English schools-exhibiting so great a similarity in their ideas and destinies-if not in their manners; the one a Peer of England, the other a Peer of France; both travellers in the East; the one often close upon the other, without their ever having actually met. The only difference is, that the life of the English poet has been mixed up with events far less important than mine.

Lord Byron went after me to visit the ruins of Greece. In Childe Harold he seems to embellish with his own colours the descriptions of the Itinéraire. At the commencement of my pilgrimage I re-produced the Sire de Joinville's farewell to his château; Byron addressed a similar farewell to his Gothic halls.

In the Martyrs, Eudorus set out from Messenia to go to Rome. "Our voyage," says he, "was long; we saw all the promontories remarkable for their temples or tombs. My

young companions had never heard any thing spoken of except the metamorphoses of Jupiter, and knew nothing of the ruins passing before their eyes; for myself, I had already sat with the prophet on the ruins of cities waste and desolate, and Babylon taught me the history and fate of Corinth."

The English poet, as well as the French prosaist, had been anticipated by the letter of Sulpicius to Cicero-a concurrence so perfect is to me singularly glorious, seeing that I preceded the immortal bard to the shores of which we have preserved the same recollections, and of which we have commemorated the same ruins.

I have further the honour of being in accord with Lord Byron, in the description of Rome; the Martyrs, and my letter on the Campagna, possess the inestimable advantage of having anticipated the inspirations of a renowned genius.

The early translators, commentators, and admirers of Lord Byron have been careful to avoid pointing out that some passages of my works might have remained for a moment in the recollection of the author of Childe Harold; they, perhaps, supposed that such a remark would have robbed his genius of some of its creative power. Now, however, that the enthusiasm has subsided a little, they are less niggardly of doing me this honour. Our immortal Béranger, in the last volume of his songs, has said, "In one of the couplets which precede this I refer to the lyres, which France owes to François de Cha

teaubriand. I have no fear of this being gainsayed by the new school of poetry, which, being born under the wings of the eagle, has often, and with reason, boasted of such an origin. The influence of the author of the Génie du Christianisme has been no less felt in other countries; and it would, perhaps, be only justice to acknowledge that the writer of Childe Harold is of the family of René."

In an excellent article on Lord Byron, M. Villemain has repeated Béranger's remark: "Some incomparable passages of René," says he, "had, it is true, exhausted this poetical character. I know not whether Byron imitated them, or reproduced them by his genius."

What I have just said upon the affinities of imagination and destiny between the chronicler of René, and the author of Childe Harold, does not pluck away a single hair from the head of the immortal bard.

What could my prosaic and humble muse avail the muse of the Dee with a lyre and wings? Lord Byron will live, whether as the child of his generation, like myself, he has expressed like me its passions and misfortunes, as Goethe did before us; or whether the course and the lights of my Gallic barque have been the guides of the barque of Albion on unknown seas.

Besides, two minds of a similar bent may very well have similar ideas, without there being any ground for reproaching either with servile imitation of the other. It is quite permissible to avail ourselves of ideas and imagery expressed in a foreign language, in order to enrich our own; this is a thing acknowledged in all ages, and at all times. I am conscious that in my youth I was indebted for many of my ideas to Ossian, Werther, Les Réveries d'un Promeneur Solitaire, and Les Etudes de la Nature; but I have never concealed any thing, nor dissembled the pleasure which I derived from the works in which I delighted.

If it be true, that René formed an element in the essence of that single personage, introduced under different names in Childe Harold, Conrad, Lara, Manfred, and the Giaour; if perchance, Lord Byron had imparted to me life from his life, would he then have had the weakness never to name me? Was I, then, one of those fathers who is denied as soon as one attains to power? Could Lord Byron, who quotes almost all the French contemporary authors have been completely ignorant

of me? Had he never heard me spoken of, when the English as well as the French journals had been filled for twenty years with controversies upon my works; when the New Times drew a comparison between the writer of the Génie du Christianisme and the author of Childe Harold?

There is no mind, however highly favoured it may be, which has not its peculiar susceptibility and distrust; a man wishes to retain the sceptre-fears to divide the sway-and is angry at comparisons. Thus, another superior genius has altogether omitted my name in a work on Literature. Thanks to God, that estimating myself at my just value, I have never made any pretensions to empire; as I believe in religious truth alone, of which liberty is a form, I have no more faith in myself than in any thing else here below. But I have never felt the need of keeping silence when I really admired; for this reason I proclaim my admiration of Madame de Staël and Lord Byron. What is more delightful than admiration? It partakes of heavenly love, of tenderness exalted even to veneration; we feel ourselves filled with gratitude to the divinity which extends the powers of our minds, opens new views to our souls, and confers upon us a happiness so great and so pure, without any admixture either of envy or fear.

Besides, the petty quarrel which in these Memoirs I wage against the greatest poet whom England has seen since Milton, proves only one thing: the great value which I would have attached to the notice of his muse.

Lord Byron opened a deplorable school: I presume he was as much grieved with the Childe Harolds, to whom he gave birth, as I am with the Renés who dream around me.

The life of Lord Byron is a subject of much investigation and of many calumnies; the young have taken his magic words as seriously meant; women have felt disposed to suffer themselves to be seduced, with fear, by this monster, to console this solitary and unhappy Satan. Who knows? Perhaps he did not find the woman whom he sought-a woman beautiful enough-a heart as large as his own. According to the theory of demoniacal possession, Byron is the old seducing and corrupting serpent, because he sees the corruption of the human race; he is a fated and suffering genius, placed between the mysteries of matter and mind, who finds no word to express the enigma of the universe, who looks upon life as a frightful mockery with

out a cause, as a perverse smile of evil; he is the son of despair, whose language is contempt and denial; a man who has not passed through the age of innocence, and who, having come forth reprobate from the bosom of nature, is the damned of annihilation.

Such is the Byron of heated imaginations; such, as it ap pears to me, is not the man in reality.

As in the case of most others, two different men are combined in Lord Byron; the man of nature and the man of training. The poet, perceiving the character which the public gave him to play, accepted it, and began to curse the world, which he had at first only done in his poetic dreams; this course is apparent in the chronological order of his works.

As to his genius, far from having the extent attributed to it, it is limited enough; his poetical thoughts are confined to lamentation, complaint, and imprecation; in these respects they are admirable; we are not to ask the lyre what it thinks, but what it sings.

As to his mind, it is sarcastic and varied, but of a nature which agitates, and of evil influence. The writer has carefully studied Voltaire, and imitates him.

Lord Byron, endowed with every advantage, had little reason to reproach his birth; the very accident which rendered him unhappy, and which linked all his lofty superiority with human infirmity, ought not to have tormented him, since it did not hinder him from being loved. The immortal bard knew, from his own experience, how true is the maxim of Zeno: "The voice is the flower of beauty."

How deplorable is the rapidity with which renown flies away at the present day! At the end of some years, what do I say? of some months, the public infatuation disappears, and reviling succeeds. The glory of Lord Byron already begins to pale; his genius is better understood among us; and altars will be raised to his honour longer in France than in England. As the peculiar excellency of Childe Harold consists in the delineation of individual sentiment and feeling, the English, who prefer such sentiments as are common to all, will end by disowning the poet whose plaint is so deep and sorrowful. Let them beware: if they break the image of the man who has made them live, what will they have remaining?

WHEN I wrote these remarks on Lord Byron, during my exile in London in 1822, he had only two years of his earthly race to run: he died in 1824, at the very time in which the public disenchantment, and a strong feeling of repugnance towards him, were about to commence. I preceded him in lifehe has before gone He has been called away me to the grave. before his turn; my number was before his, and, nevertheless, his was drawn out before mine. Childe Harold ought to have remained; the world might lose me without perceiving my disappearance. In continuing my route, I met Madame Guiccioli in Rome, and Lady Byron in Paris. Weakness and virtue have thus been presented to me: the former had, perhaps, too much reality-and the latter not enough of ideality.

London, from April till September, 1822.

ENGLAND, FROM RICHMOND TO GREENWICH-EXCURSION WITH PELLETIER-BLENHEIM-STOWE-HAMPTON COURT-OXFORD-ETON COLLEGE-MANNERS, PRIVATE AND POLITICAL-FOX-PITT-BURKEGEORGE III.

HAVING now spoken of English writers at the period when England afforded me an asylum, it only remains for me to say something of England itself at that time, its scenery, castles, and manners and customs, private as well as political.

The whole of England may, perhaps, be seen in the space of a dozen miles, from Richmond above London to Greenwich below it.

Below London, lies England industrial and commercial, with its docks, warehouses, custom-house, foundries, and ships; at every tide vessels of all sizes ascend the Thames in three divisions; the smallest first, then those of middle size, and finally, the large ships, whose sails almost touch the columns of Greenwich Hospital, and the windows of its festive taverns.

Above London, lies England agricultural and pastoral, with its meadows, herds, country-houses, and parks, washed by the waters of the Thames driven back by the tide, and twice in the day bathing their shrubberies and lawns. Between these two opposite points-Richmond and Greenwich-London embraces