always came with honour, almost always victorious. Upon one occasion, a boy, pursued by another, took refuge in his mother's house; the latter, who had been much abused by the former, proceeded to take vengeance on him, even on the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, when young Byron came out at the noise, and insisted that the refugee should not be struck in his house, or else he must fight for him. The pursuer, "nothing loath," accepted the challenge, and they fought for nearly an hour, when both were compelled to give in, from absolute exhaustion.

It is the custom of the Grammar School at Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes, of which it is composed, should be assembled for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in the morning, previous to which a censor calls over the names of all, and those who are absent are fined.

The first time that Lord Byron had come to school after his accession to his title, the rector had caused his name to be inserted in the censor's book-Georgius Dominus de Byron, instead of Georgius Byron Gordon, as formerly. The boys, unused to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud and involuntary shout, which had such an effect on his sensitive mind, that he burst into tears, and would have fled from the school, had he not been restrained by the master. A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small Shetland pony, which his father had bought him, and one day they were riding and walking by turns, to the banks of the Don, to bathe. When they came to the bridge, over that dark, romantic stream, Byron bethought him of the prophecy which he incorrectly quotes (from memory, it is true), in one of his latter cantos of Don Juan...

"Brig o' Balgownie! wight's thy wa'
Wi' a wife's ae son, and a mare's ae foal,
Down shalt thou fa,"

He immediately stopped his companion, who was then riding, and asked him if he remembered the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be "a mare's ae foal," he would rather ride over first, because he had only a mother to lament him should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling of the bridge, whereas the other had both a father and a mother to grieve after him.

In our memoir of Lord Byron we stated that his Lordship had written his own life, and that the MS. had been destroyed. This is an event deeply to be lamented, and can only be justified on the ground that it was the last wish of Byron him self. On this subject we perfectly agree with the observations of an able writer in

the last number of a contemporary publi cation.* Speaking of the destruction of the memoirs of Byron, the writer ob

serves :

"Whatever may be the opinion of the present generation, I am at least convinced that the future will think with me, and cry out aloud against the perpetrators of a deed which can never be repaired.Of all the works given by that mighty mind, that lofty genius (which alike rode in the whirlwind, or sparkled in the sunbeam), not one, perhaps, would have been found more deeply interesting, more intensely commanding, than the history of his own heart, the developement of energies, passions, and peculiarities, all marked by sublimity and talent; and which, like the stricken rock in the wilderness, would flow from the fountain of memory in a distant land more fully and purely, less 'mixed with baser matter,' than they could have done when surrounded by persons and objects calculated to distract and harass him.

"If Lord Byron was an erring man, of which we can have little doubt, since he has told us so himself, surely there is the more reason to listen to his apology, if he is able to make one; to detect the fallacy of his reasons, if he is not, and point out anew to ourselves the distinction between the genius we must admire and the virtue we ought to venerate. These are not times in which the most dazzling talents, the most alluring sophistry, can injure any but willing victims; and it would be the perfection of cant for any

man to say that he could not in conscience' read any work which Lord Byron could or would write. In fact, we all know that more has been said on this point already than the subject warranted. It is, however, no bad sign of the times, that a holy jealousy, a vigilant guarding of the public mind, even towards him who was the master-spirit of the age, the prince of our princely race of poets, has been evinced; but, since we have done so much in the way of warning him and guarding ourselves, surely we might have joyfully, thankfully, accepted from him the most endearing of all legacies-his own portrait by his own pencil.

"Over this legacy, so desired, whether intended to sting to the heart a country he had renounced, or to prove he had yet reluctantly-owned, but fondly-nurtured, recollections of love for her, it is alike evident no private considerations or personal feeings could in justice decide.Byron could not fail to be aware of his own importance; he knew his country had

Literary Chronicle.

an interest in him; knew, too, that she was proud of him, even when angry with him; and was aware that, as persons and incidents died away in her memory, that pride and love would increase, and, of course, that every circumstance, every thought, which recalled his genius, his opinions, his misfortunes, even his faults, to view, would possess an attraction, similar to that he had himself felt for Tasso and Pope. In writing his life, he might be said to propitiate kindly feelings, to reward friendly exertions, to deprecate censure, to punish malignity, if it had existed, or to give the falsely-accused power of reply; to re-unite himself with his country and his kindred, and submit to their censure, or claim their support, as a man and a brother, no longer alienated by the stern sullenness of pride brooding over its wrongs, or the consciousness of sins which were, perhaps, falsely imputed."

This is not only a charitable, but a just estimate of a transaction, which has excited such an astounding interest in the literary world. That a work of Byron's, and that of so interesting a character, as the memoirs of himself, should be destroyed, is a sacrilege better becoming the harpies of the inquisition, than a country which boasts of its freedom and of the liberty of the press.

It has somewhat surprised us, that there have been no tributes to the memory of Byron by our eminent poets. They can feel no jealousy now, and although we certainly could not expect Southey, nor even Wordsworth, to tune their lyres on such an occasion, yet, surely Scott, Moore, and Campbell, might have done homage to that master spirit they were eager to follow, though they could not approach him. Sir Walter Scott, perhaps, may be excused, since he has paid a warm tribute to Byron's talents in prose.* Byron, however, was indifferent to such honours, if we may judge from the wish expressed by him in one of his poems, in which he says,

"When my soul wings her flight,
To the regions of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust, with---a tear!

"May no marble bestow,
That splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear :---
No fiction of fame,

To blazon my name. All I ask,---all I wish,--is---a tear!" Is there a Greek-is there a man who will refuse this tributary tear? We believe not. This was Byron's wish: his

See Mirror, No. 87.

of light no likeness is bequeathed; no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of fame!
The flash of wit, the bright intelligence,
The beam of song, the blaze of cloquence,
Set with their sun---but still have left behind
Th' enduring produce of immortal mind;
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon!"

Byron, during his residence abroad, avoided English society very much, less, we are assured, from a want of respect for his country or countrymen, but because he knew how eager the public was to catch at any thing that related to his private life. In an Appendix to his Doge of Venice, he mentions that some traveller had asserted, that he had repeatedly declined an introduction to him while in Italy.

Who this person may be," says Lord Byron, "I know not, but he must have been deceived by all or any of those who 'repeatedly offered to introduce him,' as I have invariably refused to receive any English with whom I was not previously acquainted, even when they had letters from England. If the whole assertion is not an invention, I request this person not to sit down with the notion that he could have been introduced, since there has been nothing I have so carefully avoided as any kind of intercourse with his countrymen-excepting the very few who were a considerable time resident in Venice or had been of my previous acquaintance. Whoever made him any such offer was possessed of impudence equal to that of making such an assertion without having had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter abhorrence any contact with the travelling English, as my friend the Consul General Hoppner, and the Countess Benzoni (in whose house the conversazione most frequently by them is held) could amply testify, were it worth while. I was persecuted by these tourists, even to my riding-ground at Lido, and reduced to the most disagreeable circuits to avoid them. At Madame Benduced to them; of a thousand such prezoni's I repeatedly refused to be introsentations pressed upon me, I accepted two, and both were to Irish women.

"I should hardly have descended to

speak of such trifles, publicly, if the impudence of this Sketcher, had not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous and gratuitously impertinent assertion; so meant to be; for what could it import to the reader to be told that the author had repeatedly declined an introduction? Even had it been true, which, for the reasons I have above given, is scarcely possible. Except Lords Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale; Messrs. Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the late M. Lewis, W. Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have exchanged a word with another Englishman since I left their country and almost all these I had known before. The others, and God knows there were some hundreds, who bored me with letters or visits, I refused to have any communication with, and shall be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual."

When residing at Mitylene, in the year 1812, he portioned eight young girls very liberally, and even danced with them at the marriage feast; he gave a cow to one man, horses to another, and cotton and silk to several girls who live by weaving these materials. He also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek testaments to the poor children.

We have already noticed Lord Byron's exploit in performing Leander's exploit, that of swimming across the Hellespont, nor did he consider it a very extraordinary feat, as will be seen by the following extract of a letter, written by his Lordship, in February, 1821.

In

"My own experience, and that of others, bids me pronounce the passage of Leander perfectly practicable: any young man in good health, and with tolerable skill in swimming, might succeed in it from either side. I was three hours in swimming across the Tagus, which is much more hazardous, being two hours longer than the passage of the Hellespont. Of what may be done in swimming, I shall mention one more instance. 1818, the Chevalier Mingaldo, (a gentleman of Bassano,) a good swimmer, wished to swim with my friend, Mr. Alexander Scott, and myself; as he seemed particularly anxious on the subject, we indulged him.-We all three started from the Island of the Lido, and swam to Venice. At the entrance of the grand canal, Scott and I were a good way a-head, and we saw no more of our foreign friend; which, however, was of no consequence, as there was a gondola to hold his clothes, and pick him up.

Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got out less from fatigue than chill, having been four hours in the water without rest, or stay, except what is to be obtained by floating on one's back,-this being the condition of our performance. I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, comprising the whole of the grand canal, (beside the distance from the Lide,) and got out where the Laguna once more opens to Fusina. I had been in the water, by my watch, without help or rest, and never touching ground or boat, four hours and twenty minutes. To this match, and during the greater part of the performance, Mr. Hoppner, the Consul General, was witness, and it is well known to many others. Mr. Turner can easily verify the fact, if he thinks it worth while, by referring to Mr. Hoppner. The distance we could not accurately ascertain; it was of course considerable.

"I crossed the Hellespont in one hour and ten minutes only. I am now ten years older in time, and twenty in constitution, than I was when I passed the Dardanelles; and yet two years ago, I was capable of swimming four hours and twenty minutes; and I am sure that I could have continued two hours longer, though I had on a pair of trowsers an accoutrement which by no means assists the performance. My two companions were also four hours in the water. galdo might be about thirty years of age, Scott about six-and-twenty. With this experience in swimming, at different periods of age, not only on the spot, but elsewhere, of various persons, what is there to make me doubt that Leander's exploit was perfectly practicable? three individuals did more than passing the Hellespont, why should he have done less ?"

Min

If

Lord Byron is succeeded in his title by a cousin of his, Captain Byron, of the Royal Navy; he has left a daughter, to whom he appears to have been most ardently attached, and whose birth called forth the following effusion from his magic pen :—

TO MY DAUGHTER

ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH.

HAIL to this teeming stage of life;
Hail, lovely miniature of life!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears!
Sweet promise of extatic years!
And turn idolater to thee!
How could I fainly bend the knee

'Tis nature's worship---felt---confess'd, The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan, The rudest portraiture of max,

Far as the life which warms the breast;

In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb---the secret start---
The hidden impulse of the heart.
Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears,
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou dar'st not speak:
Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could wake thy untun'd ear,
And gust it with a father's prayer.
But little reck'st thou, oh, my child!
Of travail on life's thorny wild!
Of all the dangers, all the woes,
Each tottering footstep which enclose;
Ah! little reck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that spreads between
The little all we here can find,
And the dark mystic sphere behind!

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born,

Of clouds which gather round thy morn,
Of acts to lure thy soul astray,
Of snares that intersect thy way,
Of secret foes, of friend untrue,

Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo---
Little thou reck'st of this sad store---
Would thou might'st never reck them more!
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weepi
The tenant of a frail abode,

Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd;
Beguil'd by follies every day,

Sorrow must wash the faults away,
And thou must wake perchance to prove
The pang of unrequited love.
Unconscious babe, tho' on that brow
No half-fledg'd misery nestles now,
Scarce round thy placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile,
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shall plant their dewy traces there,
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day.

Oh! could a father's pray'r repel
The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell;
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care,

Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill;

A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.
Sleep on, my child; the slumber brief
Too soon shall melt away to grief;
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew that cheek;
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agonized with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care,---ah, much too soon!
Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all their own,
Of many a pang, and many a woe,
That thy dear sex alone can know...
Of many an ill untold, unsung,
That will not---may not find a tongue,
But kept conceal'd without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul.
Yet be thy lot, my babe more blest!
May joy still animate thy breast!
Still, midst thy least propitious days,
Shedding its rich, inspiring rays,
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret pray'r,
And as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.

Then, bail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!

Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears!
Sweet promise of extatic years!

How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

How much it is to be regretted that a father, who displayed so much parental affection, should by any circumstances be separated from the child of his heart!

Nothing now remains for us but to add a few more tributes to the memory of this distinguished individual, to whose genius, foreigners, as well as Englishmen, pay a willing homage. The Nuremberg Gazette of May 26, has the following article from Greece:

"There is no doubt, that if the life of Lord Byron had been prolonged, he would have done incalculable service to the Greeks, by his enthusiastic zeal and his extensive connections. Not only his own countrymen in unexpectedly large numbers, but other foreigners from all parts of Europe, were called together under the Ægis of his much-respected name. The differ ences which were likely to arise between the Porte and Great Britain, from the connection of a man of so much importance with the Greeks, allowed us to hope for events, in the course of which, Greece might, perhaps, all at once, have acquired a tranquil existence, have completely organized its internal constitution, and her fields, drenched with the blood of her children, would have rewarded the peaceful labours of the husbandman. The loss of this magnanimous Nobleman is most deeply felt. At Missolonghi, the inhabitants of which had the best opportunity of seeing and admiring the extent of his activity, every body is plunged in the most profound affliction. If we had lost a great battle, the grief at such a misfortune would not have been so general: our country has still sons enough to repel the invading enemy; a defeat would only animate them to new victories; but this loss is irreparable, and the animating spirit of a man like Lord Byron, whom fortune, and, perhaps, his own previous mode of life, had placed in a state of mind, in which life had no charms for him, unless enhanced by something extraordinary-such a spirit dwells in very few men, and in them, perhaps, not to their own good."

A more ardent tribute to the memory of Byron has been paid by M. Charles Dupin, member of the French Institute.

The cause of a people," he says, "whose ancestors have acquired immortal renown-of a people who, inspired by this