meditated on himself; and melancholy, if already it had before inspired at times his verse, was by him invoked as his only muse.

This was it that dictated for him the Pilgrimage of Childe Harold, the narrative of his travels, from whence returned, he scarcely, or with difficulty, found a printer for his verse. Yet a little while, and every line was purchased at a guinea. Rarely had so powerful a voice been heard amid the feeble tones of those the so-called great writers of the day, and the old generation revolted against a novelty or an innovation it comprehended not. The age coming, or to come, found it adapted to its understanding. In short, admiration gained the day; Childe Harold appeared the most natural production of the age. All strove to praise the author, all desired to gain his friendship. "I awoke," he wrote, 66 one morning and found inyself famous." (2).

And the Edinburgh Review!

Not even could this gainsay his title to fame; but it would still affirm that the marvels which so delighted the world were void or all which usually pleases and attracts.

XI.

CONTEMPORARY POETS.

The scene on which the poet had with such brilliancy just appeared, was worthy of his greatness. England, itself astounded at having overthrown the Colossus which held the dagger to her breast, at having entered in triumph the Metropolis of the French Empire, whilst it restored order to Europe by arms and gold, was likewise insinuating the essence of its spirit into foreign literature. Hundreds of new celebrities arose. Crabbe, young and free from care or want, had entered the lists of song. Lewis had thrown down the gauntlet to the most impassioned lovers of the terrible. Coleridge was (2) Memoranda.—Moore's Life.

preparing all the powers of a thoughtful imagination, which he then abandoned to a careless indolence. Canning, still a youth, was proving in satire the eloquence which was afterwards to give him sway in Parliament and a premature end. Campbell, already supreme in didactics, had promised himself fresh triumphs in Odes, and "was the only contemporary poet," said Byron, "who could be reproached with having written too little." (1). Thomas Moore, with a style thoroughly brilliant, had transplanted to England the fairy tales of the East. Rogers brought back to remembrance the harmony of Pope. Wordsworth, if at times childish-if (as Byron, somewhat disposed against him, declared) he placed a dyke between his own intellect and others, had yet learned to wield a language magnificent as the scenes he contemplated. Southey, the constant butt for the raillery of Byron, by dint of intellect, imagination, grace, and style, was sustaining the fame of the old school, or, as it was styled, the Lake School (2). But above the others soared Walter Scott, who, drawing his models from the middle ages, and reviving the minstrels, had ascended to the pinnacle of poetic fame, and was soon about to rise, if possible, still higher as a novelist.

By different paths Scott and Byron aspired to fame. The former varied to infinity his characters; the latter produced again and again the same, changing somewhat perhaps the outlines. The first describes the dress and contour of the person and countenance; the second analyses the mind. The former, of a landscape or of a mansion will give you a topography or description that might enable you to sketch it with your pencil; the latter studies the inhabitants and their passions. Walter Scott ponders well the choice of his subject; to Byron anything and everything is alike a theme. Scott is more picturesque, Byron more impassioned; in the first is more of order and symmetry; in the second, more of impetuosity and inspiration.

The romance writer thus depicted the poet:-"It was in the spring of 1815 that, chancing to be in London, I (1) Excopt Rogers.-See Moore's Life, p. 444, 1847.

poets.

See dictionary of 10,000 living English writers, of whom 1,987 are

had the advantage of a personal introduction to Lord Byron. Report had prepared me to meet a man of peculiar habits and a quick tempor, and I had some doubts whether we were likely to suit each other in society. I was most disagreeably disappointed in this respect. I found Byron in the highest degree courteous and even kind. We met for an hour or two almost daily in Mr. Murray's drawing-room, and found a great deal to say to each other. We also met frequently in parties and evening society, so that for about two months I had the advantage of a considerable intimacy with this distinguished individual. Our sentiments agreed a good deal, except upon the subjects of religion and politics, upon neither of which I was inclined to believe that Lord Byron entertained very fixed opinions. I remember saying to him that I really thought that if he lived a few years longer he would alter his sentiments. He answered, rather sharply, 'I suppose you are one of those who prophecy I will turn Methodist!' I replied, "No, I don't expect your conversion to be of such an ordinary kind. I would rather look to see you retreat upon the Catholic faith, and distinguish yourself by the austerity of your penances (1). The species of religion to which you must, or may, attach yourself must exercise a strong power on the imagination. He smiled gravely, and seemed to allow I must be right. On politics he used sometimes to express a high strain of what is now called Liberalisın; but it appeared to me that the pleasure it afforded him as a vehicle of displaying his wit and satire against individuals in office, was at the bottom of this habit of thinking, rather than any real conviction of the political principles on which he talked. He was certainly proud of his rank and ancient family, and in that respect as much an aristocrat as was consistent with good sense and good breeding. Some disgusts, how adopted I know not, seemed to me to have given rise to this peculiar, and, as it appeared to me contradictory cast of mind; but, at heart, I would have termed Byron a patrician on principle. Lord Byron's reading does not seem to have been very extensive, either in poetry or history. Having the advantage of him in that respect, and possessing a good competent share of such reading as is little read, I was sometimes

able to put under his eye objects which had for him the interest of novelty.

Subsequent to this year (1815), Scott never saw Byron again, but he continues:-"Several letters passed between us-one perhaps every half-year. Like the old heroes in Homer, we exchanged gifts-I gave Byron a beautiful dagger, mounted with gold, which had been the property of the renowned Elfi Bey. But I was to play the part of Diomed in the Iliad; for Byron sent me some time after a large sepulchral vase of silver. It was full of dead men's bones, and had inscriptions on two sides of the vase. One ran thus:- The bones contained in this urn were found in certain ancient sepulchres within the land walls of Athens in the month of February, 1811.' The other face bears the lines of

Juvenal (3):

Expende-quot libras in duce summo invenies.
Mors sola fatetur quantula minimum corpuscula.'

almost

Byron was often melancholy. gloomy. When I observed him in this humour, I used rather to wait till it went off of its own accord, or till some natural and easy mode occurred of leading him into conversation, when the shadows almost always left his countenance like the mists arising from a landscape. In conversation he was very animated. I think I also remarked in Byron's temper starts of suspicion, when he seems to pause and consider whether there had not been a secret and perhaps offensive meaning in something casually said to him. In this case I also judged it best to let his mind, like a troubled spring, work itself clear, which it did in a minute or two. I was considered older, you will recollect, than my noble friend, and had no reason to fear his misconstruing my sentiments towards him, nor had I ever the slightest reason to doubt that they were kindly returned on his part. I had occasion to be mortified by the display of genius which threw into the shade such pretensions as I was then supposed to possess, I might console myself that in my own case the materials of mental happiness had been mingled in greater proportion. I rummage my

(3) X. 4. (See also heading to the “Ode to Napoleon.")

If.

brains in vain for what often rushes into my head unbidden-little traits and sayings which recall his looks, manner, tone, and gestures; and I have always continued to think that a crisis of his life was arrived, in which a new career of fame was opened to him, and that had he been permitted to start upon it, he would soon have obliterated the memory of such parts of his life as friends would wish to forget. ().

With still more of heart did Byron speak of Walter Scott:-"I have never met with any one with the same power of making me forget my own troubles, and withdraw my thoughts from myself. After passing some time with Walter Scott I felt myself again restored to youth, and relieved of a heavy burthen. To him only, perhaps, can I be under obligations for having aroused within me the feelings of unalloyed enjoyment, uniningled with bitterness." (5).

Such then were the contemporaries amongst whom Byron pursued his way to fame, with the applause of friends, and the tacit consent of enemies. A style rich in thought and imagery, a vivifying power over all that came to his hand-a creative combination or grouping, altogether new, and the awakening of emotions till then unknown, caused a greedy rush for his works, which yet seemed directly opposed to the doctrines most commonly received. At first, the passions he depicted seemed to the reader contrary to truth, but, diving deeper into the heart of man, we there at last find their truth, though at the outset neither perceived nor sought. Strangely it flattered us to find ourselves identified with the poet, with such a poet, living with his breath, respiring with his greatness only, carried along by the vortex of his thoughts.

XII.

THE CORSAIR AND OTHER TALES.

Filled with the inspirations of the East-that thon untrodden region, and the which Goethe and Moore, Hugo (1 and 5). Life of Walter Scott. Moore's Life of Byron, 1847.