street, Albany, or Grub-street.



* * * * *



(4) LINES ('Morning Post', February 8, 1814).

Written on reading the insolent verses published by Lord Byron at the end of his new poem, "The Corsair" beginning

"Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line."

"Unblest by nature in thy mien, Pity might still have play'd her part, For oft compassion has been seen, To soften into love the heart.

But when thy gloomy lines we read, And see display'd without controul, Th' ungentle thought, the Atheist creed, And all the rancour of the soul.

When bold and shameless ev'ry tie, That GOD has twin'd around the heart, Thy malice teaches to defy, And act on earth a Demon's part.

Oh! then from misanthropic pride We shrink—but pity too the fate Of youth and talents misapplied, Which, if admired, [1] we still must hate."



[Footnote 1: We say, if admired, as there is a great variety of opinions respecting Lord Byron's Poems. Some certainly extol them much, but most of the best judges place his Lordship rather low in the list of our minor Poets.]



* * * * *



(5) LINES ('Morning Post', February 11, 1814).

Suggested by perusing Lord Byron's small Poem, at the end of his "Corsair" addressed to a Lady weeping, beginning:

"Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line."



"To LORD BYRON.

"Were he the man thy verse would paint, 'A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;' Art thou the meek, the pious saint, That prates of feeling night and day?

"Stern as the Pirate's [1] heart is thine, Without one ray to cheer its gloom; And shall that Daughter once repine, Because thy rude, unhallow'd line, Would on her virtuous cause presume?

"Hide, BYRON! in the shades of night— Hide in thy own congenial cell The mind that would a fiend affright, And shock the dunnest realms of hell!

"No; she will never weep the tears Which thou would'st Virtue's deign to call; Nor will they, in remoter years, Molest her Father's heart at all.

"Dark-vision'd man! thy moody vein Tends only to thy mental pain, And cloud the talents Heav'n had meant To prove the source of true content; Much better were it for thy soul, Both here and in the realms of bliss, To check the glooms that now controul Those talents, which might still repay The wrongs of many a luckless day, In such a cheerless[2] clime as this.

"But never strive to lure the heart From one to which 'tis ever nearest, Lest from its duty it depart, And shun the Pow'r which should be dearest: For heav'n may sting thy heart in turn, And rob thee of thy sweetest treasure But, BYRON! thou hast yet to learn, That Virtue is the source of pleasure!"

TYRTAEUS.

G—n-street, Feb. 9, 1814.



[Footnote 1: 'The Corsair'.]

[Footnote 2: In allusion to the general melancholy character of his Lordship's poetical doctrines.]



* * * * *



(6) To LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 15, 1814).

Occasioned by reading his Poem, at the end of 'The Corsair', beginning:

"Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line."



Shame on the verse that dares intrude On Virtue's uncorrupted way— That smiles upon Ingratitude, And charms us only to betray!

For this does BYRON'S muse employ The calm unbroken hours of night? And wou'd she basely thus destroy The source of all that's just-upright?

Traitor to every moral law! Think what thy own cold heart wou'd feel, If some insidious mind should draw Thy daughter [1] from her filial zeal.

And dost thou bid the offspring shun Its father's fond, incessant care? Why, every sister, sire, and son, Must loathe thee as the poison'd air!

BYRON! thy dark, unhallow'd mind, Stor'd as it is with Atheist writ, Will surely, never, never find, One convert to admire its wit!

Thou art a planet boding woe, Attractive for thy novel mien— A calm, but yet a deadly foe, Most baneful when thou'rt most serene!

Tho' fortune on thy course may shine, Strive not to lead the mind astray, Nor let one impious verse of thine, The unsuspecting heart betray!

But rather let thy talents aim To lead incautious youth aright; Thus shall thy works acquire that fame, Which ought to be thy chief delight.

"The verse, however smooth it flow, Must be abhorr'd, abjur'd, despis'd, When Virtue feels a secret blow, And order finds her course surpris'd."

HORATIO.

Fitzroy-square, Feb. 13.



[Footnote 1: Supposing LORD BYRON to have a daughter.]



* * * * *



(7) To LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 16, 1814).

"Bard of the pallid front, and curling hair, To London taste, and northern critics dear, Friend of the dog, companion of the bear, APOLLO drest in trimmest Turkish gear.

"'Tis thine to eulogize the fell Corsair, Scorning all laws that God or man can frame; And yet so form'd to please the gentle fair, That reading misses wish their Loves the same.

"Thou prov'st that laws are made to aid the strong, That murderers and thieves alone are brave, That all religion is an idle song, Which troubles life, and leaves us at the grave.

"That men and dogs have equal claims on Heav'n, Though dogs but bark, and men more wisely prate, That to thyself one friend alone was giv'n, That Friend a Dog, now snatch'd away by Fate.

"And last can tell how daughters best may shew Their love and duty to their fathers dear, By reckoning up what stream of filial woe Will give to every crime a cleansing tear.

"Long may'st thou please this wonder-seeking age, By MURRAY purchas'd, and by MOORE admir'd; May fashion never quit thy classic page, Nor e'er be with thy Turkomania tir'd."

UNUS MULTORUM.



* * * * *



(8) VERSES ADDRESSED TO LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 16, 1814).

"Lord Byron! Lord Byron! Your heart's made of iron, As hard and unfeeling as cold. Half human, half bird, From Virgil we've heard, Were form'd the fam'd harpies of old.

"Like those monsters you chatter, Friends and foes you bespatter, And dirty, like them, what you eat: The Hollands, your muse Does most grossly abuse, Tho' you feed on their wine and their meat.

"Your friend, little Moore, You have dirtied before, But you know that in safety you write: You've declared in your lines, That revenge he declines, For the poor little man will not fight.

"At Carlisle you sneer, That worthy old Peer, Though united by every tie; But you act as you preach, And do what you teach, And your God and your duty defy.

"As long as your aim Was alone to defame, The nearest relation you own; At your malice he smil'd, But he won't see defil'd, By your harpy bespatt'rings, the Throne."



* * * * *



(9) PATRONAGE EXTRAORDINARY ('Morning Post', February 17, 1814).

"Procul este profani—!"

"A friendship subsisted, no friendship was closer, 'Twixt the heir of a Peer and the son of a Grocer; 'Tis true, though so wide was their difference of station, For, we always find truth in a long dedication. Atheistical doctrines in verse we are told, The former sold wholesale, was daring and bold; While the latter (whatever he offer'd for sale) Like papa, he disposed of—of course by retail! First—scraps of indecency, next disaffection, Disguised by the knave from his fear of detection; To court party favour, then, sonnets he wrote; Set political squibs to the harpsichord's note. One, as patron was chosen by his brother Poet, The Peer, to be sure, from his rank we may know it; Not the low and indecent composer of jigs— Yes! yes! 'twas the son of the seller of Figs!! Did the Peer then possess no respectable friend To add weight to his name, and his works recommend?! Atheistical writings we well may believe, None of worth from the Author would deign to receive; So—to cover the faults of his friend he essays, By daubing him thickly all over with praise. But, parents, attend! if your daughters you love, The works of these serpents take care to remove: Their infernal attacks from your mansions repel, Where filial affection and modesty dwell."

VERAX.



* * * * *



(10) LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 18, 1814).

If it was the object of Lord BYRON to stamp his character, and to bring his name forward by a single act of his life into general notoriety, it must be confessed that he has completely succeeded. We do not recollect any former instance in which a Peer has stood forth as the libeller of his Sovereign. If he disapproves the measures of his Ministers, the House of Parliament, in which he has an hereditary right to sit, is the place where his opinions may with propriety be uttered. If he thinks he can avert any danger to his country by a personal conference with his Sovereign, he has a right to demand it. The Peers are the natural advisers of the Crown, but the Constitution which has granted them such extraordinary privileges, makes it doubly criminal in them to attack the authority from which it is derived, and to insult the power which it is their peculiar province to uphold and protect. What then must we think of the foolish vanity, or the bad taste of a titled Poet, who is the first to proclaim himself the Author of a Libel, because he is fearful it will not be sufficiently read without his avowal. We perfectly remember having read the verses in question a year ago; but we could not then suppose them the offspring of patrician bile, nor should we now believe it without the Author's special authority. It seems by some late quotations from his Lordship's works, which have been rescued from that oblivion to which they were hastening with a rapid step, by one of our co-equals, that this peerless Peer has already gone through a complete course of private ingratitude. The inimitable Hogarth has traced the gradual workings of an unfeeling heart in his progress of cruelty. He has shewn, that malevolence is progressive in its operation, and that a man who begins life by impaling flies, will find a delight in torturing his fellow creatures before he closes it. We have heard that even at school these poetical propensities were strongly manifested in Lord BYRON, and that he began his satirical career against those persons to whom the formation of his mind was entrusted. From his schoolmaster he turned the oestrum of his opening genius to his guardian and uncle, the Earl of CARLISLE. We cannot believe that the Noble Person's conduct has in this instance been a perfect contrast to the general tenor of his life. We have heard, that during his guardianship he tripled the amount of his nephew's fortune. If the Earl of CARLISLE was satisfied with his own 'conscia mens recti', if he wanted no thanks, he must at least have been much surprised to find such attentions and services rewarded with a libel, in which not only his literary accomplishments, but his bodily infirmities, were made the subject of public ridicule. The Noble Earl was certainly at liberty to treat such personal attacks with the contempt which they deserve, but since his Sovereign is become the object of a vile and unprovoked libel, he will no doubt draw the attention of his Peers to a new case of outrage to good order and government, which has been unfortunately furnished by his own nephew.



* * * * *



III. THE SUN.

(1) LORD BYRON AND THE 'MORNING CHRONICLE'

('The Sun', February 4, 1814).

That poetical Peer, Lord BYRON, knowing full well that anything insulting to his Prince or injurious to his country would be most thankfully received and published by the 'Morning Chronicle', did in March, 1812, send the following loyal and patriotic lines to that loyal and patriotic Paper, in which of course they appeared:

"To A LADY WEEPING.

"Weep, daughter of a Royal line, A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay: Ah! happy! if each tear of thine Could wash a father's fault away!

"Weep—for thy tears are Virtue's tears— Auspicious to these suffering isles: And be each drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!"

These lines the 'Morning Chronicle', in the following paragraph of yesterday, informs us were aimed at the PRINCE REGENT, and addressed to the Princess CHARLOTTE:

"'The Courier' is indignant at the discovery now made by Lord BYRON, that he was the author of 'the Verses to a Young Lady weeping,' which were inserted about a twelvemonth ago in 'the Morning Chronicle'. The Editor thinks it audacious in a hereditary Counsellor of the King to admonish the 'Heir Apparent'. It may not be 'courtly', but it is certainly 'British', and we wish the kingdom had more such honest advisers."

No wonder the 'Courier', and every loyal man, should be indignant at the discovery (made by the republication of these worthless lines, in the Noble Lord's new Volume) that this gross insult came from the pen of "a hereditary Counsellor of the KING! "No wonder every good subject should execrate this novel and disagreeable mode of "'admonishing' the Heir Apparent," which is further from being British than it is from being Courtly; for, from Courtier baseness may be expected, but from a Briton no such infamous dereliction of his duty as is involved in a malignant, 'anonymous' attack by a Peer of the Realm upon the person exercising the Sovereign Authority of his Country. But the assertions of Lord BYRON are as false as they are audacious. What was the "Sire's Disgrace" to be thus bewept? He preferred the independence of the Crown to the arrogant dictation of a haughty Aristocracy, who desired to hold him in Leading-strings. It was then, amid a "Realm's (fancied) decay," because this Faction were not admitted to supreme power, that his Royal Highness's early friends drunk his health in contemptuous silence, while their more vulgar partizans "at the lower end of the Hall" hissed and hooted the royal name. But mark the reverse since March, 1812, a reverse which it might have been thought would have induced the Noble Lord, from prudent motives, to have withheld this ill-timed publication! How is his Royal Highness's health toasted 'now'? With universal shouts and acclamations. Treason itself dare not interpose a single discordant sound save in its own private orgies! Where is 'now' the realm's decay? oh short-sighted prognosticators of the prophecies! look around, and dread the fate of the speakers of falsehood among the Jews of old, who were stoned to death by the people! The wide world furnishes the answer to your selfish croakings, and tells Lord BYRON that he is destitute of at least one of the qualities of an inspired Bard.

Perhaps we might add another, viz. honesty in acknowledging his plagiarisms, one of which (as we have already said more than his silly verse above quoted deserves, except from the rank of its author) we shall take the liberty of stating to the Public.

The 'Bride of Abydos' begins, something in the stile of an old ballad, thus:

"Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture—the love of the turtle— Now melt into sorrow—now madden to crime?— Know ye the land of the cedar and vine? Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine, Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye."

The whole of which passage we take to be a paraphrase, and a bad paraphrase too, of a song of the German of Goethe, of which the following translation was published at Berlin in 1798:

"Know'st thou the land, where citrons scent the gale, Where glows the orange in the golden vale, Where softer breezes fan the azure skies, Where myrtles spring and prouder laurels rise? "Know'st them the pile, the colonnade sustains, Its splendid chambers and its rich domains, Where breathing statues stand in bright array, And seem, 'What ails thee, hapless maid?' to say?

"Know'st thou the mount, where clouds obscure the day; Where scarce the mule can trace his misty way; Where lurks the dragon and her scaly brood; And broken rocks oppose the headlong flood?"



* * * * *



(2) EPIGRAM ('The Sun', February 8, 1814).

On the Detection of Lord BYRON'S Plagiarism, in 'The Sun' of Friday last.

"That BYRON borrows verses is well known, But his misanthropy is all his own."



* * * * *



(3) LORD BYRON ('The Sun', February 11, 1814).

We are informed from very good authority, that as soon as the House of Lords meets again, a Peer of very independent principles and character intends to give notice of a motion, occasioned by the late spontaneous avowal of a copy of verses by Lord BYRON, addressed to the Princess CHARLOTTE of WALES, in which he has taken the most unwarrantable liberties with her august Father's character and conduct; this motion being of a personal nature, it will be necessary to give the Noble Satirist some days notice, that he may prepare himself for his defence against a charge of so aggravated a nature, which may perhaps not be a fit subject for a criminal prosecution, as the laws of the country, not forseeing the probability of such a case ever occurring, under all the present circumstances, have not made a provision against it; but we know that each House of Parliament has a controul over its own members, and that there are instances on the Journals of Parliament, where an individual Peer has been suspended from all the privileges of the high situation to which his birth entitled him, when by any flagrant offence against good order and government, he has rendered himself unworthy of exercising so important a trust.

THE END