of an epical nature, and never meddles with trifling personal causes of complaint. How impervious Byron was to the kind of physical discomforts which would have driven the stoical Carlyle wildly frantic is shown by a curious anecdote in Trelawny's picturesque Records of Shelley, Byron, and the Author. On their sail to Greece, Fletcher the poet's servant, in describing his former travels with his lordship in Albania, is overheard saying of Greece :-"It's a land of lies, and lice, and fleas, and thieves. What my Lord is going there for the Lord only knows, I don't." Then seeing his master was looking, he said, "And my master can't deny what I have said is true." "No," said Byron, "to those who look at things with hog's eyes, and can see nothing else. What Fletcher says may be true; but I didn't note it." Travellers had to rough it in those countries, lords or no lords, and Byron unquestionably underwent much hard riding, coarse living, and general discomfort, both at that time and on his last expedition, but he never as much as wasted a word on these minor evils; whereas to Carlyle, enjoying English home comforts, the barking of dogs, the grinding of barrel-organs, not to speak of the "little creatures" so frequently mentioned in his wife's letters, became like very nightmares, making life hideous, and wringing from him pages on pages of execration and anathema. Who, one may well ask, is the strong man here? The sage, who, living to be eighty-four, fussed and fumed for over fifty years about such an ordinary complaint as dyspepsia, or the poet starving himself systematically-(to keep from fattening, and so rendering his malformed feet incapable of supporting him)-and who, suffering from wasting fevers and agues, never wrote otherwise than jokingly of his bodily ailments, and who, only too truly foreboding his early death, treated that but as a trifling matter compared to the serious issues for which he was prepared to sacrifice life. Truly, if Byron had not the strength of endurance, he who runs may read in his letters that he had the strength to dare, to defy, to do-a strength which did mighty good service in times such as those in which his lines had fallen.

BYRON'S LETTERS.

TO MISS PIGOT.

Burgage Manor, August 29, 1804.

"I received the arms, my dear Miss Pigot, and am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. It is impossible I should have any fault to find with them. The sight of the drawings gives me great pleasure, for a double reason, in the first place, they will ornament my books, in the next, they convince me that you have not entirely forgot me. I am, however, sorry you do not return sooner-you have already been gone an age. I perhaps may have taken my departure for London before you come back; but, however, I will hope not. Do not overlook my watch-riband and purse, as I wish to carry them with me. Your note was given me by Harry, at the play, whither I attended Miss L and Dr. S; and now I have sat down to answer it before I go to bed. If I am at Southwell when you return, and I sincerely hope you will soon, for I very much regret your absence I shall be happy to hear you sing my favourite, 'The Maid of Lodi.' My mother, together with myself, desires to be affectionately remembered to Mrs. Pigot, and, believe me, my dear Miss Pigot, I remain your affectionate friend,

"BYRON."

"P.S. If you think proper to send me any answer to this, I shall be extremely happy to receive it. Adieu.

"P.S. 2nd. As you say you are a novice in the art of knitting, I hope it don't give you too much trouble. Go on slowly, but surely. Once more, adieu."

TO MISS PIGOT

"London, August 10, 1806.

"My dear Bridget, -As I have already troubled your brother with more than he will find pleasure in deciphering, you are the next to whom I shall assign the employment of perusing this second epistle. You will perceive from my first, that no idea of Mrs. B.'s arrival had disturbed me at the time it was written; not so the present, since the appearance of a note from the illustrious cause of my sudden decampment has driven the 'natural ruby from my cheeks, and completely blanched my woebegone countenance. This gunpowder intimation of her arrival (confound her activity !) breathes less of terror and dismay than you will probably imagine, from the volcanic temperament of her ladyship; and concludes with the comfortable assurance of all present motion being prevented by the fatigue of her journey, for which my blessings are due to the rough roads and restive quadrupeds of his Majesty's highways. As I have not the smallest inclination to be chased round the country, I shall e'en make a merit of necessity; and since, like Macbeth, 'they've tied me to the stake, I cannot fly,' I shall imitate that valorous tyrant, and 'bear-like fight the course,' all escape being precluded. I can now engage with less disadvantage, having drawn the enemy from her intrenchments, though, like the prototype to whom I have compared myself, with an excellent chance of being knocked on the head. However, 'lay on Macduff, and dd be he who first cries, Hold, enough.'

"I shall remain in town for, at least, a week, and expect to hear from you before its expiration. I presume the

printer has brought you the offspring of my poetic mania. Remember in the first line to read 'loud the winds whistle,' instead of 'round,' which that blockhead Ridge has inserted by mistake, and makes nonsense of the whole stanza. Addio! Now to encounter my Hydra. Yours ever."

TO MR. PIGOT.

"Piccadilly, August 16, 1806.

"I cannot exactly say with Cæsar, 'Veni, vidi, vici:' however, the most important part of his laconic account of success applies to my present situation; for, though Mrs. Byron took the trouble of 'coming' and 'seeing,' yet your humble servant proved the victor. After an obstinate engagement of some hours, in which we suffered considerable damage, from the quickness of the enemy's fire, they at length retired in confusion, leaving behind the artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners: their defeat is decisive for the present campaign. To speak more intelligibly, Mrs. B. returns immediately, but I proceed, with all my laurels, to Worthing, on the Sussex Coast; to which place you will address (to be left at the post office) your next epistle. By the enclosure of a second gingle of rhyme, you will probably conceive my muse to be vastly prolific; her inserted production was brought forth a few years ago, and found by accident on Thursday among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, adding the proper date, request that it may be printed with the rest of the family. I thought your sentiments on the last bantling would coincide with mine, but it was impossible to give it any other garb, being founded on facts. My stay at Worthing will not exceed three weeks, and you may possibly behold me again at Southwell the middle of September.

"Will you desire Ridge to suspend the printing of my poems till he hears further from me, as I have determined to give them a new form entirely. This prohibition does not extend to the two last pieces I have sent with my letters to you. You will excuse the dull vanity of this epistle, as my brain is a chaos of absurd images, and full of business, preparations, and projects.

"I shall expect an answer with impatience ;-believe me, there is nothing at this moment could give me greater delight than your letter."

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES.

"Southwell, March 6, 1807.

"Dear Bankes, - Your critique is valuable, for many reasons: in the first place, it is the only one in which flattery has borne so slight a part; in the next, I am cloyd with insipid compliments. I have a better opinion of your judgment and ability than your feelings. Accept my most sincere thanks for your kind decision, not less welcome, because totally unexpected. With regard to a more exact estimate, I need not remind you how few of the best poems, in our language, will stand the test of minute or verbal criticism: it can, therefore, hardly be expected the effusions of a boy (and most of these pieces have been produced at an early period) can derive much merit either from the subject or composition. Many of them were written under great depression of spirits, and during severe indisposition:hence the gloomy turn of the ideas. We coincide in opinion that the 'poësies érotiques' are the most exceptionable; they were, however, grateful to the deities, on whose altars they were offered-more I seek not.

"The portrait of Pomposus* was drawn at Harrow, after a long sitting; this accounts for the resemblance, or rather the caricatura. He is your friend, he never was mine-for both our sakes I shall be silent on this head. The collegiate rhymes† are not personal-one of the notes may appear so, but could not be omitted. I have little doubt they will be * See Works, p. 404.

† "Thoughts suggested by a College Examination."-See Works, p. 397.