She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know nothing certainly, and shall not enquire. But I do know, that she has talents and excellent qualities; and you will not deny her judgment, after having refused six suitors and taken me.

Now, if you have any thing to say against this, pray do; my mind's made up, positively fixed, determined, and therefore I will listen to reason, because now it can do no harm. Things may occur to break it off, but I will hope not. In the mean time, I tell you (a secret, by the by,-at least, till I know she wishes it to be public,) that I have proposed and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish me joy, for one mayn't be married for months. I am going to town to-morrow; but expect to be here, on my way there, within a fortnight.

If this had not happened, I should have gone to Italy. In my way down, perhaps, you will meet me at Nottingham, and come over with me here. I need not say that nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of course, reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute to her happiness, I shall secure my She is so good a person, that-that-in short, I wish I was a better. Ever, &c.

own.

CCXCIX.

This letter was written in a copy of Corinne' during Madame Guiccioli's absence from Bologna, it being Byron's whim to sit daily in her garden, among her books, at the usual hour of his visit. Fifty years afterwards the Italian lady essayed to write the memoirs of her lover, but the book was a disappointment to his admirers, for her memory had failed and she had no style.

Lord Byron to the Marchesa Guiccioli.

Bologna: August 25, 1819.

My dearest Teresa,-I have read this book in your garden ;my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them-which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognise the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book which was yours, he could only think of love. In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours-Amor mio-is

comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist hereafter, to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had stayed there, with all my heart-or, at least, that I had never met you in your married state.

But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me,-at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.

Think of me sometimes, when the Alps and the ocean divide us,--but they never will, unless you wish it.

BYRON.

CCC.

Byron was better suited to an Italian than to an English life. His habitual indolent good-nature, with flashes of vehement passion, was easily satisfied with Southern manners, and he had a peculiar felicity in describing them. He tells a tragical story here with great effect.

Lord Byron to Thomas Moore.

Ravenna: December 9, 1820.

I open my letter to tell you a fact, which will show the state

The commandant of the He was shot at a little paces from my door. I

of this country better than I can. troops is now lying dead in my house. past eight o'clock, about two hundred was putting on my great-coat to visit Madame la Contessa G. when I heard the shot. On coming into the hall, I found all my servants on the balcony, exclaiming that a man was murdered. I immediately ran down, calling on Tita (the bravest of them) to follow me. The rest wanted to hinder us from going, as it is the custom for every body here, it seems, to run away from the stricken deer.'

However, down we ran, and found him lying on his back, almost, if not quite dead with five wounds, one in the heart, two in the stomach, one in the finger, and the other in the arm. Some soldiers cocked their guns, and wanted to hinder me from passing. However we passed, and I found Diego, the adjutant, crying over him like a child—a surgeon who said nothing of his profession

a priest, sobbing a frightened prayer-and the commandant, all this time, on his back, on the hard, cold pavement, without light or assistance, or anything around him but confusion and dismay.

As nobody could, or would, do anything but howl and pray, and as no one would stir a finger to move him, for fear of consequences, I lost my patience-made my servant and a couple of the mob take up the body-sent off two soldiers to the guard— despatched Diego to the Cardinal with the news, and had the commandant carried up stairs into my own quarter. But it was too late, he was gone-not at all disfigured-bled inwardly-not above an ounce or two came out.

I had him partly stripped-made the surgeon examine him, and examined him myself. He had been shot by cut balls or slugs. I felt one of the slugs, which had gone through him, all but the skin. Everybody conjectures why he was killed, but no one knows how. The gun was found close by him-an old gun, half filed down.

He only said, 'O Dio!' and 'Gesu!' two or three times, and appeared to have suffered little. Poor fellow! he was a brave officer, but had made himself much disliked by the people. I knew him personally, and had met him often at conversazioni and elsewhere. My house is full of soldiers, dragoons, doctors, priests, and all kinds of persons, though I have now cleared it, and clapt sentinels at the doors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. town is in the greatest confusion, as you may suppose.

The

You are to know that, if I had not had the body moved, they would have left him there till morning in the street, for fear of consequences. I would not choose to let even a dog die in such a manner, without succour :-and, as for consequences, I care for none in a duty.

Yours, &c.

P.S. The lieutenant on duty by the body is smoking his pipe with great composure. -A queer people this.

CCCI.

In Byron's famous controversy with the Rev. W. L. Bowles upon the merits of Alexander Pope, whom the former gravely preferred to Shakespeare and Milton, there was something of wilful arrogance and something, too, of real critical insight. There was a tendency abroad at that time, in the flush of romantic revival, to depreciate the exquisite and polished art of Pope; yet it was scarcely the author of the Corsair' from whom a defence of Augustan poetry was to be expected. Nor did he altogether succeed in making manure of Bowles for the top of Mount Parnassus.'

Lord Byron to Thomas Moore.

Ravenna: May 3, 1821.

Though I wrote to you on the 28th ultimo, I must acknowledge yours of this day, with the lines. They are sublime, as well as beautiful, and in your very best mood and manner. They are also but too true.

However, do not confound the scoundrels at the heel of the boot with their betters at the top of it. I assure you that there are some loftier spirits.

Nothing, however, can be better than your poem, or more deserved by the Lazzaroni. They are now abhorred and disclaimed

nowhere more than here.

We will talk over these things (if we meet) some day, and I will recount my own adventures, some of which have been a little hazardous, perhaps.

As for

So, you have got the Letter on Bowles? I do not recollect to have said anything of you that could offend, certainly, nothing intentionally. I meant him a compliment. I wrote the whole off-hand, without copy or correction, and expecting then every day to be called into the field. What have I said of you? I am sure I forget. It must be something of regret for your approbation of Bowles. And did you not approve, as he says? Would I had known that before! I would have given him some more gruel. My intention was to make fun of all these fellows; but how I succeeded, I don't know.

As to Pope, I have always regarded him as the greatest name in our poetry. Depend upon it the rest are barbarians. He is a

Greek Temple, with a Gothic Cathedral on one hand, and a Turkish Mosque and all sorts of fantastic pagodas and conventicles about him. You may call Shakespeare and Milton, pyramids, if you please, but I prefer the Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a mountain of burnt brick-work.

The Murray has written to me but once, the day of its publication, when it seemed prosperous. But I have heard of late from England but rarely. Of Murray's other publications (of mine), I know nothing,-nor whether he has published. He was to have done so a month ago. I wish you would do something,— or that we were together.

Ever yours and affectionately

B.

CCCII.

These two letters tell their own story. They have been selected partly because they illustrate a singularly touching and romantic episode in the life of the great poet to whom they refer, and because of their own intrinsic merits. Mr. Sheppard's letter is a model of tact and good sense under circumstances of no ordinary delicacy, and Byron's reply proves that with all his cynical egotism his heart was far from being a stranger to generous emotions. His dissertation might perhaps, considering the occasion, have been spared; but the letter is very creditable to him.

John Sheppard to Lord Byron.

Frome, Somerset: November 21, 1821. My Lord,-More than two years since, a lovely and beloved wife was taken from me, by lingering disease after a very short union. She possessed unvarying gentleness and fortitude, and a piety so retiring as rarely to disclose itself in words, but so influential as to produce uniform benevolence of conduct. In the last hour of life, after a farewell look on a lately born and only infant, for whom she had evinced inexpressible affection, her last whispers were 'God's happiness! God's happiness!' Since the second anniversary of her decease, I have read some papers which no one had seen during her life, and which contain her most secret thoughts. I am induced to communicate to your Lordship a passage from these papers, which there is no doubt, refers to your