ery agreeable and clever, but vain, overbearing, conceited,
suspicious, and jealous. Byron hated Palmerston, but liked Peel, and
thought that the whole world ought to be constantly employed in
admiring his poetry and himself: he never could write a poem or a drama
without making himself its hero, and he was always the subject of his
own conversation.

During one of Henry Hobhouse's visits to Byron, at his villa near
Genoa, and whilst they were walking in the garden, his lordship
suddenly turned upon his guest, and, apropos of nothing, exclaimed,
"Now, I know, Hobhouse, you are looking at my foot." Upon which
Hobhouse kindly replied, "My dear Byron, nobody thinks of or looks at
anything but your head."

SHELLEY

Shelley, the poet, cut off at so early an age; just when his great
poetical talents had been matured by study and reflection, and when he
probably would have produced some great work, was my friend and
associate at Eton. He was a boy of studious and meditative habits,
averse to all games and sports, and a great reader of novels and
romances. He was a thin, slight lad, with remarkably lustrous eyes,
fine hair, and a very peculiar shrill voice and laugh. His most
intimate friend at Eton was a boy named Price, who was considered one
of the best classical scholars amongst us. At his tutor, Bethell's,
where he lodged, he attempted many mechanical and scientific
experiments. By the aid of a common tinker, he contrived to make
something like a steam-engine, which, unfortunately, one day suddenly
exploded; to the great consternation of the neighbourhood and to the
imminent danger of a severe flogging from Dr. Reate.

Soon after leaving school, and about the year 1810, he came, in a state
of great distress and difficulty, to Swansea, when we had an
opportunity of rendering him a service; but we never could ascertain
what had brought him to Wales, though we had reason to suppose it was
some mysterious affaire du coeur.

The last time I saw Shelley was at Genoa, in 1822, sitting on the
sea-shore, and, when I came upon him, making a true poet's meal of
bread and fruit; He at once recognized me, jumped up, and appearing
greatly delighted, exclaimed, "Here you see me at my old Eton habits;
but instead of the green fields for a couch, I have here the shores of
the Mediterranean. It is very grand, and very romantic. I only wish I
had some of the excellent brown bread and butter we used to get at
Spiers's: bu