er it is good or bad, and
as this was not the case with the principal of my former
publications, I am, therefore, inclined to rank it very humbly. You
will submit it to Mr. Gifford, and to whomsoever you please
besides. With regard to the question of copyright (if it ever comes
to publication), I do not know whether you would think _three
hundred_ guineas an overestimate, if you do you may diminish it. I
do not think it worth more.

BYRON.[85]

"Venice, March 9, 1817."

Lord Byron never protested against or complained of any criticism as to
the talent displayed in his works. His protests (much too rare, alas!)
never had any other object than to repel some abominable calumny. When
they criticised without good faith and without measure his beautiful
dramas, saying they were not adapted for the stage, what did he reply?

"It appears that I do not possess dramatic genius."

His observations on that wicked and unmerited article in "Blackwood's
Magazine" for 1819, are quite a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of reasoning and
modesty. There again, if he defends the man a little, he condemns the
poet.

His modesty was such that he almost went so far as to see, in the enmity
stirred up against him during his latter years, a symptom of the decay
of his talent. He really seemed to attach value to his genius only when
it could be enlisted in the service of his heart.

In 1821, being at Ravenna, and writing his memoranda, he recalls that
one day in London (1814), just as he was stepping into a carriage with
Moore (whom he calls with all his heart the poet _par excellence_), he
received a Java Gazette, sent by Murray, and that on looking over it, he
found a discussion on his merits and those of Moore. And, after some
modest amusing sentences, he goes on to say:--

"It was a great fame to be named with Moore; greater to be compared with
him; greatest _pleasure_, at least, to be _with_ him; and, surely, an
odd coincidence, that we should be dining together while they were
quarrelling about us beyond the equinoctial line. Well, the same
evening, I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of Lord Grey's
daughters (a fine, tall, spirited-looking girl, with much of the
patrician thorough-bred look of her father, which I dote upon) play on
the harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she looked music. Well, I
would rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked delightfully)
and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore and me put