imitations, excellent as they were.

I used to

repeat to him those laughable passages out of

"

Bozzy and Piozzy.»

Dear Dr Johnson,——

(It is Mrs Thrale who speaks)—

Dear Dr Johnson was in size an ox,
And of his uncle Andrew learnt to box,
A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear,
Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year.
The Doctor had an uncle too, adored
By jumping gentry, called Cornelius Ford;
Who jumped in boots, which jumpers never chuse,
Far as a famous jumper jumped in shoes.

See also the next passage in the book—

At supper rose a dialogue on witches,

which I would quote also, only I am afraid Mr Moore would think I was trespassing on the privileges of high life. Again; Madame Piozzi says,

Once at our house, amidst our Attic feast,
We likened our acquaintances to beasts;
As for example—some to calves and hogs,
And some to bears and monkeys, cats, and dogs.

We said (which charmed the Doctor much, no doubt)
His mind was like of elephants the snout,

That could pick pins up, yet possessed the vigour
Of trimming well the jacket of a tiger.

Bozzy. When Johnson was in Edinburgh, my wife
To please his palate studied for her life;

With every rarity she filled her house,

And gave the Doctor, for his dinner, grouse.

Piozzi. Dear Doctor Johnson left off drinks fermented,
With quarts of chocolate and cream contented;
Yet often down his throat's prodigious gutter,
Poor man! he pour'd whole floods of melted butter.

At these passages, which make me laugh so for the thousandth time, that I can hardly write them, Lord Byron had too invincible a relish of a good thing not to laugh also, but he did it uneasily. The cause is left to the reader's speculation.

With the commiseration about the melted butter, we agreed heartily. When Lord Castlereagh killed himself, it was mentioned in the papers that he had taken his usual tea and buttered toast for breakfast. I said there was no knowing how far even so little a thing as buttered toast might not have fatally assisted in

exasperating that ill state of stomach, which is found to accompany melancholy. As « the last feather breaks the horse's back,» so the last injury done to the organs of digestion may make a man kill himself. He agreed with me entirely in this; and said, the world were as much in the wrong, in nine cases out of ten, respecting the immediate causes of suicide, as they were in their notions about the harmlessness of this and that food, and the quantity of it.

Like many other wise theorists on this subject, he had wilfully shut his eyes to the practice, though I do not mean to say he was excessive in eating and drinking. He had only been in the habit, latterly, of taking too much for his particular temperament; a fault, in one respect, the most pardonable in those who are most aware of it, the uneasiness of a sedentary stomach tempting them to the very indulgence that is hurtful. I know what it is; and beg, in this, as on other occasions, not to be supposed to imply any thing to my own advantage, when I am upon points that may be construed to the disadvantage of others. But he had got fat, and then went to the other ex

:

treme. He came to me one day out of another room, and said, with great glee, « Look here! what do you say to this?» at the same time doubling the lapells of his coat one over the other << three months ago,» added he, « I could not button it." Sometimes, though rarely, with a desperate payment of his virtue, he would make an outrageous dinner; eating all sorts of things that were unfit for him, and suffering accordingly next day. He once sent to Paris for one of the travelling pies they make there-things that distribute indigestion by return of post, and cost three or four guineas. Twenty crowns, I think, he gave for it. He tasted, and dined. The next day he was fain to make a present of six-eighths of it to an envoy:-<< Lord Byron's compliments, and he sends his Excellency a pasty that has seen the world." He did not write this; but this was implied in his compliment. It is to be hoped his Excellency had met the pasty before.

It is a credit to my noble acquaintance, that he was by far the pleasantest when he had got wine in his head. The only time I invited myself to dine with him, I told him I did it on

that account, and that I meant to push the bottle so, that he should intoxicate me with his good company. He said he would have a set-to; but he never did it. I believe he was afraid. It was a little before he left Italy; and there was a point in contest between us (not regarding myself) which he thought perhaps I should persuade him to give up. When in his cups, which was not often, nor immoderately, he was inclined to be tender; but not weakly so, nor lachrymose. I know not how it might have been with every body, but he paid me the compliment of being excited to his very best feelings; and when I rose late to go away, he would hold me down, and say with a look of intreaty, «< Not yet.» Then it was that I proper natural Byron

seemed to talk with the

as he ought to have been; and there was not a sacrifice I could not have made to keep him in that temper; and see his friends love him, as much as the world admired. Next morning it was all gone. His intimacy with the worst part of mankind had got him again in its chilling crust; and nothing remained but to despair and joke.