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me, as you must be aware that at present I am the "most unpopular writer going*, and the odium on the dedicatee may recur on the dedicator. If you do not "think this a valid objection, of course there can be none

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On my speaking to him with great praise one day of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner,' Lord Byron said:

"I have been much taken to task for calling 'Christa"bel' a wild and singularly original and beautiful poem ; " and the Reviewers very sagely come to a conclusion "therefrom, that I am no judge of the compositions of

others. 'Christabel' was the origin of all Scott's metrical " tales, and that is no small merit. It was written in 1795, "and had a pretty general circulation in the literary "world, though it was not published till 1816, and then probably in consequence of my advice. One day, when

* "But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero

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My Leipsic, and my Mont St. Jean seems Cain."

Don Juan, Canto X. Stanza 56.

"I was with Walter Scott (now many years ago) he

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❝ it.

repeated the whole of Christabel,' and I then agreed " with him in thinking this poem what I afterwards called Sir Walter Scott recites admirably. I was rather disappointed when I saw it in print; but still there are "finer things in it than in any tale of its length; the proof

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of which is, that people retain them without effort.

"What do you think of the picture of an English Oc"tober day ?

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"On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.'

found them

selves in The Siege of Corinth,' I hardly know how; but

* "Was it the wind through some hollow stone,

"Sent that soft and tender moan?

"He lifted his head-" &c.

Siege of Corinth.

"I adopted another passage, of greater beauty, as a motto "to a little work I need not name*, and paraphrased

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without scruple the same idea in Childe Harold.' I

thought it good because I felt it deeply-the best test of poetry. His psychological poem was always a great "favourite of mine, and but for me would not have appeared. What perfect harmony of versification!"

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And he began spouting 'Kubla Khan :'

"It was an Abyssinian maid,

"And on her dulcimer she play'd,

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Singing of Mount Abora'

"Madame de Staël was fond of reciting poetry that "had hardly any thing but its music to recommend it."

6

"And pray," asked I, "what has Kubla Khan?'

I can't tell you," said he; "but it delights me."

And he went on till he had finished the Vision.

* The stanzas beginning "Fare thee well!"

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"I was very much amused with Coleridge's 'Memoirs.'

There is a great deal of bonhommie in that book, and he "does not spare himself. Nothing, to me at least, is so entertaining as a work of this kind—as private biography: "Hamilton's Memoirs,' for instance, that were the origin of "the style of Voltaire. Madame de Staël used to say, that "De Grammont' was a book containing, with less matter, "more interest than any she knew. Alfieri's 'Life' is delight"ful. You will see my Confessions in good time, and you will "wonder at two things-that I should have had so much

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to confess, and that I should have confessed so much. Coleridge, too, seems sensible enough of his own errors. "His sonnet to the Moon is an admirable burlesque on the "Lakists, and his own style. Some of his stories are told "with a vast deal of humour, and display a fund of good temper that all his disappointments could not sour. Many parts of his Memoirs' are quite unintelligible, and were, I apprehend, meant for Kant; on the proper pronunciation of whose name I heard a long argument the "other evening.

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Coleridge is like Sosia in 'Amphytrion;'-he does not "know whether he is himself, or not. If he had never

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gone to Germany, nor spoilt his fine genius by the tran

"scendental philosophy and German metaphysics, nor "taken to write lay sermons, he would have made the "greatest poet of the day. What poets had we in 1795 ?

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Hayley had got a monopoly, such as it was. Coleridge might have been any thing: as it is, he is a thing that 66 dreams are made of.""

Being one day at Moloni's the bookseller's at Pisa, a report was in circulation that a subject belonging to the Lucchese States had been taken up for sacrilege, and sentenced to be burnt alive. A priest who entered the library at that moment confirmed the news, and expressed himself thus: Scelerato!" said he, "he took the consecrated wafers off the altar, and threw them contemptuously about the church! What punishment can be great enough for such a monstrous crime? Burning is too easy a death! I shall go to Lucca,-I would almost go to Spain, to see the wretch expire at the stake!" Such were the humane and Christian sentiments of a minister of the Gospel! I quitted him with disgust, and immediately hastened to Lord Byron's.

Is it possible?" said he, after he had heard my story.