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1 not ideal standard He was in the princ ive net eight and a halt ia or furrow on his pallid song, el est op n body and limbs finely m2), billy-finist ed head and curly hir, td appearance from the massiveness and Iwth of his the : you saw his enius in his eyes nd Fus. in short. are cod de Ettle more than she had done for irm, both outward form and in the inward spirit le bad giver to animate it. But all these rare gifts to his jan di d haagiection only served to make his one persona defect @argeLess) the more apparent, as a flaw is magnited 'r a di mond wheap Ash d; a he brooded over that blemish as susitis e 1 they magnify a watt into a wen. Caly helped to nik him skeptical, cynir. was no pecul any in ais dress. it vas a tartan jacket braided, be said it ba” ”!, ài utat his mother was of that ilk. ct can with a gold band, and very loose nankeep scrapped down so as to cover his feet: his throat was as tepi, senței in drawings. At three o'clock, one of san's zinomced that his horses were at the door, which beke off h; discussion with Shelley, and we all followed in to the hi At the ver door, w foud three or four-ve.v ord by tooking Fors ; they hid holsters on the scudles, ard

1

many other superfluous trappings, such as the Italians delight in, and Englishmen eschew. Shelley, and an Irish visitor just announced, mounted two of these sorry jades. I luckily had my own cattle. Byron got into a calêche, and did not mount his horse until we had cleared the gates of the town, to avoid, as he said, being stared at by the "d-d Englishers," who generally congregated before his house on the Arno. After an hour or two of slow riding and lively talk,—for he was generally in good spirits when on horseback,—we stopped at a small podere on the roadside, and dismounting went into the house, in which we found a table with wine and cakes. From thence we proceeded into the vineyard at the back; the servant brought two brace of pistols, a cane was stuck in the ground and a five paul-piece, the size of half-a-crown, placed in a slit at the top of the cane. Byron, Shelley, and I, fired at fifteen paces, and one of us generally hit the cane or the coin: our firing was pretty equal; after five or six shots each, Byron pocketed the battered money and sauntered about the grounds. We then remounted. On our return homewards, Shelley urged Byron to complete something he had begun. Byron smiled and replied,

"John Murray, my patron and paymaster, says my plays won't act. I don't mind that, for I told him they were not written for the stage-but he adds, my poesy won't sell that I do mind, for I have an 'itching palm.' He urges me to resume my old Corsair style, to please the ladies.'"

Shelley indignantly answered,

"That is very good logic for a bookseller, but not for an author: the shop interest is to supply the ephemeral demand of the day. It is not for him but you to put a ring in the monster's nose' to keep him from mischief."

Byron smiling at Shelley's warmth, said,

66

'John Murray is right, if not righteous: all I have yet written has been for woman-kind; you must wait until I am forty, their influence will then die a natural death, and I will show the men what I can do."

Shelley replied,

"Do it now-write nothing but what your conviction of its truth inspires you to write; you should give counsel to the wise, and not take it from the foolish. Time will reverse the judgment of the vulgar. Contemporary criticism only represents the amount of ignorance genius has to contend with."

I was then and afterwards pleased and surprised at Byron's passiveness and docility in listening to Shelley---but all who heard him felt the charm of his simple, earnest manner; while Byron knew him to be exempt from the egotism, pedantry, coxcombry, and, more than all, the rivalry of authorship, and that he was the truest and most discriminating of his admirers. Byron, looking at the western sky, exclaimed,

"Where is the green your friend the Laker talks such fustian about," meaning Coleridge—

"Gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green.'

Dejection: an Ode.

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"Who ever," asked Byron, saw a green sky?"

Shelley was silent, knowing that if he replied, Byron would give vent to his spleen. So I said, "The sky in England is oftener green than blue."

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Black, you mean,” rejoined Byron; and this discussion brought us to his door.

As he was dismounting he mentioned two odd words that would rhyme. I observed on the felicity he had shown in this art, repeating a couplet out of Don Juan; he was both pacified and pleased at this, and putting his hand on my horse's crest, observed,

"If you are curious in these matters, look in Swift. I will send you a volume; he beats us all hollow, his rhymes are wonderful."

And then we parted for that day, which I have been thus particular in recording, not only as it was the first of our acquaintance, but as containing as fair a sample as I can give of his appearance, ordinary habits, and conversation.