latter, and, with the united grand force, again try the fortune of war, his morning march along the heights betrayed his secret weakness, and enabled his enemies to calculate his numbers almost to a single file. On this depended the immediate destiny of his empire: the battled march to and surrender of the capital.

My other anecdote is of peace and the fine arts, though connected with war and pillage. At a soirée, where Talleyrand was of the party, the conversation of a few individuals, knotted in a corner of the room, turned on the pictures brought from Spain by Soult and Wellington; and it was discussed which of the two had the most valuable collection, on which the witty Prince de Périgord, with the usual twinkle of his eye and dry manner, remarked that important as these treasures were, the most extraordinary circumstance of the whole affair was, that the Duke of Wellington had paid money for his acquisitions!!!

CHAPTER XXIV.

RETURN-BYRON CHALLENGE-ANECDOTES.

"He whose nod,

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;

A little moment deigneth to delay;

Soon will his legions sweep through these his way;
The West must own the scourger of the world.
Oh! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day,
When soars Gaul's vulture with his wings unfurled,
And thou shalt see thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled."

BYRON. Childe Harold. 1812.

"Or, may I give adventurous fancy scope,
And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil
That hides futurity from anxious hope,
Bidding, beyond it, scenes of glory hail,
And fainting Europe rousing at the tale
Of Spain's invaders from her confines hurled;
While kindling nations buckle on their mail,
And Fame, with clarion blast and wing unfurled,
To freedom and revenge awakes an injured world !"

SOUTHEY.

Vision of Don Roderick. 1811.

ON leaving Paris, it was my good fortune to meet with a fellow traveller, also bound for London, and to agree with him that we should return together. We accordingly hired a carriage, and proceeded without hurry on our destination, and I soon learnt that I could not have fallen in with a more congenial and agreeable companion. Mr. Douglas Kinnaird, was at the time, one of the most zealous members of the Drury Lane Committee of Management, his enthusiasm

about Kean, and his anxiety about the success of the theatre excessive, and his anecdotes of Lord Byron, Whitbread, Peter Moore, and others, racy and entertaining in the highest degree. With regard to Byron he informed me of a circumstance which more nearly affected me than I had ever dreamt of in my slight intercourse with that noble lord. It appeared that the remarks I published on his unworthy lines to Mrs. Charlemont (his lady's attendant) had given him mortal offence, and, in the ebullition of his fury, he deemed it right to demand satisfaction, and entrusted the challenge to be delivered to Mr. Kinnaird. Knowing his friend, that gentleman found that he could not find me during the whole day. Newspaper folks were difficult of access, and towards evening took occasion to appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober, and to put it to his lordship whether it was not infinitely beneath his dignity to call out a paltry scribbler, who might even, by some awkward chance, shoot him and rob the peerage and the poetic world of one of their greatest ornaments. This and more to a similar effect my informant jocularly told me, and insisted on my owing him a deep debt of gratitude for his prudent conduct, especially as Lord Byron was a certain shot! At any rate he had dissuaded the angry bard from his desperate purpose; and all that the public may have since gained from him or me, may possibly be attributable to the sensible advice of Mr. Kinnaird. He had kept the cartel and promised it to me as an autograph, and I dare say (if not stolen or taken with hundreds of others) I shall turn it up from among the masses of papers, which (very partially examined) have sadly tried my patience and almost crazed my brain, in preparing these sheets for the press.

We slept one night on the road, in a double-bedded

room, on a stone floor, and our cotelettes and omelette charmingly cooked at the wood fire in the same chamber; such was the best of the journey between Paris and the coast at that primitive initiative of international intercourse. On the further side of the channel, Mr. Kinnaird had his own light barouche in waiting, and we posted up, in all haste, from Dover. It was midnight when we stopped to change horses at Canterbury, and so intense was my companion's desire to learn something of Kean, who, I think, had performed in a new character, that he actually caused the hostlers to "knock-up the house," in order to ascertain if there was any newspaper from town, or the landlord or waiter had heard anything of the play!

During the rest of his life-for he was prematurely taken from his friends and the world-I continued my pleasant acquaintance with this gentleman, who possessed many traits well calculated to enhance his appreciation in society and companionable qualities. A portion of humour, or drollery, would be mixed up with his other attainments; and Coleridge told a piquant story of him at the time the tragedy of Remorse" was offered to, and accepted by, the managers of old Drury.

Mr. Kinnaird, according to my authority, had invited him (Coleridge) to Pall Mall, where he resided, to read the tragedy in question for his judgment thereon. The poet attended the manager, as in duty bound, and was shown into his boudoir, or dressing-room, where he was assiduously making his toilet. Without interrupting the process of shaving, teeth-cleaning, nail-paring and scooping, &c., &c., he desired the poet to proceed with his reading, and the poet complied; his didactic tone and sonorous voice ceasing at times, in the hope, perhaps, that the pause might allow of a compliment or expression of admiration being administered.

But the critic shaved, and made no sign; dressed his nails, and spoke not. Coleridge read on, and had got through an act or more, as he related the tale-and an excellent hand he was at embellishment in such cases-when his auditor suddenly stopped him, and pulling out a drawer full of papers from his dressing-glass, said, "Now, my good friend, I have listened to enough of your nonsense; and, in return, I have to request your attention to a little two-act piece of mine, which I think will be a hit at Drury!" And Coleridge had to listen in turn; for it will not do for dramatists to displease managers; and so Mr. Kinnaird never knew the remainder of "Remorse" till it was produced upon the boards; and Sheridan had his jest upon the cavern scene, where the percolating of the water is described—“ Drip, drip, drip," said the satirist; "nothing but dripping." It is the work of a man of genius, notwithstanding; I am sorry I cannot record the fate of my esteemed fellowtraveller's "little two-act piece!" Observe, I very seldom employ italics, because I trust to the inherent essence of my stories, and the intelligence of my readers, to detect their merits; and if I fail, I continue, nevertheless, of the opinion that italics are, at best, but civil bowing letters, begging of you, with due ceremony, to believe that there is point, or wit, or humour, where there is none.

Among my curious memoranda about this time, is the note of being taken by my friend, Mr. (Sir F.) Freeling, to see and dine with the celebrated Lady Hamilton in the King's Bench Prison. She was embonpoint, and still a fine woman; full of complaints, but too truly founded, of the cruel neglect she experienced from Government, and the ungrateful return made for her own public services, as well as to the dying behests of her glorious sailor. The deep conviction I that day received, of the stern inflexibility