The work of Lord Byron, in verse and prose, including his letters, journals, etc . not look upon his like again. 30 I am tremendously in arrcar with my letters,—exceptto * * and to her my thoughts overpower me,—my wordsnever compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write withmost pleasure—and her answers, so sensible, so tactique—I never met with half her talent. If she had been a fewyears younger, what a fool she would have made of me,had she thought it worth her while,—and I should havelost a valuable and most agreeable friend. Mem.—amis-tress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, youare l
The work of Lord Byron, in verse and prose, including his letters, journals, etc . not look upon his like again. 30 I am tremendously in arrcar with my letters,—exceptto * * and to her my thoughts overpower me,—my wordsnever compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write withmost pleasure—and her answers, so sensible, so tactique—I never met with half her talent. If she had been a fewyears younger, what a fool she would have made of me,had she thought it worth her while,—and I should havelost a valuable and most agreeable friend. Mem.—amis-tress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, youare lovers; and, when it is over, any thing but friends. I have not answered W. Scotts last letter,—but I regret to hear from others that he has lately been unfor-tunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedlythe monarch of Parnassus, and the most English of should place Rogers next in the living list—(I value himmore as the last of the best school)—Moore and Campbellboth third—Southey and Wordsworth and Coleridge0the rest, bi iroXXui—thus:. There is a triangular Gradus ad Parnassum! Thenames are too numerous for the base of the triangle. PoorThurlow has gone wild about the poetry of Q,ueen Besssreign—ctst dommage. I have ranked the names upon mytriangle more upon what I believe popular opinion thanany decided opinion of my own. For, to me, some ofMoores last Erin sparks—As abeam oer the face ofthe waters— When he who adores thee— Oh blame noC and Oh breathe not his name—are worth all the Epicsthat ever were composed. « * * thinks the Quarterly will attack me next. Letthem. I have been peppered so highly in my time, bothways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me can sincerely say that I am not very much alive now tocriticism. But—in tracing this—I rather believe that itproceeds from my not attaching that importance to author-ship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. One gets tired of every tiling, m
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