CHAPTER IV

CANTO ILVIII"The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'dDenotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:Her glance how wildly beautiful! how muchHath Phœbus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!Who round the North for paler dames would seek?How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan and weak!"

Such an anathema as this, hurled by the poet at that England which Shakespeare compared to a swan's nest in the midst of a great lake, met with widespread notoriety; forChilde Harold's Pilgrimage, the first canto of which Byron wrote during his travels, had a tremendous reception.

Byron visited Portugal, the South of Spain, Sardinia and Sicily; then he went through Albania and Illyria, travelled through the Morea, stopping at Thebes, Athens, Delphi and Constantinople. If we are to believe his own words, he looked forward with dread to his return:—

"Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Embarrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to public, solitary without the wish to be social, with a body a little enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit, I trust, yet unbroken, I am returninghomewithout a hope, and almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to encounter will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to estates out of repair, and contested coal-pits. In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little repaired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either to campaign in Spain, or back again to the East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation from impertinence."

The writer of the above was barely twenty-four years of age, he bore one of the oldest names in the British Isles, he was a peer of England and was to become the leading poet of his time!

The first canto ofChilde Haroldwas to reveal him in the latter capacity, and he sold his poem for two hundred pounds sterling.

His mother died suddenly in Scotland two months after his return, in 1811.

"One day," said Lord Byron, "I heard she was ill; the next, I learnt that she was dead!"

Nor was this all. Almost at the same time his two best friends, Wingfield and Matthews, both died.

Byron wrote to Mr. Davies:—

"Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do? Come to me. I am almost desolate—left almost alone in the world."

We find traces of these sorrows at the close of the second canto ofChilde Harold:—

"All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast;The parent, friend, and now the more than friend;Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,And grief with grief continuing still to blend,Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.What is the worst of woes that wait on age?What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?To view each loved one blotted from life's page,And be alone on earth, as I am now.Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed:Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd,And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd."

Byron rejoiced greatly in the success that had greeted the first canto of hisChilde Harold; the second was composed after his return to England, as the stanza upon his mother's death proves.

Even theEdinburgh Reviewmade amends for its mistake in denying that the author ofHours of Idlenesshad a vocation for poetry.

"Lord Byron," the Scottish critics now remarked, "has improved much since we last had his work under review. This new volume is full of originality and talent; the author hereinmakes amends for the literary sins of his youth, and does more, for he promises to give us better work still."

Lord Byron received £600 for the first two cantos ofChilde Harold, and so great was its success that, for the third part, he was paid £1575, and for the fourth £2100. It was said then, and with some truth, that he sold his poems at the rate of a guinea a line.

With success came popularity. All the world wanted to see this poet who had appeared suddenly among them like a brilliant meteor, lighting up the darkness of the night, and to buy his works. They beheld his face and saw that he was beautiful; they uttered his name and remembered that, by his father, he came of an illustrious race, and, by his mother, being descended from Jane Stuart, daughter of James II. of Scotland, he had royal blood in his veins. He had said in his poem that he had seen everything worth seeing and was bored with it all, that he had committed all kinds of sins and even crimes; he had said—a most extraordinary confession for a poet of only twenty-five years of age—that he could not fall in love with even the most beautiful of women London had to show.Those pale and languid flowers of the Norths, as he called them, vowed, in their turn, to make him break his oath.

It was not a difficult matter for those who knew Lord Byron; many succeeded without much effort; Lady Caroline Lamb succeeded best of all. She was the daughter of the Earl of Bamborough, and had married, in 1805, William Lamb, second son of Lord Melbourne.

Byron fell madly in love with her, and offered to run away with her; but she declined. What was the cause of the bitter rupture between them that ended in Lady Lamb writing the novel calledGlenarvonagainst her former lover, and in his treating her with great disdain throughout the remainder of his life? We should probably have found an answer to these questions in the Memoirs of Lord Byron that Thomas Moore burnt. Who knows? perhaps he burnt them on account of that episode. After this quarrel, Byron earned a reputation for being a dandy; he became the fashionable frequenter ofwatering-places and of aristocratic assemblies. But this kind of life ended as it was sure to do, in weariness and in disgust; and on 27 February 1814 the poet wrote:—

"Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was asked,—but not inclined to go anywhere. Hobhouse says I am growing aloup garou,—a solitary hobgoblin. True:—'I am myself alone.'"

A strange idea next took hold of the misanthrope, of the poet whose inspirations had run dry, of the man of many dissipations: he would marry and settle down. He had exhausted every pleasure youth could give; he aspired to something fresh, no matter even if it meant misery. This unknown and painful experience Lady Byron had in store for him. But the strangest thing was that he wished to marry for the sake of getting married, and not for the sake of the woman. He, who had once betted fifty pounds with Mr. Hay that he would never marry, was in such a hurry to marry that he did not mind who the lady was.

He discussed his intention with Lady Melbourne, and Lady Melbourne proposed a young lady whom Byron did not know; Byron suggested Miss Milbanke.

"You are wrong," said Lady Melbourne, "and for two reasons: first, because you have need of money and Miss Milbanke could only bring you ten thousand pounds; and in the second place, because you want a wife who will admire you, and Miss Milbanke admires no one but herself."

"Well, then," said Lord Byron, "what is the name of your young lady?"

Lady Melbourne mentioned her name, and Byron at once wrote to her parents, who sent him a refusal.

"Good!" said Byron. "You now see that Miss Milbanke is to be my wife." And he sat down at once and wrote to Miss Milbanke to make known his wishes to her.

But Lady Melbourne did not mean matters to end thus; she snatched the letter out of Byron's hands when he had finished it and took it to the window to read, while Byronremained quietly in his seat. When she had read it, she said, "Well, I must admit this is a very pretty letter; it is a pity it should not go."

"Then give it me," said Byron, "and I will seal it and send it off."

Lady Melbourne gave the letter back to Byron, and he sealed it and saw that it reached its address.

He was married on 2 January 1815, from Sir Ralph Milbanke's house. He sent the fifty pounds to Mr. Hay the same day, without waiting till he was asked for the money.

Exactly a month later, he wrote:—

"Feb.2, 1815"The treacle-moon is over, and I am awake, and find myself married. Swift says, 'Nowiseman ever married'; but, for a fool, I think it is the most ambrosial of all possible future states."

"Feb.2, 1815

"The treacle-moon is over, and I am awake, and find myself married. Swift says, 'Nowiseman ever married'; but, for a fool, I think it is the most ambrosial of all possible future states."

The honeymoon was spent at Sir Ralph Milbanke's house; after that, the young couple went to their house in Piccadilly. But here the worries of housekeeping overtook them. Miss Milbanke's £10,000 dowry had only served to irritate Lord Byron's creditors. Creditors only rest quietly whilst nothing at all is given them, for then they are in despair; but partial payment rouses them to fury. Urged on by the £10,000 they had secured, the duns did not give the young couple a moment's peace; in proportion as these annoyances increased, the relations between the husband and wife grew colder and more distant. Then, when her husband was at his unhappiest, and only saved from imprisonment through being a peer of the realm, Lady Byron left London under cover of a visit to her father. Their farewell parting was, conventionally speaking, quite affectionate, and they agreed to meet in a month's time. During her journey, Lady Byron wrote quite a tender letter to her husband; then, one morning, Lord Byron learnt from his father-in-law, Sir Ralph Milbanke, that he must not expect ever to see his wife and his daughter again.

What was the reason for this sudden separation, which, in spite of all Byron's protests, ended in a divorce? The poet put it down to the influence of an old governess of Lady Byron, Mrs. Clermont, against whom he launched that terrible satire entitled "A Sketch," and this epigram and apostrophe from the the Moor to Iago:

"Honest, honest Iago!If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."

which begins with these lines:—

"Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;Next—for some gracions service unexpress'd,And from its wages only to be guess'd—Raised from the toilette to the table,—whereHer wondering betters wait behind her chair.With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd."

Immediately a tremendous clamour arose in the papers and in society against the poet who, by force of genius, had already overcome those of his opposers who might be termed the first coalition against him.

It is ever the case with men in high places who are before the eye of the public: tempests arise unexpectedly, the existence of which is not suspected by the victim till they burst over his head. They may be compared with waterspouts, and they pour down on the poet, be he a Schiller or a Dante, an Ovid or a Byron, utterly overwhelming him, rending his heart and body, tearing down his fame, overturning his reputation, uprooting his honour. These storms come from the enmities, hatred and jealousies roused by his genius; they are the hyenas that dog his steps through the darkness, who dare not attack him while he can stand firm and upright, but which spring on him directly he totters, and devour him as soon as he falls.

Byron realised he would have to give way before his enemies; so he left England, meaning to rally his forces amidst the undisturbing surroundings of foreign lands, forsome means of revenging himself upon them. He left England on 25 April 1816. He had published during his six years in London, the first two cantos ofChilde Harold,The Giaour,The Bride of Abydos,The Siege of Corinth,LaraandThe Corsair.

He departed, and his saddest regrets were for the wife who had exiled him, and for the daughter whom he had hardly seen, and whom he was never to look upon again.

"Fare thee well! and if for ever.Still for ever, fare thee well:Even though unforgiving, never'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.Would that breast were bared before theeWhere thy head so oft hath lain,While that placid sleep came o'er theeWhich thou ne'er canst know again:. . . . . . . .Both shall live, but every morrowWake us from a widow'd bed.. . . . . . . .And when thou wouldst solace gather,When our child's first accents flow,Wilt thou teach her to say 'Father!'Though his care she must forego?When her little hands shall press thee,When her lip to thine is press'd,Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,Think of him thy love had bless'd!Should her lineaments resembleThose thou never more may'st see,Then thy heart will softly trembleWith a pulse yet true to me."

This was to the mother: then, inChilde Harold, he addresses his child:—

"Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart?When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,And then we parted,—not as now we part,But with a hope.—My daughter! with thy name this song begun;My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end;I see thee not, I hear thee not, but noneCan be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friendTo whom the shadows of far years extend:Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,My voice shall with thy future visions blend,And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.To aid thy mind's development, to watchThy dawn of little joys, to sit and seeAlmost thy very growth, to view thee catchKnowledge of objects,—wonders yet to thee!To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;Yet this was in my nature: as it is,I know not what is there, yet something like to this.Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,I know that thou wilt love me; though my nameShould be shut from thee, as a spell still fraughtWith desolation, and a broken claim:Though the grave closed between us,—'twere the same,I know that thou wilt love me; though to drainMyblood from out thy being were an aim,And an attainment,—all would be in vain,—Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.The child of love, though born in bitterness,And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sireThese were the elements, and thine no less.As yet such are around thee, but thy fireShall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the seaAnd from the mountains where I now respire,Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me."

"Ah!" remarked Madame de Staël (the poor exile who, standing by the Lake of Geneva, sighed for the gutter that ran in the rue du Bac),—"ah! I would not mind being unhappyif I were Lady Byron, to have inspired such lines as those in my husband's brain!"

May be; but Lord Byron and Madame de Staël would have made an extraordinary couple, and no mistake.

Byron was not in such a hurry to travel far afield this time; perhaps he only wanted to stretch the double cord that bound him to England, and not to snap it altogether.

He landed in Belgium, visited the field of Waterloo, still wet with the blood of three nations; sailed down the Rhine and settled for a time on the borders of the Lake of Geneva. Here it was that he met Madame de Staël, who was almost as much of an exile under the Restoration as under the Empire. "My greatest pleasure amidst the magnificent pictures round Lake Geneva was to gaze upon the author ofCorinne."

At Diodati, Byron renewed his swimming feat of Abydos by crossing the Lake of Geneva where it is four leagues wide. And it was at Diodati that he wrote the third canto ofChilde Harold,The Prisoner of ChillonandManfred.Goethe in a German journal laid claim to the original idea ofManfred, as thoughManfreddid not descend as directly from Satan asFausthad from Polichinelle! O thou poor rich man! with all thy European fame and thy world-wide reputation, wouldst thou snatch back the leaf that thy brother-poet so sinfully plucked from thy laurel crown!

Can we not almost hear what D'Alembert said of the author ofZaïreand of theDictionnaire philosophique:—

"This man is past comprehending! he has fame that would satisfy a million of men, and yet he wants another ha'porth."

Byron took his revenge by dedicating some of his poems to Goethe.

Byron left for Italy in the month of October, stopping first at Milan to visit the Ambrosian Library. His next halt was at Verona, where he saw the tomb of Juliet; and, finally, he took up his residence in Venice, where his name became a household word.

Venice had never possessed any horses except the four bronze ones which had figured for twelve years on top of Carrousel's triumphal arch. But Byron never walked, and he was therefore the first person whose living horses clattered in the Square of Saint Mark, on the quai des Esclavons and on the banks of the Brenta.

It was in Venice that the real romance of his life began. Here he had three love affairs, each in a different rank of Venetian society: with Marguerite, Marianne and ... Alas! the most faithless of the three was the great lady who shall be nameless—she whom Byron loved more than all, perhaps, more than Miss Chaworth, more than Caroline Lamb.

It is curious to think that this lady, even at this day, thirty-three years after the time of which I am writing, is still a fascinating woman. I made her acquaintance in Rome when she was in the full bloom of her beauty, when she was almost as wonderful to listen to as to look at, to hear as to see.

She lived solely upon the memories of the great poet whom she had loved. It seemed as though the years of their love constituted the one bright spot in her life, and in looking back the obscurity that formed the rest of her life was ignored by her. But if I began to speak of her, I should have to reveal her name; I should have to speak of the walks we had together by moonlight in the Forum and the Coliseum; I should have to repeat what she told me among the shadows of those great ruins, when she never spoke but of the illustrious dead, who had trodden with her the same stones that we were treading and had sat by her side in the same places where we rested.

Oh! madam, madam! Why were you unfaithful to the poet's memory, when your memories of him had gone on increasing in strength, aided by his death, until you had magnified your love into a god? Why was not the honour of having been Byron's mistress quite sufficient, instead of taking any title that a husband, no matter how distinguished he might be, could give you?

If I might only venture to repeat here what Déjazet once said to Georges, with reference to Napoleon!

It is true that Byron, with all his fancies and eccentricities and passions, cannot have been a very pleasant lover. But she should have been faithless to him when he was alive, and not after he was dead.

The world has forgiven the Empress Joséphine her infidelities in the Tuileries, but it will never forgive Marie-Louise, the widow, her faithlessness at Parma.

We will not say any more, madam; we will think, instead, of the poems Byron wrote at Venice. Here he composedMarino Faliero,The Two Foscari,Sardanapalus,Cain,The Prophecy of Danteand the third and fourth cantos ofDon Juan.

When Naples rebelled in 1820 and 1821, Byron wrote to the Neapolitan Government and offered his purse and his sword. So, when reaction set in, and Ferdinand returned a second time from Sicily, and the lists of proscribed persons were published throughout Italy, it was feared Byron's name might be of the number of exiles. Then it happened that the poor people of Ravenna drew up a petition to the cardinal praying he might be allowed to stay among them.

This man who boldly and openly offered the Neapolitans a thousand louis was a never failing source of helpfulness to the poor of Venice and its surrounding countryside; no poor man ever held out a hand towards him and drew it back empty, even if Byron himself were in the greatest straits, and more than once he had to borrow in order to give. He knew this but too well when he said, "Those who have persecuted me so long and so cruelly will triumph, and justice will only be done to me when this hand is as cold as their hearts."

Thus, wherever he went, he left an impression as of fire,—he dazzled, warmed or scorched.

In 1821, Byron left Venice, in whose streets no one had ever seen him on foot; the Brenta, upon whose banks no one had ever seen him take a walk; the Square of St. Mark, whose beauties he had never contemplated except from awindow, for fear of revealing to the beauties of Venice the slight deformity of his leg, which not even the width of his trousers could disguise.

From Venice he went to Pisa. There the news of two fresh troubles awaited him: the death of his natural daughter by an English woman, and the death of his friend Shelley, who was drowned during a sailing trip from Livorno to Lerici. He sent his daughter's body to England for burial.

To save the body of his friend Shelley from the attentions Italian priests would no doubt have given it, he determined to have it burnt after the custom of the ancients.

Trelawney, the bold pirate, was present, and relates the strange funeral rites, as he relates his lion hunt or his fight with the Malay prince. He was a companion worthy of the noble poet, and was himself a poet; his book is full of marvellous descriptions, all the more wonderful because they are always true, although sounding incredible.

"We were on the seashore," said Trelawney; "in front of us lay the sea and its islands, behind us the Apennines, and by our side was the great blazing funeral-pyre. The flames, fanned by the wind from the sea, took a thousand fantastic shapes. The weather was very fine; the lazy waves from the Mediterranean gently kissed the shore, the sands were golden yellow and contrasted sharply with the deep blue of the sky; the mountains lifted their snowy crests up into the clouds, and the flames from the pyre steadily burnt higher and higher into the air."

From Pisa Byron went to Genoa. It was in this city—once the Queen of the Mediterranean—that he conceived the idea of going to Greece, to do for that "Niobe of the Nations," as he called her, the same offices Naples had not thought fit to accept when offered to her.

So far, Byron had devoted himself mainly to individuals; now he intended to devote himself to a people.

In the month of April 1823 he entered into communication with the Greek Committee, and towards the end of July he left Italy. His reputation had increased extraordinarily,not only in Italy, France and Germany, but in England too.

One fact will give some idea of the height to which his reputation had attained.

An insurrection had broken out in Scotland in the county where his mother's property was situated. The rebels had to cross Lady Byron's estates to reach their destination, but on the confines of the property they paused and decided to cross in single file, so as only to tread down a narrow path in the crops. They did not take the same precaution on other estates, which they completely devastated.

Byron often related this incident with pride.

"See," he said, "how the hatred of my enemies is being avenged."

Before he left Italy he wrote on the margin of a book that had been lent him—

"If all that is said of me be true, I am unworthy to see England again; if all they say of me is false, England does not deserve to see me again."

But he had a presentiment that he had left his native land for ever; and Lady Blessington told me herself that, when she met Byron at Genoa, the day before he was to set sail, he said to her—

"We have met again to-day, but to-morrow we shall be separated, who knows for how long? Something here (and he laid his hand on his heart) tells me that we are meeting for the last time; I am going to Greece, and shall never return from it."

Towards the end of December Byron landed in Morea, and, a few days later, he made his way into the town, in spite of the Turkish flotilla that was besieging Missolonghi. He was greeted with enthusiastic shouts by the people, who led him in triumph to the house they had got ready for him.

When established there, Byron's whole soul was concentrated in the one desire to see the triumph of the cause he had espoused, or to die in defending a fresh Thermopylæ. Neither of these hopes was to be granted him. He was seized by a violent attackof fever on 15 February 1824, which ran its course rapidly, caused him much suffering and weakened him greatly. But as soon as he was sufficiently recovered he resumed the daily rides on horseback which were his greatest recreation. On 9 April he got very wet when out riding, and although he changed everything on his return home, he felt ill, for he had been more than two hours in his wet clothes. During the night there was a slight return of the fever, although he slept well; but about eleven o'clock on the morning of the 10th he complained of a violent pain in the head and of suffering in his arms and legs; nevertheless, he managed to mount his horse in the afternoon. His old servant, Fletcher, from whose account we shall now borrow the final details, waited for his return.

"How have you got on, my lord?" he asked.

"The saddle was not dry," replied Byron, "and I am afraid the dampness has made me ill again."

And indeed it was plain to see next morning that Byron's indisposition had become more serious: he had been feverish all night, and seemed very depressed. Fletcher made him a cup of arrowroot; he tasted a few spoonfuls, then he handed the drink back to the old servant.

"It is excellent," he said, "but I cannot drink any more of it."

On the third day Fletcher grew seriously uneasy about him. During all his other rheumatic attacks his master had never been sleepless, but this time he could not sleep at all.

So he went to the two doctors in the town, Drs. Bruno and Millingen, and asked them several questions as to the nature of the illness from which they thought Lord Byron was suffering. Both assured the old valet that he need not be alarmed, that his master was in no danger, but that in two or three days he would be up again, and then, they said, the attack would not return again. This was on the 13th. On the 14th, as the fever had not left his master and the invalid still had no sleep, Fletcher begged Byron, in spite of theassurance of the two doctors, to let him send for Dr. Thomas, from Zante.

"Consult the two doctors," the sick man replied, "and act as they direct."

Fletcher obeyed, and the two doctors said that there was not any necessity for a third opinion. Fletcher brought back this answer to his master, who shook his head and said—

"I am much afraid they do not know anything at all about my illness."

"In that case, my lord," Fletcher insisted, "do call in another doctor."

"They tell me," Byron continued, without replying directly to Fletcher, "that it is a chill such as I have had before."

"But I am sure, my lord, you have never had such a serious one before," replied the valet.

"I agree with you," was Byron's reply; and he fell into a reverie from which no amount of persuasion could arouse him.

On the 15th, Fletcher, whose faithful devotion divined the real condition of his master, again asked permission to be allowed to fetch Dr. Thomas; but the doctors of Missolonghi still persisted there was no cause for alarm. Until now, they had treated their patient with purgatives, which, as Byron had only taken a cup or two of broth during eight days, were much too strong remedies and could not have any desirable effect. They but increased the weakness, which was already extreme because of want of sleep.

On the evening of the 15th, however, the doctors began to be uneasy, and talked of bleeding their patient; but he strenuously opposed this, asking Dr. Millingen if he thought the need for bleeding was urgent. The doctor replied that he believed he could put it off, without danger, until next day. So, on the evening of the 16th, they bled Byron in the right arm, taking sixteen ounces of greatly inflamed blood out of him. Dr. Bruno shook his head as he examined the blood.

"I always told him he ought to be bled," he murmured, "but he would never let it be done."

Then the doctors fell into a lengthy dispute over the time lost.

Again Fletcher proposed to send to Zante for Dr. Thomas, but the doctors replied—

"It would be useless; before he could get here, your master will be either out of danger or dead."

In the meantime the disease grew worse, and Dr. Bruno advised a second bleeding. Fletcher broke it to his master that the two doctors deemed another bleeding indispensable, and this time Lord Byron did not make any resistance; he held out his arm and said—

"Here is my arm: they may do what they wish." Then he added, "Did I not tell you, Fletcher, that they do not understand anything at all about my illness!"

Byron grew weaker and weaker. On the 17th, they bled him in the morning, and twice again in the afternoon of the same day. He fainted away after each bleeding, and from that day he himself gave up all hope.

"I cannot sleep," he said to Fletcher, "and you know that I have not had any sleep for a week; now, it is a fact that a man cannot live without sleep for any length of time; after a time he goes mad, and nothing can save him. I would rather blow my brains out ten times than go mad. I am not afraid of death, I shall watch its approach with more composure than people would believe."

On the 18th, Byron was perfectly satisfied of his approaching end.

"I fear," he said to Fletcher, "that Tita and you will both fall ill with nursing me like this, day and night."

Still, both refused to take any rest. Fletcher had been wise enough to take away his master's pistols and dagger out of his reach, ever since the 16th, when he saw that the fever was likely to produce delirium.

On the 18th, he repeated several times that the Missolonghi doctors did not understand his case at all.

"Well, then," Fletcher replied for the tenth time, "let me go and fetch Dr. Thomas from Zante."

"No, do not go.... Send for him, Fletcher, but be quick about it."

Fletcher did not lose a second in despatching a messenger, and then he informed the two doctors that he had just sent for Dr. Thomas.

"You were quite right," said they, "for we have ourselves begun to feel very anxious."

On re-entering his master's room, Byron said to Fletcher—

"Well, have you sent?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good! I wish to know what is the matter with me."

A few moments later, he was seized with a fresh attack of delirium, and when he recovered consciousness, he remarked—

"I begin to believe I am seriously ill. If I am to die sooner than I expected, I desire to give you some instructions. Will you be sure to carry them out for me?"

"Oh, my lord, you can be sure of my faithfulness," the valet replied; "but you will live for long enough yet, I hope, and be able to attend to your own affairs."

"No," said Byron, shaking his head; "no, the end has come.... I must tell you everything, Fletcher, and without a moment's loss of time."

"Shall I fetch pen and ink and paper, my lord?" asked the valet.

"Oh no; we should waste too much time, and we have none to lose. Pay attention."

"I am listening, my lord."

"Your future is assured."

"Oh! my lord," cried the poor valet, bursting into tears, "I entreat you to think of more important matters."

"My child!" murmured the dying man, "my dear daughter, my poor Ada, if I could but have seen her! Take her my blessing, Fletcher; also to my sister Augusta and to her children.... You must take it, too, to Lady Byron.... Tell her ... tell her everything ... you stand well in her estimation...."

The dying man's voice failed him, and, although he madeefforts to continue speaking, the valet could only make out disjointed expressions, from which, with the greatest difficulty, he gathered the following:—

"Fletcher ... if you do not carry out ... the orders I have given you ... I will haunt you ... if God will let me...."

"But, my lord," cried the valet in despair, "I have not been able to hear a word of what you have been saying to me."

"Oh! my God, my God!" whispered Byron, "then it is now too late.... Have you really not heard me?"

"No, my lord; but try again to make me understand your wishes."

"Impossible!... impossible!" murmured the dying man; "it is too late ... all is over ... and yet ... come close, come close, Fletcher ... I will try again."

And he renewed his attempts, but all was in vain; he could only utter a few broken words, such as, "My wife!... my child ... my sister. You know all ... you will tell them everything ... you know my wishes."

Nothing more was intelligible.

This was at midday on the 18th. The doctors held a fresh consultation, and decided to give the patient quinine in wine.

He had only taken, as I have said, a little broth and two spoonfuls of arrowroot for eight days. He took the quinine, and showed by signs that he wanted to sleep; he did not speak again unless questioned.

"Would you like me to fetch Mr. Parry?" Fletcher asked him.

"Yes, go and fetch him," he replied.

A moment later, the valet returned with him. Mr. Parry leant over his bed, and Byron became excited as he recognised him.

"Lie quite quiet," said Mr. Parry; and the invalid shed a few tears and then seemed to fall asleep.

This was the beginning of a state of coma that lasted nearly twenty-four hours.

Then, towards eight in the evening, he roused, and Fletcher heard him say, "And now I must go to sleep...."

They were the last words he uttered. His head fell back motionless on his pillow. He never moved for twenty-four hours; there were occasional spasms of suffocation and a raucous sound in his breathing: that was all. Fletcher called Tita to help him raise the head of the invalid, who seemed quite numbed, and the two servants raised his head every time the signs of suffocation returned.

This lasted until the 19th, when, at six in the evening, Byron opened and closed his eyes without any sign of pain and without moving any other part of his body.

"Oh! my God," cried Fletcher, "I think my lord has breathed his last!"

The doctors came near and felt his pulse.

"You are right," said they; "he is dead!...."

On 22 April, Byron's remains were taken to the church where Marco Bozariz and General Normann lie buried. The body was enclosed in a rough wooden coffin; it was covered by a black mantle, and on the mantle they placed a helmet, a sword and a wreath of laurels.

Byron had expressed a wish that his body should be buried in his native land; but the Greeks asked to be allowed to keep his heart, and those who had cruelly made that heart bleed when he was alive, gave it up when he was dead.

His daughter Ada, whom I have since seen in Florence, was declared the adopted daughter of Greece. I do not know whether King Otho I. remembered this fact when he came to the throne.

Usurped celebrity—M. Lemercier and his works—Racan's white hare-Le Fiesqueby M. Ancelot—The Romantic artists—Scheffer—Delacroix —Sigalon—Schnetz—Coigniet—Boulanger—Géricault—La Médusein the artist's studio—Lord Byron's funeral obsequies in England—Sheridan's body claimed for debt

While Lord Byron's body was being carried from Missolonghi to England, the literary movement in France was steadily progressing. M. Liadière and M. Lemercier each did their best in grappling with Shakespeare and Rowe, each producedJane Shore; M. Liadière at the Odéon on 2 April, and M. Lemercier at the Théâtre-Français on the 1st. M. Liadière's production just managed to pay its way, while M. Lemercier's was a failure, in spite of Talma, who played two parts in it—those of Gloucester and a beggar. Talma was wonderful in this play, poor though it was. In it he attempted what was in those days looked upon as a very extraordinary thing. He, a man of fine presence, graceful in bearing, full of poetry, lofty in mind and eloquent, played the part of the hunchbacked cripple Richard. The way he managed to make his right shoulder look higher than his left and his arm appear paralysed was a miracle of skill, and the denunciatory scene was a miracle of talent. But nothing could save such a wretched piece. It is now high time some undeserved reputations, supported by fine coteries and associations of intrigue and shuffling, should be shown in their true light.

For instance, there is the author ofAgamemnonand ofPinto,—he did not deserve a quarter of the reputation he received.Agamemnonis a dull, lifeless play, devoid of poeticfeeling, sense, rhythm and style; what is it compared with theOrestesof Æschylus?Pintois a drama of the school of Beaumarchais, the worst type of dramatic school I know; the play would have died a natural death at the end of eight or ten representations if the Imperial Censor had not been so stupid as to attempt to stifle it. The persecution accorded toPintogave it a species of celebrity, but, let it be played nowadays and one would soon see the worthlessness of the imitation of Æschylus and Seneca, the so-called original creation. And yet these two plays were the author's principal works.

Try, too, to read a number of other tragedies and dramas and poems that have fallen, buried beneath the cat-calls, laughter and hootings of the public! Try to readMéléagreorLovelaceorle Lévite d'Éphraïm; then, when you have thrown these first three works of the same author aside, and feel sufficiently recovered and can breathe freely once more, take up the task again and try to readOphis, Plauteorla Comédie latine, Baudouin, Christophe Colomb, Charlemagne, Saint Louis, la Démence de Charles VI., Frédegonde and Brunehaut, which Mademoiselle Rachel for some unknown purpose drew from the tomb, and galvanised three or four times without being able to bring back to life. Then, what else? Stay...we should be lost on the battlefield, among the productions that did not even linger wounded, but fell stark dead—Camilleandle Masque de poix, andCahin-Cahaandla Panhypocrisiade: folly succeeding mediocrity; sheer nonsense and balderdash.

And yet, although wounded by these rebuffs and completely maimed by his falls, M. Lemercier sat quietly on in his arm-chair in the Palais Mazarin—as did his colleagues, M. Droz, M. Briffaut, and M. Lebrun, one trying to make people forget that he had written a little volume onBonheur, another that he had perpetrated a tragedy calledMinus II., and the third, that he had missed fire in hisle Cid d'Andalousieand mangled Schiller'sMaria Stuart—he need not have troubled to say anything, the world would have let him sleep as quietlyin his tomb as the spectators had fain have slept at the performance of his pieces, if hissing had never been invented. But nothing of the kind happened! When M. Lemercier perceived the literary movement of 1829 he cried out at the sacrilege, want of good taste and scandal of the thing; he signed petitions to the king to have the representation ofHenri III.and ofMarion Delormestopped; he barred the entrance to the Academy when Lamartine and Victor Hugo endeavoured to gain an entrance; he set the Archbishop of Paris against the one and produced a M. Flourens to checkmate the other; he recovered the use of his legs sufficiently to run about collecting votes against them, and the use of his right hand to turn the lock against them. Thank Heaven I had very little to do with this wicked little cur, neither have I had any personal quarrel with him, as I have never had any dealings with the Academy; but since someone must rise up and speak for justice I claim the privilege of being the first to set the example.

When M. Flourens was nominated in place of Hugo, I was passing through the green-room of the Théâtre-Français. I forget what the new play was, but M. Lemercier was holding forth there against the author ofNotre-Dame de Parisand ofMarion Delormeand theOrientales, just as he had opposed him all day long, silently, in the Academy. I listened to his diatribe for a few minutes, then, shaking my head, I said to him—

"Monsieur Lemercier, you have refused your vote to Victor Hugo; but there is one thing you will some day be compelled to yield him, and that is your own place. Take care lest, instead of the ill-natured things you are saying against him here, he be not obliged to say a kind word for you some day to the Academy."

And it happened just as I had predicted. It was no easy matter to praise Lemercier, but Hugo accomplished the matter by describing the period instead of speaking of the man, by referring to the emperor rather than to the poet.

"Have you read my speech?" Hugo asked me the day after he had made it.

"Yes."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"I think you read as though you had just succeeded Bonaparte as a member of the Institute, instead of M. Lemercier as a member of the Academy."

"The deuce! I would much rather have seen you there than myself. How would you have got out of it?"

"As Racan did, by saying my big white rabbit had eaten my speech."

Racan, it will be remembered, once presented himself before the Academy with the scraps of a speech he had meant to read.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I had prepared a splendid speech, which could not fail to have won your suffrages; but my big white rabbit gobbled it up this morning.... I have brought you the remains, and you must try to make the best you can of them!"

"Ah! indeed," replied Hugo; "I could have done that, but it never occurred to me."

M. Liadière'sJane Shoredid for Mademoiselle Georges what M. Lemercier'sJane Shorehad done for Talma. It was, besides, the first attempt Mademoiselle Georges had made in Shakespearean drama: she led up to it inChristineand inLucrèce Borgia.

It was the age of limitations; no one was strong enough to be original. They had to look for fresh things across the frontier; they sought admission to the theatres on the shoulders of Rowe or Schiller: if they were successful, they quietly put the German or English author outside; if they came a cropper, they fell on him, and it broke the shock of their fall.

After M. Liadière's production ofJane Shore, the Odéon presented M. Ancelot'sFiesque.But M. Ancelot was a purist: he never for one moment supposed that Schiller'sFiesquecould be presented complete as in the German play;therefore he entirely and discreetly suppressed the character of the Moor.

Can you imagineFiesqueshorn of the Moor! without the Moor! the main peg on which the drama is hung! Without the Moor! the character for which Schiller constructed his play! When shall we have a law which, whilst permitting translation, will forbid mutilation? The Italians have no law affecting translators; but they have a proverb as short as it is expressive, as concise as it is true, "Traduttore, traditore."

Meanwhile, the Romantic school, although still shy in theatrical and literary circles, was boldly invading other branches of art.

M. Thiers, in history, had published hisRévolution française, and Botta hisHistoire d'Italie; M. de Barante was producing his excellentChronique des ducs de Bourgogne, a work full of knowledge and brilliancy, which justly, this time, though accidentally, opened the Academy doors to its author. But the struggle was more noticeable in painting. David dead and Girodet just dead, their successors were such men as Scheffer, Delacroix, Sigalon, Schnetz, Coigniet, Boulanger and Géricault. The works of this galaxy of bold young artists adorned the walls of the Salon of 1824. Scheffer hung hisMort de Gaston de Foix.It was one of his first pictures, and rather gaudy in colouring, but the face of the warrior kneeling at the head of Gaston stood out most remarkably; Scheffer was the painter-poet, the best translator of Goethe I know; he re-created a whole world of German characters, from Mignon to the King of Thule, from Faust to Marguerite.

It was Scheffer who transferred to canvas Dante's great and exquisite story of Francesca da Rimini, a conception which all dramatic poets have failed to reproduce; Scheffer found time to join in every conspiracy going, in Dermoncourt's, Caron's and la Fayette's, and yet managed to become one of the finest painters France has ever produced.

Then there was Delacroix, whoseMassacre de Scioroused much discussion among all schools of painters. Delacroix was doomed to be pursued by fanatical ignoramuses anddetermined vilifiers, just as was Hugo in literature; he had already become known though hisDante traversant le Styx; and all his life he maintained the privilege—rare among artists—of being able to arouse a storm of hatred and of admiration upon the production of each fresh work. Delacroix is an intellectual man, full of knowledge as well as imagination, but he has one idiosyncrasy, he will persist in trying to become the colleague of M. Picot and of M. Abel de Pujol, who, let us hope, will happily have none of him.

Next comes Sigalon, with his rough, passionate Southern nature. His picture,Locuste faisant sur un esclave l'essai de ses poisons, had been recommended to the notice of M. Laffitte, and this banker patron of art bought it, probably before he had seen it; when it was hung in his salon, it terrified the bank clientèle and all the jobbers of the money market. Everyone asked the future minister why he had bought such a horrible picture, rather than one of Madame Haudebourg-Lescaut's or Mademoiselle d'Hervilly's little gems. M. Laffitte was plagued to such an extent that he sent for Sigalon and begged him to take back hisLocuste, which threatened to send the great ladies of the commercial world into hysterics, imploring him to paint him something else in its place.

Sigalon took back hisLocuste, but I do not know what he gave in exchange. Alas! Sigalon was among the number of those destined to premature death. He was sent to Rome to copy Michael Angelo'sLast Judgment, and he had but just time to bequeath that great piece of work to France, and to stretch out his arms towards his country, before he died.

Schnetz had three pictures in the Salon of 1824—two great canvases which might have been painted by anybody just as well as by himself, and one of thosegenrepaintings in which he is inimitable. Thisgenrepainting was calledun Sixte-Quint enfant, the subject being a gipsy woman predicting he would become pope. The reader will guess with what fidelity Schnetz succeeded in depicting in his canvas, six foot high byfour feet wide, an old fortune-teller, a shepherd lad and a young Roman girl: theSixte-Quintwas a masterpiece.

Coigniet'sle Massacre des Innocentswas hung opposite the door, and riveted attention directly people entered. It showed a woman crouching down, disordered in appearance by a long journey, terror in her looks and very pale, hiding herself, or rather hiding her child, in the corner of a ruined wall, whilst the massacre was proceeding in the distance. It was a fine piece of work, every detail of which, well thought out, well executed, well painted, I can still recall, after twenty-five years.

Boulanger had taken the subject of his painting from the works of the famous poet who had just died. Mazeppa, captured, is being bound to a wild horse, which is going to bear him away, heart-broken, fainting and dying, to those new lands where a kingdom awaited him on his awaking. The contortions of the strong young limbs as they struggled, stiffening, against the villains who were lashing him to the back of the savage beast, offered a marvellous contrast, not only in the technical presentation of the flesh, which was quite excellent, but even more so in the physical and moral suffering of Mazeppa as compared with the callous strength of his executioners.

Finally, there was Géricault, who, although he was not represented in that year's Salon, was talked about almost as much as those whose pictures hung on its walls. And this was because the new school, wanting a leader, felt that Géricault was the man, even although so far he had only painted a few studies. He had just finishedle Hussardandle Cuirassier,—which the Musée lately bought back, on the accession of King Louis-Philippe,—and he was finishing hisMéduse.Poor Géricault! he too was to die, and to die miserably, after he had done hisMéduse.I saw him a week before his death. The reader wonders how I became acquainted with Géricault? In the same way that I became acquainted with Béranger and Manuel. At my weekly dinners at M. Arnault's house, I often met Colonel Bro, a brave, excellentsoldier, to whom every thought of the army was dear, and who had been friendly to me solely because I was the son of a general who served in the Revolution. Of course Bro was opposed to the Bourbon Government. He had a house in the rue des Martyrs, No. 23, and in that house there lodged various people according to their varying fortunes—Manuel the deputy who had been expelled from the Chamber, Béranger the poet and Géricault. One day when we had been speaking of Géricault, who was dying, Bro said to me—

"Come and see his picturela Méduse, and the painter himself, before he dies, so that you can at least say you have seen one of the greatest painters who ever lived."

I took care not to refuse, as will readily be believed, and the meeting was arranged for the following day. You ask what Géricault died of? Listen, and observe how, at every turn, fate seemed to put a cross against his name. He possessed some fortune, an income of about twelve thousand livres; he loved horses and painted them admirably. One day, as he was mounting a horse, he noticed that the buckle of his breeches belt had come off: he tied the two ends of the strap together and set off at a gallop. His horse threw him, and the knot of the strap bruised two vertebrae of the spinal cord as he fell. He was under treatment at the time for a disease which settled in this place; the wound never healed, and Géricault, the hope of a whole century, died of one of the longest and most painful diseases there is—decay of the spine. When we called upon him, he was busy drawing his left hand with his right.

"What on earth are you after, Géricault?" asked the colonel.

"You see, my dear fellow," said the dying man, "I am turning myself to account. My right hand will never find a better anatomical study than my left hand can offer it, and the egoist is taking advantage of the fact."

And, indeed, so thin was Géricault that one could see the bones and the muscles of his hand through the skin, as they are seen in plaster casts used for models by art students.

"My dear friend," asked Bro, "how did you bear your operation yesterday?"

"Very well ... it was a very curious experience. Just imagine, those butchers were cutting me about for ten minutes."

"You must have suffered horribly."

"Not very much.... I thought of other things."

"What did you think about?"

"A picture."

"How was that?"

"It was very simple. I had the head of my bed turned to the glass, so that, while the doctors were working at my back, I could see what they were doing when I raised myself on my elbows. Ah! if I could but recover, I swear I would make a noble sequel to André Vésale's study in anatomy! Only, my anatomical study would be taken from a living man."

This was the very scene which, two years later, Talma rehearsed before Adolphe and me, when he was in his bath.

Bro asked permission of the sick man for me to go upstairs and see hisMéduse.

"Do what you like," said Géricault; "you are in your own house." And he went on drawing his hand.

I stood a long time before the marvellous picture, although I was at that time ignorant about art and unable to estimate it at its true worth. As I left the studio, I stepped upon an overturned canvas. I picked it up, looked at the right side of it and saw a wonderful head of a fallen angel: I gave it to Bro.

"See," I said, "what I have found on the floor."

Bro went back to the sick man's room.

"Why, my dear fellow, you are mad, to leave such things as these lying about on the floor."

"Do you know whose head that is?" Géricault asked laughingly.

"No."

"Well, my good friend, it is the head of your porter's son. He came into my studio the other day, and I was so struckwith the possibilities of his face that I asked him to sit for me, and in ten minutes I had done that study from it. Would you like to have it? Take it."

"But if it is a study, you did it for an object."

"Yes, for the object of study itself. It will perhaps come in useful to you some day."

"Some day, my dear Bro, is a far cry, and in the meantime much water will have flowed under the bridges and many dead bodies will have been taken through the gates of the cemetery Montmartre."

"Well! well!" said Bro.

"Take it, my friend, and keep it," Géricault replied; "if I ever want it, I shall be able to find it at your house."

Then he bowed us adieu, and we left him; Bro bringing away his angel's head. A week later, Géricault died, and his intimate friend and executor, Dreux-d'Orcy, had the greatest difficulty in getting the authorities of the Beaux-Arts to purchasela Médusefor six thousand francs—a canvas which is now considered one of the most valuable possessions of the Musée. Yet the Government wanted it merely for the purpose of cutting out five or six of the heads as studies for its pupils to copy. Happily, De Dreux-d'Orcy stopped this sacrilege before it got beyond its inception.

But I see I have forgotten to speak of Horace Vernet, of M. Ingres and of Delaroche, each of whom deserves special mention. They shall receive notice presently, but first one word more about Lord Byron.

On 5 July, the body of the noble lord reached London from Missolonghi. It lay in a perforated shell steeped in a cask of spirits of wine. When the body was taken ashore from theFlorida, in which it had been conveyed, the captain was going to throw this liquid overboard; but now that Lord Byron was dead, even his own countrymen became his worshippers, and these admirers begged the captain for the spirits of wine in which Lord Byron's body had been preserved, offering a louis a pint for it. The captain accepted the offer, and the sum thus received was at the same rate per pint as, so it wassaid, the poet had received per line. Two days after the arrival of the body, a post-mortem examination was made, and the doctors, who really ought to be able to find out a few things, discovered that Lord Byron had died because he had refused to be bled. His body was laid in state, but only those who had special tickets given them by his executor were admitted; yet, in spite of this precaution, the crowd was so great it was necessary to call in the aid of an armed force to keep order. The spirits of wine had preserved the flesh well enough for the poet to be still recognisable: his hands, especially, had kept almost life-like in their beauty—those hands of which the eccentric nobleman had taken such good care that, even when swimming, he had worn gloves! His beautiful hair, of which he had been very proud, had become nearly grey, although he was but thirty-seven. Each white hair in the poet's head could tell a tale of sorrow. Such had been the public excitement over Byron, that the question at once arose of burying him in Westminster Abbey; but his friends were afraid the authorities might refuse the request, and the family declared that his body should be buried in the vault at Newstead Abbey, where his ancestors lay. Even his death raised the clamour of tongues that pursued him through life. On the 12th, an immense crowd collected from break of day along the route the cortège was to take. Colonel Leigh, Byron's brother-in-law, was chief mourner; and in the six coaches that followed were the most famous Opposition Members of Parliament—Hobhouse, Douglas Kinnaird, Sir Francis Burdett, and O'Meara, surgeon to the emperor. Then, in their own private carriages, followed the Duke of Sussex, brother of the king, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Earl Grey, Lord Holland, etc. Two Greek deputies closed the procession. When it reached Hampstead Road, the pace was quickened; it was planned to spend the night at Welwyn, and to set out early the next day, Tuesday, to reach Higham-Ferrers that evening; on Wednesday it was to reach Oakham; on Thursday, Nottingham; and Newstead Abbey on Friday. The arrangement was punctually carried out, and on Friday, 17 August, the body was laidin the burying-place of his ancestors. Byron, who had been exiled by his wife, hunted down by his own family and repulsed by his contemporaries, had at last earned the right to return triumphantly to his country and to his home. He was dead! And yet it might have happened to him as it happened to Sheridan's dead body; poor Sheridan, who drank so much rum, brandy and absinthe that Lord Byron once said to him during an orgie—

"Sheridan! Sheridan! you drink enough alcohol to set fire to the very flannel vest you wear next your skin."

And the prophecy was fulfilled: Sheridan drank so much that his flannel vest was scorched. Sheridan was dead; and he left both his pockets and his bottles empty. This did not prevent the highest people in the land from doing him honour, as he lay dead in his home, which had been stript bare of everything by his creditors. Those friends who had, perhaps, refused to lend him ten guineas the day before, gave him a royal burial. The coffin was just going to be borne to the hearse, when a gentleman clad in deep mourning from head to foot, and apparently overcome with grief, came into the room in which were assembled the most aristocratic gentlemen of the three kingdoms, and, advancing to the coffin, begged, as a particular favour, to be allowed to look for the last time on the features of his unfortunate friend. He was refused at first, but his entreaties were so vehement, his voice was so broken, he was so shaken with sobs, that they did not like to refuse such grief a hearing. The top of the coffin was unscrewed and the body of Sheridan uncovered. Then the expression on the face of the gentleman in mourning changed completely, and he drew out of his pocket an order for the seizure of the body and took possession of it. He was a bailiff. Mr. Canning and Lord Lydmouth took the man outside and settled the amount he claimed, namely, the sum of £480.

My mother comes to live with me—A Duc de Chartres born to me—Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle—Epistolary brevity—Re-establishment of the Censorship—A King of France should never be ill—Bulletins of the health of Louis XVIII.—His last moments and death—Ode by Victor Hugo—M. Torbet and Napoleon's tomb—La Fayette's voyage to America—The ovations showered upon him

My mother had been quite as lonely without me as I had been without her, so, in response to my letter, she shut up the tobacco-shop, sold a portion of our shabby furniture, and wrote telling me she was coming to Paris, bringing with her her bedstead, a chest of drawers, a table, two arm-chairs, four chairs and a hundred louis in hard cash. A hundred louis! Why, it was exactly double my year's income and we should now have 2400 francs a year for the next two years, so for that time we should feel quite safe. It was all the more important to be settled since, on 29 July 1824, whilst the Duc de Montpensier came into the world at the Palais-Royal, a Duc de Chartres was born to me at No. 1 place des Italiens. This, together with the smallness of my little yellow chamber, where there was no room for my mother, was one of the reasons that obliged me to look out for fresh lodgings. To find a new home was a serious consideration; lodgings were very dear close to the Palais-Royal, and if I were too far away from the Palais-Royal my four journeys a day, to and fro, meant a serious wear and tear in shoe-leather. Any expense comes heavy on a man who only earns four francs five sous per day.

I had, indeed, two or three plays in hand with de Leuven, but I was compelled to admit to myself that probably deLeuven, who had not managed to succeed with Soulié—whom we acknowledged to be the best of us all—would not have more chance with me. HisBon Vieillardhad been declined at the Gymnase; hisPauvre Fillehad been rejected by the Vaudeville, and hisChâteau de Kenilworthhad not even been read—Mademoiselle Lévêque had politely sent word that she had not "time at the moment" to pay attention to a new part, and the Porte-Saint-Martin had received a melodrama upon the same subject.

So I had to find a lodging, as I have said, that should not be too far away and yet that was not too high a rent. I set to work, and discovered rooms at No. 53 Faubourg St. Denis, in a house adjoining theLion d'Argent.We had two rooms on the second floor looking on the street, one serving for store-room, dining-room and kitchen. We soon found out that for these apartments we paid a great deal too much—they were 350 francs. Finally everything was settled; my mother sent her goods on by carrier, and arrived at the same time they did. We were delighted to be together again once more; my mother, however, was a trifle uneasy and unable to share and believe in all my hopes and plans; for she could look back upon a long and sad life, wherein she had experienced all kinds of disappointments and sorrows. I consoled her to the best of my power, and, in order to make the first four or five days of her life in Paris pleasant, I used all the influence I had with M. Oudard, M. Arnault and Adolphe de Leuven to get her tickets for the theatre. In a week's time we were settled in our little nest, and as accustomed to our new life as though we had never known any other. On the same landing with us, but on the opposite side, lodged a worthy fellow of forty years of age, named Després, who was employed in a ministerial department. He was one of the most regular attenders at the Caveau; he composed songs after the style of Brazier and Armand Gouffé; and he had had one or two pieces played at second-rate theatres. He was dying of consumption. When, after the payment of two terms, we found our lodgings were dearer than we could afford, he said to us—

"Wait until after my death, which will not be long now; then you can take my rooms, which are very convenient, and only two hundred and thirty francs."

And, as a matter of fact, he died six weeks after this—died in that quiet, gentle, calm, philosophical mood that I have noticed in the case of nearly all who were born in the eighteenth century. And, as he had bidden us, we took his rooms when they were vacant, and found ourselves accommodated according to our means.

In the meantime, political changes were taking place. M. de Villèle (whom my friend Méry was to make so celebrated and who, in his turn, also returned the compliment) was sharing political power with M. de Chateaubriand; and for two years they presented the unusual spectacle of an alliance between a financier and a poet. It is easy to believe that such a connection was not likely to last long, and the two ministers quarrelled over two proposed laws. M. de Chateaubriand thought to cement the monarchy by the Act of septennial duration, M. de Villèle thought to enrich the State by an Act concerning the conversion of consols (rentes). The law concerning the conversion of consols was rejected by the Chamber of Peers by a majority of 128 votes against 94. It was noticed that M. de Chateaubriand, who seemed opposed to the Act, did not get up to defend it at the Tribune. It was even said that he voted against it. Such opposition as this, directed against the president of the Council, was punished with the callous bluntness of feeling peculiar to men of money.

When M. de Chateaubriand went to mass on Whitsunday, he received information that a very urgent despatch awaited him at the ministry. He immediately went there, and found a letter from the president of the Council in the following terms:—

"M. LE VICOMTE,—I am obeying the King's command in handing you the enclosed mandate."

The mandate enclosed was a dismissal. Ten minutes later, M. de Villèle, in his turn, had received M. de Chateaubriand'sreply. The letter of the Minister for Foreign Affairs was just as laconic as the letter received from the Minister of Finance:—

"M. LE COMTE,—I have left the Foreign Office; the department is at your disposal."

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