Europe, respects and admires the courage, the talents, and, above all, the probity of Prince Mavrocordato.

I am very uneasy at hearing that the dissentions of Greece still continue, and at a moment when she might triumph over every thing in general, as she has already triumphed in part. Greece is, at present, placed between three measures; either to reconquer her liberty, or to become a dependence of the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to a Turkish province: she has the choice only of these three alternatives. Civil war is but a road which leads to the two latter. If she is desirous of the fate of Wallachia and the Crimea, she may obtain it to-morrow; if that of Italy, the day after; but if she wishes to become truly Greece, free and independent, she must resolve to-day, or she will never again have the opportunity. I am, with due respect,

Your highness's obedient servant,

N. B.

P. S. Your highness will already have known, that I have sought to fulfil the wishes of the Greek government, as much as it lay in my power to do; but I should wish that the fleet, so long and so vainly expected, were arrived, or at least, that it were on the way, and especially that your highness should approach these parts either on board the fleet, with a public mission, or in some other manner.

From Lord Byron to Colonel Stanhope.

Scrofer, or some such name, on board a Cephaloninte Mistice, Dec. 31st, 1823. My dear Stanhope,-We are just arrived here, that is, part of my people and I, with some things, &c. and which it may be as well not to specify in a letter, (which has a risk of being intercepted, perhaps,) but Gamba and my horses, negro, steward, and the press, and all the committee things, also some eight thousand dollars of mine, (but never mind, we have more left:-do you understand?) are taken by the Turkish frigates, and my party and myself, in another boat, have had a narrow escape last night, (being close under her stern, and hailed, but we would not answer and bore away,) as well as this morning. Here we are, with sun and clearing weather, within a pretty little port enough; but whether our Turkish friends may not send in their boats and take us out, (for we have no arms, except two carbines and some pistols, and, I suspect, not more than four fighting people on board,) is another question, especially if we remain long here, since we are blocked out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance. You had better send my friend George Drake, and a body of Suliots, to escort us by land or by the canals, with all convenient speed. Gamba and our Bombard are taken into Patras, I suppose, and we must take a turn at the Turks to get them out: but where the devil is the fleet gone? the Greek I mean, leaving us to get in without the least intimation to take heed that the Moslems were out again. Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say, that I am here at his disposal. I am uneasy at being here; not so much on our account as on that of a Greek boy with me, for you know what his fate would be; and I would sooner cut him in pieces and myself too, than have him taken out by those barbarians. We are all very well.

Yours, &c.

N. B.

P. S. The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken, at least so it appeared to us, (if taken she actually be, for it is not certain,) and we had to escape from another vessel that stood right in between us and the port.

As might be expected, the Conversations of Lord Byron, however limited in their present scope, give the lie to many slanderous reports which have long been afloat in society; and we know no reason why Lord Byron's word should not be held as good as that of his enemies. Until we find more cause to doubt his veracity than theirs, we shall, therefore, from henceforward persist in disbelieving every thing that he has peremptorily disavowed: that he introduced Mrs. Mardyn to his wife's dinner-table, as that he patronized the Manichæan heresy; that he told Lady Byron he VOL. VI. No. 31.-Museum.

K

married her for spite, as that he wrote the "Verses to Thyrza" on his bear.

Combining our previous knowledge of Lord Byron with the information afforded by this volume of his Conversations, we have little difficulty in coming to what we believe is a fair estimate of his character. As to mind, our opinion is,-that he was either the last of the first class, or the first of the second class of poets. As to morals, that he would have been a very bad man but for some great redeeming virtues, a very good man but for some predominant vices. That his genius was glorious to his country is beyond doubt; that it was injurious is equally certain. He who balances the profit accruing from its influence on our literature against the loss proceeding from its effect on our morals, will find it hard to determine whether Byron should have lived another age, or not have lived at all.

It remains to speak of the manner in which the Conversations of Lord Byron have been got up for publication. No terms of reprehension are strong enough to express our sense of the impropriety, the indelicacy, and the injudiciousness, of the work in its present form. The very publisher apologizes for it. He attempts an excuse by saying that he only reprints objectionable passages which had already appeared; which is no more valid than if Clarence were to say that he was guiltless of stabbing Prince Edward because Gloucester had stabbed him before. It amounts exactly to this, that he knew he was doing wrong, and nevertheless did it. After such an unreserved exposure of private conversation, what security has any man that he, his family, or his friends may not be dragged in the same manner before the eye of a censorious public, and the secrets of his fireside proclaimed in every quarter of the kingdom? Or must he annex a permission or injunction to the end of every sentence he utters, such as,-" that may be repeated," "that may not?" Every great man henceforward will suspect his friend for a note-taker; confidence will be destroyed, the freedom of social converse will be annihilated. We can conceive a man's idolatry for his Magnus Apollo leading him to "take notes" of the god's table-talk and parlour chit-chat, however insipid it may be, though it is a species of piety for which we have no very exalted respect; but we cannot conceive how any one could publish such a compilation, without first suppressing every thing of a scandalous or disgraceful nature. If such injudicious and indecent disclosures are not prohibited by a general condemnation of the practice, that great bond of society, mutual confidence, will be rent asunder, and suspiciousness become, instead of a mean vice, a necessary virtue.

FROM THE LONDON LITERARY GAZETTE.

Theodric, a Domestic Tale: and other Poems. By Thomas Campbell, Esq. Small 8vo. pp. 112. Longman & Co.

WHY what we say of this volume shall be a Report rather than a Review, there are two reasons: the first, because Mr. Campbell's poetry has already received the public stamp of its character; and the second, because Theodric can hardly be considered as fairly published, and therefore liable to criticism, till Monday next, before which time our pages will have passed through many thousand hands.

It is a domestic story of some four hundred and fifty lines; and whether likely to extend the fame of its author or leave it where it was, our extracts will enable the judicious and the lovers of verse to form their own opinion. The scene opens with an Evening landscape of Switzerland, after the celebrated national air of the Swiss has been chanted:

'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form,
That high in Heav'n's vermillion wheel'd and soar'd.
Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd,
From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin;
Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd green.
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across,

The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss.

Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd,

She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct,

That felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smiled below,

Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

A striking object in this pastoral scene is a gothic church-

the spot around

Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground;

For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb.

Amidst them one of spotless marble shone

A maiden's grave-and 'twas inscrib'd thereon,

That young and loved she died whose dust was there.

A companion relates the history of the buried maiden's life; a romantic enthusiast

Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid:
Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along,
And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song,

Julia was, however, the victim of hopeless love. Her youthful brother, Udolph, served in the Austrian army under a heroic leader,

Theodric, whose valour and goodness is the theme of all his letters to his parents; and these inspire the earliest passion in the breast of the susceptible Julia. Of Theodric it is told

His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory's sky;

Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show
Our fields of battle twenty years ago,

Will tell you feats his small brigade perform❜d,
In charges nobly fac'd and trenches storm'd.
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame,
And soldiers loved the march that bore his name;
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,
And that Helvetian, Udolph's, most of all.

Udolph is wounded in battle, but preserved and restored by his brave commander. Peace ensues, and he returns in health, and breathing gratitude towards his benefactor, to his native Switzerland :

In time, the stripling, vigorous and heal'd,
Resumed his barb and banner in the field,
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now

The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow;
When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath,-
A curtain-drop between the acts of death,—

A check in frantic war's unfinish'd game,
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came.
The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief
As with a son's or younger brother's grief:
But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose!
How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard's snows!
How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreck-horn,
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms;
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,

And fragrance from the mountain herbage blown,
Blindfold his native hills he could have known!

He brings with him Theodric's portrait; and this incident contributes to nourish into still more passionate admiration the love of Julia. Theodric at this period, instead of a visit to Switzerland, journeys to England, as is thus related:

Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before

Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic lore,
A glad enthusiast now explored the land,

Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand:

Her women fair; her men robust for toil;

Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil;

Her towns, where civic independence flings

The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings;
Her works of art, resembling magic's powers;

Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bowers,-
These he had visited, with wonder's smile,
And scarce endur'd to quit so fair an isle.
But how our fates from unmomentous things
May rise, like rivers out of little springs!

A trivial chance postpon'd his parting day,
And public tidings caus'd, in that delay,
An English jubilee.

He sees Constance during the illuminations (a new poetical scene, at least, for such an event,) and becomes deeply enamoured of this English fair. He takes means to cultivate her acquaintance; and

left not England's shore

Till he had known her; and to know her well
Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell;
For with affections warm, intense, refined,
She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind,
That, like Heav'n's image in the smiling brook,
Celestial peace was pictur'd in her look.
Hers was the brow, in trials unperplex'd,
That cheer'd the sad and tranquillized the vex'd:
She studied not the meanest to eclipse,
And yet the wisest listened to her lips;

She sang not, knew not music's magic skill,
But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will.
He sought-he won her-and resolv'd to make
His future home in England for her sake.

Previously to their marriage it is necessary for him to visit the
Continent, and among other places Switzerland, where he dis-
covers the secret of poor Julia's romantic attachment. To him-
Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite-
A gem reflecting Nature's purest light,-
And with her graceful wit there was inwrought
A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought,
That almost child-like to his kindness drew,
And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew.
But did his thoughts to love one moment range?-
No! he who had loved Constance could not change!
Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd,
Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind,
That eyes so young on years like his should beam
Unwoo'd devotion back for pure esteem.

It is through music (of which Mr. Campbell seems to be exceedingly fond,*) that this disclosure is made. An explanation ensues; Theodric candidly confesses his engagement to Constance, and beseeches Julia to think of him with subdued emotions. On such occasions, and to such minds, it is however more easy to give advice than to advise effectually. While he enjoys felicity with his English bride, the forsaken Swiss droops to death; and her dying request, taken by Udolph to England, is to see the beloved Theodric before she closes her eyes for ever.

How changd was Udolph! Scarce Theodric durst
Inquire his tidings, he reveal'd the worst.
"At first," he said, "as Julia bade me tell,
She bore her fate high-mindedly and well,

Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide,

And from the world's compassion saved our pride;

The description of Julia's latest touches is a beautiful example of this feeling:

Her closing strain composed and calm she play'd,

And sang no words to give its pathos aid;
But grief seem'd lingʼring in its lengthen❜d swell
And like so many tears the trickling touches fell.