day overbearing and tyrannical, the next almost quixotically good-natured and chivalrous. The actual cause of his separation from Lady Byron is still a secret, but I suspect that the revelation, if it is ever made, will be of a comparatively hum-drum character. Considering the essentially matter-offact temperament of Lady Byron, and the fact that Byron was unquestionably "un farfaron des vices qu'il n'avait pas," "-one who in certain moods would, out of mere bravado and a saturnine delight in shocking commonplace decorum, boast of achievements and practices of which he was really quite guiltless, the cause, after all, is not very far to seek. His highly-seasoned fabrications were probably accepted by the serious and unimaginative Lady Byron as literal confessions of fact, and when reported by her to the no less serious and unimaginative Dr. Lushington, were, no doubt, treated by him in the same spirit, the result being the solemn legal opinion that Byron was a monster of iniquity, with a touch of madness thrown in, from whom she must at once irrevocably decide to separate. As a matter of fact, Byron was no worse, and in many instances a good deal better, than several of the noblemen of that day; but his genius, his eccentricity, his emotional, paratended to doxical temperament, all place him, so to speak, under the public magnifying glass, an ordeal to which discreeter and more commonplace offenders were never subjected.

I have lately heard from one who knew a good deal "behind the scenes" in connection with Lord Byron, that at the time of his death certain of his intimate friends strongly suspected that he had expedited his end. Certainly I know, from a statement of his own in an unpublished letter, that a year or two before he had not only contemplated but actually made his preparations for suicide, and the disappointing

turn

which events in Greece were rapidly taking lend some color to the suspicion above alluded to. He had staked all on this final throw of the Greek campaign, and the likelihood of its proving a fiasco would be quite strong enough an inducement for him to precipitate "the shuffling off of a mortal coil" which had, on the whole, brought him little more than vanity and vexation of spirit.

Before leaving the subject of Lord Byron, I cannot refrain from saying a word relative to the famous (and infamous) charge made against him by Mrs. Beecher Stowe, which, like all such charges, however ill-founded, has been in many quarters only too implicitly credited. If Lady Byron, as stated by Mrs. Stowe, separated from Byron on account of his relations with Mrs. Leigh, how was it that for nearly fifteen years after the separation Lady Byron remained on the most affectionate terms with that lady? The objection is insuperable, and absolutely fatal to Mrs. There Stowe's case. were, doubtless, serious rumors afloat concerning Byron and Mrs. Leigh-indeed I am aware that they were credited by certain well-known personages of that day; but it is probable that they originated from the fact of Byron having written "Manfred," though, if he had been guilty of the conduct alleged against him, it is extremely unlikely that he would have allowed the publication of the poem. If Lady Byron did confide this highly improbable story to Mrs. Stowe, it could not, for the reason already stated, have been connected in any way with the separation, and was probably merely related by Lady Byron as having come to her ears long afterwards, though Mrs. Stowe, with characteristic recklessness, subsequently placed it in a wholly different aspect. If Lord Byron sinned much, he assuredly suffered in proportion, and it is monstrous that his mem

ory should be blackened with a charge wholly unsupported by anything worthy the name of evidence, which in a court of law would have earned for the accuser the most unsparing condemnation.

From Byron to Shelley is a natural transition, though my "links" with Shelley are comparatively few. I had, however, the good fortune to be slightly acquainted with the late Sir Percy Shelley, his only son, to whose house on the Chelsea Embankment I remember paying what, for me, was a memorable visit. I was accompanying my mother, whose call was really on Lady Shelley, a gifted woman, greatly wrapped up in all that appertained to her illustrious father-in-law, and I had not expected to see Sir Percy, who was not in the room when I arrived. As we were talking with Lady Shelley about the new Life of the poet on which Mr. Dowden was then engaged, the door opened, and there entered a little red-faced man with red "ferrety" eyes, and altogether a rather insignificant appearance. He was poising in his hand a small parcel, which he extended towards Lady Shelley, exclaiming rather irritably, "You told me this was twopence, but I find it's overweight." Lady Shelley, however, diverted him from his postal grievance by introducing us, a ceremony which he seemed far from disposed to follow up by conversation. However, by way of breaking the ice, I fortunately bethought myself that I had only a week or two before driven past "Field Place," near Horsham, where his father, the poet, was born. I accordingly mentioned the fact, expressing my deep interest in seeing it. "Ah yes," responded Sir Percy, still resentfully poising the offending parcel, "it's not a bad place, but the worst of it is, I can't let it!" This was a "douche" with a vengeance from the poet's own offspring, and I immediately conclud

ed, and I think rightly, that Sir Percy had harked back to Sir Timothy with possibly just a soupçon of old Sir Bysshe, and come into the world minus a grain of intellectual affinity with his marvellous father, and, for that matter, with his only less marvellous mother. Shortly after this episode we made a pilgrimage to the Shelley room to see the relics, Sir Percy following slightly in the rear, but punctiliously and almost reverentially joining in the inspection. Lady Shelley afterwards explained that Sir Percy never failed to accompany visitors in their inspection of the relics, though he had, of course, seen them hundreds of times, and that his affection and veneration for his mother were such that he seldom spoke of her without tears in his eyes. He had therefore, at any rate, the deepest affinity of all-that of the heart. Subsequently I went more than once to Sir Percy's charming theatre in Tite Street, for which he always painted the scenery, and with fair success, though his acting was not above that of the average amateur. His ownership of this theatre, and indeed his occupation of Shelley House, were abruptly terminated owing to an untoward incident for which the spitefulness of the late Mr. Slingsby Bethell was responsible. Slingsby Bethell, who was a neighbor and an acquaintance of the Shelleys, had been invited to take part in various representations which Sir Percy had organized in his theatre from time to time, but when arranging for an important charity performance at which the Prince and Princess of Wales were to be present, for some reason or other he was not asked to join. This incensed him so bitterly that, finding out that by some oversight Sir Percy had not taken out a licence for the performance, in respect of which admission-money was to be payable, he with incredible meanness gave information of the omission to the authori

ties, who issued summonses at the Westminster Police Court against Sir Percy Shelley as proprietor, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé as author of the play to be performed, and Mr. Horace Wigan as stage-manager. It had been Bethell's intention to stop the performance altogether, but having regard to the fact that it was in aid of charity, and that the Prince and Princess of Wales were to attend, the magistrate consented to postpone the hearing of the summonses till after the performance. Bethell was thus for the moment frustrated; but his malignity was eventually gratified, for on the hearing of the summonses, all three defendants were convicted and fined, an event which, together with the attendant circumstances, so disgusted Sir Percy that shortly afterwards he gave up his residence, and with it the theatre.

Only inferior in interest to the Byron Letters are the recently published editions of Charles Lamb's Works and Correspondence, which, however, exhaustive as they are, do not contain one delicious saying of Lamb's that is, I believe, very little known. Among the lesser luminaries of the Northern Circuit, when Pollock and Brougham were the bright particular stars, was Samuel Warren, afterwards famous as the author of "Ten Thousand a-Year," in which, by the way, he gives a "drypoint" portrait of Brougham, under the name, I think, of Counsellor Quicksilver. One of Warren's friends on circuit was a barrister who afterwards took Orders, and became the most popular preacher at a Midland wateringplace. Though no longer connected with the Bar, this gentleman still maintained his friendship with Warren, who used occasionally to visit him and dilate with pardonable pride on the grandees to whose tables his fame as an author had gained him admission, and on the celebrities he used to meet there. On one of these occa

sions his host asked Warren whether he had ever chanced to come across Charles Lamb, to which Warren replied that he had once met him at breakfast at Lord Lyndhurst's." "Did he say anything good?" inquired the host. "Not that I remember," answered Warren. "Very odd," rejoined the host. "Surely he must have said something worth recalling?" "Well," responded Warren after a pause, "now I come to think of it, he did say something, though I don't know that it's worth repeating." "Never mind," was the answer, "let us hear what it was." "Well," resumed Warren, "I had been telling some story in French, it was a really good story, but somehow it didn't come off, probably because the French wasn't quite up to the mark, so when nobody laughed, by way of getting over the failure, turning to Lamb, who was sitting next me, I added carelessly, "Not that I know much French-for а gentleman!'" "Ah," expectantly exclaimed the host, prepared for a treat, "and what hap pened then?" "Well," answered Warren, "there's very little in it, but when I said that I didn't know much French for a gentleman, Lamb, who hadn't uttered a word the whole of breakfast, suddenly stuttered out 'Nor-nor-I-I -for a-a-b-b-blackg-uard!'"

My closing remarks shall be devoted to what may be described as the transfiguration of London during the last half century. London, as I first remember it, was as inferior in many ways to its modern representative as the latter still is to Paris and Vienna. It was probably at that time the dullest and dingiest metropolis in the world, though even now in the matter of lighting it is far behind even some of our great provincial towns. My earliest acquaintance with its street life dates from an eventful day when I was tak. en by my nurse to see the Duke of Wellington lying in state, of which spec

tacle I can only remember, and that dimly, the great black velvet pall and the colossal tapers. But shortly afterwards my eldest sister and I were taken for an almost daily walk in the principal West End thoroughfares, the characteristics of which I can well recollect. The first thing that struck and not unnaturally terrified me was the utter chaos of the crossings. There was no regularly told-off policeman to regulate the traffic and protect the timid and inexperienced pedestrian in those days, and the process of reaching the opposite side of Regent Street was unpleasantly like a panic-stricken stampede! If a policeman did intervent it was only by accident, and "merely to oblige," the force being then at the height of its renown for that "conspicuity of absence" with which it has always been more or less identified, though of late years with much less foundation. The policeman of that day was in appearance a fearful and wonderful being. His headgear was a "chimney-pot" hat of sham beaver, decorated with strips of very shiny leather; while instead of a tunic he wore a swallow-tail garment cut like a dress-coat, set off in the summer by white-duck "continuations." Facially, he was either clean-shaven or decorated with mutton-chop whiskers, and his aspect when mounted, and at exercise, flashing a sword, was singu larly comic and incongruous.

The "growlers" were also of a decidedly archaic type, externally minus springs, and internally liberally strewn with dirty and trampled straw, which emitted a faint sickly odor that had often a peculiarly nauseating effect. On all the panels were emblazoned in the boldest style and the crudest coloring the Royal Arms; while the "jarvies" themselves were for the most part bottle-nosed ruffians, who regarded any remuneration short of a double fare as an insult, and became positive

ly murderous in looks as well as in language if tendered the then legal minimum of sixpence! The omnibuses were also of a very inferior description, carpeted like the "growlers," with malodorous straw and fitted with greasy cushions that boasted their own particular "bouquet." There were, I

think, very few omnibus fares under sixpence, and the vehicles were, as a rule, wretchedly under-horsed.

As regards the streets, many were even then laid with paving stones, and the jolting and clatter of the vehicular traffic were appalling. I don't suppose that in those days there was a single india-rubber tyre in London, and, of course, neither asphalt nor wood pavement, so that the din was far more distracting than at present, even allowing for the enormous increase of traffic.

Perhaps the greatest change that has taken place in London since those days, or indeed a much later period, is in the matter of hotels and restaurants. Down to the early "'Sixties" there was no really large hotel in the whole of the West End of London, the "Clarendon" In Bond Street, which has now disappeared, and "Thomas's" in Berkeley Square being about the most capacious, though Claridge's in Brook Street was then, as now, perhaps the most select, being nearly always chosen as the resting place of foreign royalties. As regards West End restaurants, I think Verry's in Regent Street was then the only one of the first class, and that was seldom frequented except by foreigners unless it might be for luncheon by ladies up for the day from the country or the distant suburbs. Luncheon, dinner, and supper parties at a restaurant were then unheard-of entertainments among the upper and upper-middle classes, who would have regarded anything of the kind as shockingly Bohemian, if not something

worse.

The theatres, again, even over the whole of London area, were few and far between,-down to 1860, Drury Lane, the Lyceum, the Olympic, the Haymarket, the St. James's (when open), the Adelphi, the Princess's and the Strand, eight in all, being the only ones of any vogue; whereas nowadays the number of theatres is positively bewildering. The opera, however, was a far more splendid affair than at present, "Her Majesty's" attracting audiences little less brilliant than Covent Garden; but of course that was the epoch of transcendently fine singers, all of whom made London their headquarters for the whole of the season.

The Park has vastly improved in appearance since the early "'Sixties," when I think there was not a single flower to be seen the whole year round between the Marble Arch and Hyde Park corner! But in other respects it has not altered for the better. The earlier morning ride may be more sensible in the summer months, but it is far less brilliant than its predecessor, which extended from 12 to 1; while the discontinuance of the evening ride (5 to 7.30), with its wonderful medley of prominent statesmen, prelates, ambassadors, and dandies, set off by some of the most beautiful women that have ever graced the country, is little short of a calamity. That, too, was still the day of full-dress riding costume-tall hats, single-breasted cut-away coats, and, mostly, tight-fitting dark blue "strapped" trousers, finished off by superlatively polished black boots; while any lady equestrian who had ventured to discard the natty little tall hat for a "billy cock," and the perfectly close-fitting habit for a "sack" covert-coat, would have been regarded as the acme of "bad form."

I shall doubtless be accounted a mere "laudator temporis acti" when I adventure the opinion that in London, at all events, there was far more beau

ty among women and far more distinction of appearance (to say nothing of good looks) among men than are to be met with in the present day. Every woman in those days, so far from being, as now, a slavish imitator, seemed to have a distinctive charm and cachet of her own; and, above all, it had happily not become de rigueur to torture a naturally sweet and gentle voice into the shrill "tinny" sort of "clack" which nowadays renders the Row only a degree less distracting than the Zoological Gardens parrot-house! The Lawns, now crammed on Sundays like the Epsom Downs on a Derby day, were then entirely unfrequented, the fashionable parade on Sundays till the early "'Seventies" being the Broad Walk, Kensington Gardens, from 4 to 7. So far as I recollect, the Park was virtually deserted by Society on Sundays, who repaired to the "Botanical" and the "Zoo" (by ticket) when preferring a more exclusive resort than the Gardens.

In the matter of Society, strictly socalled, the present indiscriminate jumble of patricians and plutocrats was almost unknown, at all events before the later ""Seventies." The "Haute Juiverie" were still in a sense beyond the pale, and the bare idea of one of them being honored with an English peerage would forty years ago have caused little short of a revolution among the vieille noblesse. These democratic changes may be salutary, but they have certainly not added to the prestige of the Painted Chamber, which bids fair before very long to become a Chamber of Commerce, and that not of the highest order!

These desultory pages must now be brought to a close. It is perhaps audacious in one whose span of life falls short of sixty years to place his recollections and experiences before the public, but it is not always old age