INTRODUCTION.

The curiosity manifested by the public for every reminiscence or anecdote relative to Lord Byron, and the fraudulent volumes, to his lordship's prejudice, imposed upon the world by the mistaken, the mercenary, or the malignant, render an apology for the appearance of these letters an act of supererogation. By as much as their contents may tend to eradicate erroneous opinions disseminated by others, by so much will the compiler of these manuscripts be rewarded for the time and labour bestowed upon the undertaking. Although all productions of human intelligence partake in a high degree of the idiosyncracy of the mind from which they emanate, yet wholly to identify an author with the ideal beings generated by a creative imagination (as has been done with Lord Byron), is equally fallacious and unjust. To imagine ourselves to be acquainted with the arcanum of individual character by a consideration of the garb it assumes for the purpose of popularity, is as preposterous as to conclude a veil to be the standard of virtue, a visor an emblem of vice, a tory synonymous with consistency, or a radical another word for a patriot. But much more is to be learnt from sentiments expressed in a familiar correspondence where no shade is sought after to screen the imperfections of the picture, and no varnish is required to heighten its effect. Where the price of deception is inadequate to the pains of deceiving.

These letters will be found interesting to many, while they will be injurious to none; and that the dross will adhere to the destruction of the pure metal I cannot admit, or it is obvious I should not have been the medium of their publication.

Of the correspondence in general, I have in some instances suffered much to remain, in no way remarkable but as flowing from Lord Byron's pen; where it has seemed little less than profanation to rescind unless when influenced by an imperative necessity, or in the avoidance of a too tedious prolixity; in others I have been unavoidably and reluctantly compelled to prune, as it were, the most luxuriant and beautiful branches, to render the plant conformable to the chamber it was destined to occupy, where the particular interests of individuals would, by an opposite conduct, have suffered prejudice. By these omissions (in no case discreditable to Lord Byron) the public have lost much. Animated by the warmth of powerful passion, the conceptions of a great mind become more luminous and effulgent; its expressions more eloquent and impressive;

and his was a genius to which this observation is peculiarly applicable, like the notes of the Eolian harp, its voice rose with the storm, and slept in the quiet of the calm.

Evidently written with rapidity and without revision, the letters betray little solicism of speech, and little grammatical inaccuracy; while the vividness of conception, the variety of imagery, the vigour of expression do credit even to his splendid abilities, and the tender tone and affectionate language of many sentiments do a justice long denied to the goodness of his heart.

It was my original intention to have extracted those portions of the correspondence descriptive of scenery or delineating the prominent features of national character; but, independant of the sparseness of these representations, I was insensibly diverted from such a project by the contemplation of the development of his own character in the papers before me, a subject of more intense interest and instruction, and which comprise at once a miniature history of the life of one who, from his cradle, seemed by "the Fates marked to bear the extremity of dire mishaps,' and afford a solution of the moral enigma he rendered himself to the world by "putting a strange face on his own perfections." Wounded, or imagining himself to be wounded, by that world, for the worst he felt he could receive he returned the worst he could give; he appears to it consequently a mixture of malice, misery, and mockery; a compound of complaint and contempt it beholds in him an object of awe, astonishment, and admiration, of pride and pity. While his wisdom is acknowledged by the wise, his foibles are greedily sought after by the feeble, and his errors raked up from their ashes by the envious, those jackals of human fame. That he had his share of the faults and infirmities incident to humanity it is futile to deny, but to those who derive a consolation from the detection of vices in which they themselves excel and affliction from the contemplation of virtues they are unable to emulate, I leave the invidious task of compiling such a catalogue. It is sufficient to remark that he possessed an aptness to give offence, a readiness to resent, a retentiveness of wrongs which he strove not to forget; but yet was ever forward to forgive, and the singularity it cannot be considered a vice of not desiring to be thought virtuous.

Should the sentiments disclosed in these letters fail to produce the conviction of the sincerity and stability, the warmth and worth, the unselfish attachments he was capable of forming, the pure and perfect affection he was capable of feeling, let the sceptical search farther, let the veneration of those who long attende d

im, the unshaken esteem of those who were admitted to terms of intimacy by him, let the love which time and absence never diminished, and could never deaden, let the grief with which those who knew him best, deplored his loss, vindicate that fame which, however loaded with calumny, will rise triumphant on the wing of truth through the future ages.

The letters of his minority may appear too numerous to a few-too few to a many. To the former I submit the impracticability of becoming acquainted with the style of an author by a limited survey of scantily scattered paragraphs; and to the latter the inefficacy, not to say presumption, of imposing upon their patience what might seem commonplace. The comprehension of an intricate mechanism such as is the human mind, is as little advanced by an examination of a few of its unconnected parts as by a simultaneous observation of ordinary concomitants in no way accessory to its principle of action.

Before giving these letters, it would be an act of injustice to Lord Byron's memory to pass over, without comment, those circumstances which embittered his early taste of life, and which subsequently replenished, infused a wormwood into the draught, until his mind, like that of the opium-eater, found relief and exhilaration in poison. We may thus trace the effects of a well-intentioned but ill-judged and ill-timed severity engrafted on years of previous unlimited indulgence. The vain attempts which, seeking to subdue the spirit, tended alone to rouse resentment, and the pertinaciously prolonged provocation which served only to alienate affection. To choke up the channel through which the stream of feeling is wont to flow, is to force it back upon the pure fountain from where it springs to stagnate and corrupt. Lord Byron was taught by this treatment to conceal, not to correct, his faults.

Among the early indications of character there are none more convincing than the conduct and feelings of a child towards those who have authority over his actions. An apathy of praise or punishment, and an indiscriminate indignation, excited by all coercion whether just or unjust, are alike the common attributes of ordinary dispositions; but an early ambition of esteem, in conjunction with the capability of reflecting dispassionately upon the ends of correction, a ready submission to it when deserved, joined to a spirit to resent it when unnecessarily or capriciously inflicted, are the germs of those impulses which prompt men in after-life to brilliant achievements.

Features of this last description are evident in even a cursory perusal of these early letters; but those who expect to find them redolent with budding beauties of composition, the prognostic of the future flowers of poetry, will, I think, be disappointed; but they are not therefore the less curious. In the letters written from Harrow, I am unable to discover more elegance of expression, fertility of fancy, or originality of expression, than may be found in

half the epistles of half the boys of the same age; but they are not wanting in acumen and energy, and are remarkable for a juxtaposition of contrary passions, a singular acerbity of temper manifested towards an object of an unaccountable antipathy, an equally ardent admiration of one considered worthy of esteem, and an obstinate opposition to control from one individual, and a ready repentance for the transgression that draws rebuke from another. It would be needless to direct attention to the beautiful tribute of respect and gratitude paid to the head master of Harrow, alike creditable to both the pupil and the preceptor.

To the letters from Newstead, in 1808, we pass over an interval of three years, during which period Lord Byron gave the "Hours of Idleness" to the world and a satire to the critics-the former pretty and puerile, the latter vigorous and venomous-vying with Juvenal, and pointed as the poetry of Pope. It was sncceeded by an effusion entitled "Hints to Horace," which was suppressed, and by an inscription to a Newfoundland dog of a like date and tone with the letters. We find Lord Byron again at Newstead, in 1811, after a further lapse of three years spent in travels, from which he says he acquired" nothing but a smattering of two languages and a habit of chewing tobacco," but from which the world acquired "Childe Harold."

The letters of this date are of a different description from those preceding them. The conception, the combination, the concentration of the ideas, the energetic expression, the arrangement of the language are too characteristic to be mistaken. The gloomy disposition of mind, which was to him a grief and a glory, a torture and a triumph, shadows their pages, and in their tone there lies a lurking fire that gleams upon us like that singular lurid light, which, seen at sea, portends the coming storm. They are an ethical epitome-in a word, they are his.

It is not necessary to pursue the sketch of his literary productions up to 1816, the epoch of the first letter from abroad. "The Life of Lord Byron" (which I take occasion to observe I have not read, but of the correctness of which I have no doubt) is in the hands of all; and I have little ambition to run a parallel course with its author in a narration of the same events, supposing that the taste of the public is not of the eccentric taste of that of the Prince of Lac, who deserted the bed of beauty to watch the motions of a miserable mouse. Moreover, those events are too recent to fail of remembrance and too forcible not to facilitate a perfect recollection.

It may be asked if the gist of this article be to repeat the amiable qualities of Lord Byron and to invalidate impressions pernicious to his memory, why I have not applied the axe to the root of the evil by a direct contravention of the untruths that have been uttered; but under the peculiar circumstances of its appearance, it would have been derogatory to this work to thrust it into the lists with those of obscure

There are some, however, whose opinions deserve a greater degree of attention; those who think of Lord Byron what Gilden said of Pope, "that he was the son of the devil, and that he wanted but horns and a tail to be an exact resemblance of his infernal father!" I now enly solemnly assure these persons, from unquestionable testimony, that they are mistaken. The geneological tree of the Burons, the Byrons, or the Byrons (as the late lord pronounced it) is coeval with the conquest. In the reigns succeeding the first Henry, the Birons are found taking their seats as lords of Horestan Castle. Edward I. gave to Sir John de Byron the government of York; another Sir John became a knight-baronet at the Siege of Calais; the family received a similar honour from the sword of Henry V. in the person of his descendant Sir John de Byron, who was the ancestor of the Sir John distinguished by his gallantry under the banners of Richmond, at the battle of Bosworth. Newstead Abbey came into the possession of the Byrons upon the dissolution of the monasteries in the reign of Henry VIII. The representatives of the race followed the fortunes of the murdered Charles, and did good service at the battle of Edgehill, for which Sir John Byron was created a peer, October 24th, 1643, by the title of Baron Byron of Rochdale, in the county of Lancaster. The adventures of Admiral Byron, born 1723, are well known. They are alluded to in a poem which will appear in the course of this series. The late lord, the 6th in the peerage, was born on the 22nd of Janu

ary, 1788.

Of the remarks contained in the notes I have little to say, and trust that less will be said. Through their medium I have ventured to direct attention to those events which, however apparently of a trivial nature, have appeared to me to influence in a high degree the feelings and conduct of the writer, and to point to those sentiments which may afford any assistance to the reader in drawing from the correspondence a portraiture of character. To the minute analyzer of moral causes and effects this will seem a task supererogatory; to the general reader they may serve as sign-posts to a road he may follow or not as he pleases.

Among the notes will also be found interspersed some few anecdotes and sentiments which I have had more pains in collecting than pleasure in perusing. Though these have lost much in the narration, it is to be hoped that their spirit, like that of volatile perfume, has

not wholly evaporated by being transferred. It is remarkable that, possessing so prolific a genius, Lord Byron should not unfrequently, in different parts of his works, repeat the same ideas in nearly the same words; while in letters of the same date, addressed to separate persons, I have seen whole sentences similar almost à la lettre. Whether these were re-conceived or recollected, whether the writer himself forgot or thought that others forgot them; or, to speak more learnedly and less intelligibly, whether the wider sensations of memory were suspended whenever a recurrence of external objects operated upon the more powerful sensibilities, or whether these previous perceptions were retained in the mind, as bales in a warehouse, to be exposed as occasion offered, I leave to those more capable the province of deciding : certain it is that such self-plagiarisms are sufficiently singular to deserve notice, and therefore, where there have appeared very conspicuous coincidences of sentiment between these letters and the works, I have thought it not uninteresting to place them in juxta-position.

I may be open to censure in having done too much, when I feel I have done too little: much has escaped my penetration which will be often perceptible to one versed in the science of human nature. If I have slightly named, rather than truly observed, the interior motives which form the externally apparent phases of mind, I will not shrink from expressing the real cause of such omissions. To reveal the subtle, the intricate, and obscure nets which enclasp, as in a labyrinth, the heart of man, demands a power of intellect which I have not the presumption to pretend to possess. I think these pages will not, however, be found barren of amusement, and, in that belief, I offer them to the reader.

Burgage Manor, March 22nd, 1804. replying to your kind and affectionate letters, Although I have hitherto appeared remiss in yet I hope you will not attribute my neglect to a want of affection, but rather to a shyness naturally inherent to my disposition.*

If you see Lord - I beg you will remember this time, for it is rather more than a year since me to him. I fancy he has almost forgot me by I had the pleasure of seeing him. Also remember me to poor old Murray. Tell him we will while I live he shall never be abandoned in his see that something is to be done for him; for old age. Write to me soon, and do not forget

to love me.

*This infirmity the writer was never able to overcome. The torments of its endurance, the task of its subjugation, none can conceive who have not throbbed under its pulse, or rather impulse. The consciousness of the feeling is an aggravation of the failing. Confession is no step to amendment. Reflection seldom affords a remedy to the disease, or Time a relief to its tortures.

+ Murray had been from his youth a servant in the family: he lived afterwards upon the fruits of this promise many years.

Southwell, 26th, 1804.

I received your affectionate letter yesterday, and I now hasten to comply with your injunction by answering it as soon as possible. Not that it can be in the least irksome to me to write to you: on the contrary, it will always prove my greatest pleasure; but I am afraid my correspondence will not prove the most entertaining, for I have nothing that I can relate to you but my affection, which I can never sufficiently express; therefore I should tire you be fore I had half satisfied myself. . . . . I am, as you may imagine, a little dull here, not being on terms of intimacy with Lord. I avoid N—, and my resources of amusement are books and writing to you, which will ever constitute my greatest pleasure. I am not reconciled to Lord, and never will be. He was once my greatest friend. My reasons for ceasing that friendship are such as I cannot explain-not even to you (although, were they to be made known to anybody, you would be the first); but they will ever remain hidden in my own breast. They are good ones, however; for though I am violent, I am not capricious in my attachments. . . . disapproves of my quarrelling with him; but if she knew the cause (which she never will know) she would reproach me no more. He has forfeited all title to my esteem; but I hold him in too much contempt even to hate him.* . . . . Present my respects to Mrs. I am glad to hear I am in her good graces, for I shall ever esteem her, on account of her behaviour to you.. Do not forget to tell me how Murray is. As to your future prospects-may they be happy. I am sure you deserve happiness; and if you do not meet with it, I shall begin to think it is "a bad world we live in."

Burgage Manor, April 2nd, 1804.

I received your present, which was very acceptable-not that it will be of any use as a

* The cause of this mysterious aversion I am not at liberty to disclose. It suffices to observe, that the provocation given justified the resentment it aroused; but that time should not have softened the asperity of the recollection is, it must be admitted, an isolated instance of vindictiveness of temper in Lord Byron. He ever remembered with indignation the affront he received: nor is it inconsistent with human nature that hatreds first felt should be last forgotten-that we should find them written in marble on hearts which retain in riper years little impression of more recent wrongs of less easy atonement. This is owing to the greater sensibility of our early affection. Thus we see the most trivial feats of boyhood vividly related by old age; while circumstances of moment, of scarcely an hour's occurrence, are altogether obliterated from the memory. It may also be attributed to our ignorance of the selfishness of mankind at that period. When experience teaches us the influential impulse of human action, our apathy to offence becomes more impervious, because our expectations of kindness are less intense.

token of remembrance. No: my affection for you will never, never permit me to forgot you .. You tell me you are tired of London: I am rather surprised to hear that, for I thought the gaieties of the metropolis were particularly pleasing to young ladies. For my part I detest it. The smoke, and the noise, feel particularly unpleasant. But, however, it is preferable to this horrid place, where I am oppressed with ennui, and have no amusement of any kind except the conversation of, which is sometimes very edifying, but not always very agreeable. There are very few books of any kind that are either instructive or amusing. No society but old parsons and old maids! I shoot a good deal; but, thank God, I have not so far lost my reason as to make shooting my only amusement. There are, indeed, some of my neighbours, whose only pleasure consists in field-sports; but, in other respects, they are only one degree removed from the brute creation! * These, however, I endeavour not to imitate: but I sincerely wish for the company of a few friends about my own age to soften the austerity of the scene. I am an absolute hermit! In a short time my gravity, which is increased by my solitude, will qualify me for an archbishop. I really begin to think I should become a mitre exceedingly well. For God's sake write me a letter that may fill twenty sheets of paper! Recollect, it is my only pleasure. If you won't give me twenty sheets, at least send me as long an epistle as you can, and as soon as possible.

Burgage Manor, April 9th, 1804.

A thousand thanks for your affectionate letter, and so ready compliance with the request of a peevish and fretful temper. It acted as a cordial on my drooping spirits, and for awhile dispelled the gloom which envelopes me in this uncomfortable place. You see what power your letters have over me; so I hope you will be liberal in your epistolary consolation. If I speak in public at all it will not be till the latter part of June or beginning of July. You are right in your conjecture, for I feel not a little nervous in the anticipation of my début as an orator. By-the-bye, I do not dislike Harrow. I find ways and means to amuse myself very pleasantly there. The friend whose correepondence I find so amusing is an old sporting companion of mine, whose recitals of shooting and hunting expeditions are amusing to me, as often having been his companion in them, and I

* He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, who, after a long chase over hills, dales, bushes, and what not, asked next day "if men ever hunted twice ?"

hope to be so still oftener.. gives a party to-night, at which the principal Southwell belles will be present, with one of whom-although I do not as yet know which I shall so far honour, having never seen them-I intend to fall violently in love. It will serve pour passer le temps, and it will at least have the charm of novelty to recommend it. Then, you know, in the course of a few weeks, I shall be quite au désespoir shoot myself, and go out of the

world with éclat, and my history will furnish materials for a pretty little romance, which will be entitled and denominated "The Loves of Lord B and the Cruel and Inconstant Sigismunda Amegunda Bridgetina, &c., Princess of Terra Incognito"! Don't you think I have a good knack for novel-writing? . Write to me as soon as possible, and give me a long letter. Remember me to all who inquire Continue to love me. after me.

"What's in a name?"

Love is a sophist, and the implied but false answer to Juliet's impassioned query is "Nothing !" Nothing? Every thing, rather, in thy case, O "White dove of Verona!"-enough at least to raise a barrier between thee and the Romeo of thy heart-worship which even love cannot surmount! Such, it seems to me, is the teaching of Shakespeare, in the play; and the world's experience confirms it.

The ancient Greeks attached great importance to names. Plato recommends parents to be careful to give happy ones to their children; and the Pythagoreans taught that the minds, actions, and success of men were according to the appellations which they bore. The Romans seem to have been equally. mpressed with the same idea. Bonum nomen bonum omen, became a popular maxim among them. To select bona nomina was always an object of solicitude, and it was considered quite enough to damn a man that he bore a name of evil import. Livy, speaking of such an appellation, calls it abominandi ominis nomen. A similar belief prevailed among all the nations of antiquity. It embodied a truth which has not yet lost its significance or its importance. To a man with the name of Higgins or Snooks, no amount of talent or genius is of any avail. He cannot possibly raise himself above a very humble sphere of usefnlness: Or let an unfortunate biped have attached to him the appellation of Gotobed, a name which has been borne by many a worthy individual, and he may quite innocently sleep

all day! His waking efforts can effect nothing to elevate him to any position of honour or distinction. He bears about him "the doom of everlasting mediocrity." John is a most excellent name, and Smith, is a surname which is worthy of respect and honour, but woe to the man on whom they are conjoined! For John Smith to aspire to senatorial dignities or to the laurel of the poet is simply ridiculous. Who is John Smith? He is lost in the multitude of John Smiths, and individual fame is impossible.

All names were originally significant, and were always bestowed by the ancients with reference to their well-understood meaning. Sometimes they were commemorative of some incident or circumstance connected with the birth of the individual bearing them: as, Thomas, a twin; Maius May, (applied to one born in that month;) Septimus, the seventh. In other cases they were expressive of the aspirations, desires, or hopes of the parents. as, Victor, one who conquers; Probus, truthful; Felix, happy; Benedict, blessed. Not unfrequently they were descriptive of personal qualities: as, Macros, tall; Pyrrhus, ruddy; Rufus, red-haired.

Names are as signifieant now as they were in the days of Plato, and as important, but we ignorantly or carelessly misapply them, making of them the most absurd misnomers. "A man with the name of George or Thomas," as Leigh Hunt very justly observes, "might as well, to all understood purposes, be called Spoon or Hat-band!" Blanche is now anything but the flaxen-haired blonde which her hair indicates,