called) of genius. His main fault is his perpetual strain and effort for effect; his unwillingness to fall back into repose, and await fresh opportunities of exertion. All is too laboured, and wrought up, and impassioned. There is no poetical perspective in his mind. Every thing is either exaggerated, or is brought to the very brink of the extreme. Nature is abandoned for ideal models. His poems, like the pictures of the great Mantuan artist, are a conflict of gigantic passions. He has much of the fertility of Ovid's genius, and much of its lavish incorrectness. His poems are fine in parts, in passages, but always defective in the whole; because all is sacrificed to particular effect. There is also an occasional carelessness, a ruggedness, and want of harmony in his versification, which is very displeasing: this arises from the same cause. If a word was emphatic, or an expression was bold and decisive, the flow and measure of the verse, and perhaps even the construction of the sentence, was sacrificed to preserve it. Such appear to us to have been his faults :-but of his poetic genius, though often distorted and misapplied, no candid or enlightened lover of poetry can for a moment doubt.

But we have too long strayed away from the immediate subject of our consideration, which was to give our readers some account of the conversational talents and opinions of Lord Byron, as exhibited by Lady Blessington.

Of course, like all other ladies, she commences with a description of the person of her hero. His teeth are white, his hair brown, and possessing the true chivalric curl, and his mouth has a most engaging smile; while his foot is really very well, if he would but think so she thinks him very gentlemanly, notwithstanding that his clothes are so badly made. But what most surprises her Ladyship is, not to find him, the superb, sarcastic, lofty, melancholy, Werter-faced hero, that she had anticipated, and that he had so often described. She had filled her brain with anticipations of meeting Lara, and Manfred, and Childe Harold, and, for what we know, "Cain" himself, in propria persona, and great was her disappointment in seeing only Lord Byron. To it the friends sat, and the first morning they pinioned and dissected a considerable number of their friends and acquaintance. After a preliminary attack on a Mr. ,the first grand immolation is that of Lady H-ll-d. Good souls! they felt for his Lordship's domestic thraldom, with sensations somewhat akin to contempt; and then Miladi, how admirably she has managed in an age of cant, and "when virtue is the order of the day, without any resemblance of it," to get herself into society. And then she passes for being very clever, but this the noble Lord never could discover; and at last, she is dismissed in a most uncourteous manner; while Lady Blessington, in the innocence of her heart, expresses her surprise at the Poet's talking of his ci-devant friends as he did; but he begs her not to think the worse of him: and so the interview, which consisted of two hours, ended; and about a dozen slaughtered reputations were left on the field of battle.

Lady B. found Lord Byron's flippancy wore off in a tête-à-tête, and he became sententious, affected a Johnsonian tone, thought aloud, and, like ancient Pistol, spoke moralities and maxims. Of Mad. de Staël he thus gave his opinion.

"Mad. de Stael was the cleverest, though not the most agreeable woman he had ever known. She declaimed to you, instead of conversing with you,' said he, never pausing except to take breath; and, if during that interval, a rejoinder was put in, it was evident that she did not attend to it, as she resumed the thread of her discourse as if she thought it had not been interrupted.' This observation, her Ladyship re

marks, from Lord Byron was amusing enough, as we had all made the same observation on him. 'M. de Stael,' he continued, was very eloquent when her imagination warmed, and a very little excited it. Her powers of imagination were much stronger than her reasoning ones, perhaps owing to their being more frequently exercised. Her language was recondite but redundant; and, though always flowery and often brilliant, there was an obscurity that left the impression that she did not perfectly understand what she endeavoured to render intelligible to others. She was always losing herself in philosophical disquisitions; and when once she got entangled in the mazes of the labyrinth of metaphysics, she had no clue by which she could guide her path; the imagination that led her into difficulties, could not get her out of them. The want of a mathematical education, which might have served as a ballast to steady and help her into the port of reason, was always visible; and, though she had great tact in concealing her defeat, and covering a retreat, a tolerable logician must always have discovered the scrapes she got into. Poor dear Mad. de Stael! I shall never forget seeing her one day at table, with a large party, when the busk of her corset forced its way through the top of the corset, and would not descend, though pushed by all the force of both hands of the wearer, who became crimson from the operation. After fruitless efforts, she turned in despair to the valet de chambre behind her chair, and requested him to draw it out, which could only be done by his passing his hand from behind over her shoulder, and across her chest, when with a desperate effort he unsheathed the busk. Had you seen the faces of some of the English ladies of the party, you would have been, like me, almost convulsed; while Madame remained perfectly unconscious that she had committed any solecism on la decence Anglaise. Poor Mad. de Stael verified the truth of these lines:

Qui de son sexe n'a pas l'esprit,
De son sexe a tout le malheur.

She thought like a man, but alas! she felt like a woman; as witness the episode in her life with Monsieur Rocca, which she dared not avow (I mean her marriage with him), because she was more jealous of her reputation as a writer than a woman, and then the foiblesse de cœur, this alliance proved she had not courage to affiche," &c.

The following account of his moral lecture to this accomplished and virtuous lady is amusing:

"He once told Mad. de Stael that her novels of Delphine and Corinne were very dangerous productions to be put into the heads of young women. I asked him how

she received this piece of candour. Oh! just as all such candid avowals are received; she never forgave me for it. She endeavoured to prove to me 'au contraire,' the tendencies of both her novels were supereminently moral. I begged that we might not enter on Delphine, as that was 'hors de question' (she was furious at this); but that all the moral world thought that her representing all the virtuous characters in Corinne as being dull, commonplace, and tedious, was a most insidious blow aimed at virtue, and calculated to throw it into the shade. She was so excited and impatient to attempt a refutation, that it was only by my volubility that I could keep her silent. She interrupted me every moment by gesticulating, exclaiming Quel idée ! Mon Dieu ! Ecoutez donc ! Vous m'impatientez'; but I continued, saying how dangerous it was to inculcate the belief that talent, genius, acquirements, and accomplishments, such as Corinne was represented to possess, could not preserve a woman from becoming a victim to an unrequited passion; and that reason, absence, and female friends were unavailing. I told her that Corinne would be considered, if not cited, as an excuse for violent passions by all young ladies with imaginations exalté, and that she had much to answer for. Had you seen her! I now wonder how I had courage to go on : but I was in one of my humours, and had heard of her commenting on me one day, so I determined to pay her off. She told me that I, above all people, was the last person that ought to talk of morals, as nobody had done more to deteriorate them. I looked innocent; and added I was willing to plead guilty of having sometimes represented vice under alluring forms, but so it was generally in the world; therefore it was necessary to paint it so: but that I never represented virtue under the sombre and disgusting stupor of dullness, severity, and ennui; and that I always took care to represent the votaries of vice themselves as unhappy, and entailing unhappiness on those that loved them so that my moral was unexceptionable. She was perfectly outrageous, and the more so, as I appeared calm and in earnest, though I assure you it required an effort, as I was ready to laugh outright at the idea that I, who at that period was considered as the most mauvais sujet of the day, should give Mad. de Stael a lecture on morals; and I know that this added to her rage. I also know that she never dared

to avow that I had taken such a liberty. She was, notwithstanding her little defects, a fine creature, with great talents and many noble qualities, and had a simplicity quite extraordinary, which led her to believe every thing people told her, and consequently to be continually hoaxed, of which I saw such proofs in London."

As their acquaintance ripens, Lord Byron's character becomes more developed to her Ladyship's mental optics. She finds him very superstitious, and believing in the appearance of poor Shelley's ghost. He takes up also "the gentlemanly vice of avarice," and calls money wisdom, power, and knowledge; and he despises works of art, and all connoisseurship, and taste, and vertù ; music he did not understand, but perfumes made him sentimental. He talks about his wife, and expects sympathy; but Lady Blessington discovers at last, that he never could have been a brilliant person in society, that he has none of the small change that passes current, and that all his gold is in ingots.

(who, we suppose, is Lady

We next meet with an account of Lady
Jersey) and her beautiful cream-coloured complexion and raven hair.

"She once complained to me of the fatigue of literary occupations, and I, in terror, expected her ladyship to propose reading me an epic poem, or tragedy, or at least a novel of her composition, when lo she displayed to me a very richly bound album, half filled with printed extracts out of the newspapers and magazines; and I, happy at being let off so easily, sincerely agreed with her that literature was very tiresome. I understand that she has now advanced with the march of intellect, and got an album filled with MS. poetry, to which all of us of the craft have contributed. I was the first; Moore wrote something, which was like all that he writes, very sparkling and terse; but he got dissatisfied with the faint praise it met with from Milord before Miladi saw the verses, and destroyed the effusion."

With regard to English society, after a few remarks on "les dames à-lamode," the "rôle of fashion par préférence," and "les usages du monde," and "les bienseances," and a great deal more of " brusquerie and legèretè," and "espeiglerie et politesse," Milord continues:

"M. de Stael was forcibly struck by the factitious tone of the best society in London, and wished very much to have an opportunity of judging of that of the second class. In England the raw material is generally good, it is the over-dressing that injures it; and as the class she wished to study are well educated, and have all the refinement of civilization, without its corruption, she would have carried away a favourable impression.

"Lord Grey and his family were the personification of his beau ideal of perfection, as I must say they are of mine; and might serve as the finest specimens of the pure English patrician breed, of which so few remain. His uncompromising and uncompromised dignity, founded on self-respect, and accompanied by that certain proof of superiority, simplicity of manner, and freedom from affectation; with her mild and matron graces, her whole life offering a model to wives and mothers :—really they are people to be proud of, and a few such would reconcile one to one's species."

This is capital: It is the portrait of Anaxagoras traced by Pericles. Of the equestrian costume of Lord Byron, the following account is given. "His horse was literally covered with various trappings, in the way of cavasons, martingales, and Heaven knows how many other unknown inventions! The saddle was à la hussard, with holsters, in which he always carried pistols. His dress consisted of a nankeen jacket and trowsers, which appeared to have shrunk from washing; the jacket embroidered of the same colour, and with three rows of buttons; the waist very short, the back very narrow, and the sleeves set in as they used to be ten or fifteen years before; a black stock, very narrow, a dark blue velvet cap, with a shade, and a very rich gold band, and a large gold tassell at the crown; nankeen gaiters, and a pair of blue spectacles, completed his costume, which was any thing but becoming. He did not ride well, which surprised us, as from the frequent allusions to horsemanship in his works, we expected to find him almost a Nimrod. When his horse made a false step he seemed discomposed, and when we came to any bad part of the road, he immediately checked his course, and walked his horse very slowly, though

there was nothing even to make a lady nervous; and during our ride the conversation turned on our mutual friends and acquaintances in England. Talking of two of them [quære T. Moore, and Hobhouse?] for one of whom he professed a great regard, he declared, laughingly, that they had saved him from suicide. Seeing me look grave, he added, It is a fact, I assure you. I should certainly have destroyed myself, but I guessed that · and would write my life, and with this fear before my eyes, I have lived on. I know so well the sort of things they would write of me-the excuses, lame as myself, they would offer for my delinquencies, while they were unnecessarily exposing them; and all this done with the avowed intention of justifying what, God help me! cannot be justified, my unpoetical reputation, with which the world can have nothing to do. One of my friends would dip his pen in clarified honey and the other in vinegar, to describe my manifold transgressions; and, as I do not wish my poor fame to be either preserved or pickled, I have lived on, and written my memoirs, where facts will speak for themselves, without the editorial candour of excuses,-such as-We cannot excuse this unhappy error, or defend that impropriety. I have written my memoirs,' he said, to save the necessity of their being written by my friends, and only have to hope that they will not add notes.' I [says Lady B. who seems to have pretty well understood her new acquaintance] remarked, with a smile, that at all events he anticipated his friends, by saying beforehand as many ill-natured things of them as they could possibly write of him. He laughed, and said, 'Depend on it we are equal! Poets have no friends. On the old principle that union gives force, we sometimes agree to have a violent friendship for each other. We dedicate, we bepraise, we write pretty letters; but we do not deceive each other. In short, we resemble you pretty ladies, when some half-dozen of the fairest of you profess to love each other mightily, correspond so sweetly, call each other by such pretty epithets, and laugh in your hearts at those who are taken in by such appearances.'"'

Lord Byron now was petted, and grew familiar, and ran about the house, and talked of Sir Walter Scott, and of the Countess Guiccioli, and lauded the delicacy and disinterestedness of that Lady and her relatives; and said she had sacrificed every thing to him, and that he felt the highest esteem for her; and that she did not like his Don Juan, and was very moral; and so impressed was Lady B. with the account of the lady, and the noble sentiments of her cavalier, that she was persuaded this was his last and permanent attachment: at the same time, Lady B. owns that it was rather difficult to tell when the noble Lord was mystifying his audience. However, they all grew excessively romantic and sentimental after dinner, and went out into the balcony; where Lord Byron made the following moonlight apostrophe, which we think we must have read often before in some of the productions that came from the Minerva Press, and noted for its originality and feeling.

"Look,' he cried, at that forest of masts now before us! From what remote parts of the world do they come? Over how many waves have they not passed, and how many tempests have they not borne, and what dangers have they not been exposed to? How many hearts and tender thoughts follow them? Mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts, who perhaps at this hour are offering up prayers for their safety."

Good, my Lord! this is very moving, especially as it was uttered with a melancholy moonlight smile.

It must be apparent, we think, that Lord Byron could talk with delight only of himself; that his conversation was not such as would be long very interesting; that his poetry and his person, and his amours, and his indiscretions, and his loves, and his hatreds, and his Manfreds and Juans, occupied all his mind. We do not know how the fair sex will approve what he says of poets' marriages, "That it is as though the creatures of another sphere, not subject to the lot of mortality, formed a factitious alliance with the creations of the earth; and being exempt from its sufferings, GENT. MAG. VOL. I.

2 Y

turned their thoughts to brighter regions, leaving the partners of their earthly existence to suffer alone." And so we will drop any further personal history, and give his lordship's opinions and characters of his literary friends.

"He spoke in high terms of commendation of Hope's Anastasius; said that he wept bitterly over many pages of it, and for two reasons,-first that he had not written it, and that Hope had; for that it was necessary to like a man extremely to pardon his writing such a book. A book, as he said, excelling all recent productions, as much in wit and talent as in true pathos. He added, that he would have given his two most approved poems to have been the author of Anastatius. From Anastatius he wandered to the works of Mr. Galt, praised the Annals of the Parish very highly, as also the Entail, some scenes of which, he said, had affected him very much. The characters in Galt's novels, have an idendity,' added Byron, that reminds me of Wilkie's pictures.' As a woman I felt proud of the homage he paid to the genius of Mrs. Hemans; and as a passionate admirer of her poetry, I felt flattered at finding that Lord Byron fully sympathized with my admiration. He has, or at least expresses, a strong dislike to the Lake School of Poets, never mentioning them except in ridicule, and he and I nearly quarrelled to-day because I defended poor Keats."

We have little to remark on the above passage. In the high praise of Anastasius we most cheerfully join, and we think there is only one fault belonging to the work, that is, that the mind is fatigued by the incessant and varied demands on it. We feel as when pleasure approaches the verge of pain. There is no tranquillity, no cessation from an endless and ever-moving circle of wit and humour, and sagacity and sarcasm, and adventure ; of fraud, and oppression and insult, and perfidy, luxury and misery, all embodied to the life, and enriched and diversified with all the peculiarities of individual character. We remember, the effect to us was like being whirled about the globe in a post-chaise and four, as fast as the horses could go, never stopping to change, or getting out to stretch one's legs. We would have given the world for an hour's repose. Of Mrs. Hemans we are sorry to say we know but little, but gallantry commands us to subscribe to the dictum of the noble Bard. That poor Keats was a man of truly poetic mind, every intelligent and impartial person must surely own. Let St. Agnes Eve and Hyperion speak for him. As for Lord Byron's sweeping censure of the Lake School of Poetry, it reflects deeply either on his temper or his taste. We leave his admirers to choose which is to blame. The Lake School (as it is absurdly called) consists of Coleridge, whom Lord Byron has lauded to the skies; of Wordsworth, whom he admired; and Southey, whom he personally detested, and whom he persecuted with the dullest and most detestable ribaldry. To the Lake School, so vilified, we owe Christabel and Genevieve, and the Auncient Mariner; from the same school we have Thalaba, "that wild and wonderous song," and Madoc, and the Curse of Kehama; and to the Lake School we owe the Excursion, the verse of which, the Laureate says, exceeds even the verse of Milton; and the White Doe, the beauties of which Mackintosh stepped aside in his History of England to praise; and Sonnets that have no peer or rival in the English language, except when Milton himself blew the trump. Such is the Lake School, which the author of Don Juan despised; but which, had he approached it with a spirit of candour and truth, would have afforded him much instruction that he stood sorely in need of.

Of Shelley, in the following account of his noble friend and sacrificator, there is much that is true.

"You should have known Shelley,' said Byron, to feel how much I must regret him. He was the most gentle, most amiable, and best informed person I ever