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17. This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 1816) wbich even at this distance dazzles mine.

(July 20th ) I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat; the distance of these mountains from their mirror is 60 miles.

18. The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt ar fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archi. pelago.

19. This refers to the account in his “ Confessions," of his passion for the Comtesse d' Houdetot, (the mistress of St. Lambert) and his long walk every morning for the sake of the single kiss, which was the common salutation of French acquaintance.

20. It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount.

21. The thunder-storms to which these lines refer, oc, curred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among tbe Acrocerauniau mountains of Chimari se. veral more terrible, but none more beautiful.

22. Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note.

23. Voltaire and Gibbon.

24.

«If it be thus,
“For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind."

Macbeth.

25. It is said by Rochefoucault " there is always "something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not “ displeasing to them.”

EXD OF NOTES TO CANTO NI."

Venice, January 2, 1818.

TO

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 4. M. F. R. S.

&c. &c. &c.

HY DEAR HOBHOUSE,

AFTER an interval of eight years between the composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,-to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than-though pot ungrateful I can, or could be to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity, and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril to a friend often tried and never fouod wanting; to yourself.

In so doing, I rccur from fiction to truth, and in dedi. cating to you in jis complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I wish to do honour to myself by the record of many years intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds likeours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been perunitted to the voiee of friendship; and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the encoun. ter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter,

the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which cannot poison my future while I re. taip the resource of your friendship, and of my own facul. ties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without thinking better of his species and of himself.

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few

years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or buth, have accompanied me from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe ; and how. ever unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which i hardly suspected that events could have left me for ima. ginary objects.

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined uot to perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's “ Citizen of the World," whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that I kad drawn, a distinction between the author and the pilgrim: and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at Iinding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether-and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; and the author, who has

Do resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, . transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary afforts, deserves the fate of authors.

In the course of the following Canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 1 soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of exterbal objects and the consequent reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text.

It is also a delicate,and no very grateful task,to dissert. upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impartiality which would indace uszmthough perhaps no inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode,-to disturb, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine oor information. The state of literary, as well as political party appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language-"Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la più nobile ed insieme la più dolce, tutte tutte le vie di. Verse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfiori e di Monti non ha perduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prinia." Italy has great names still - Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present gene. ration an honorable place in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Letters; and in some the very highest-Europeathe World-has but one Canova.

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that“ La pianta pomo nasce più robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terrame che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commetopo ne sono una prova.” Without subscribing to the latter

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part of this proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth
of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely,
that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than
their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or
ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraor.
dinary capacity of this people, or, it such a word be ad.
missible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisiti.
ons, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their ge-
pius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all the disadvan.
tages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles and
the despair of ages, their still unquenched “longing
after immortality,”--the immortality of independence,
And when we ourselver, in riding round the walls of
Rome, beard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus,
“ Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non è più come era pri.
nia," it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge
with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still
yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of
Mount St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of
France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you
yourself bave exposed in a work worthy of the better
days of our history. For me,

“ Non movero mai corda

« Ove la turba die sue ciance assorda." What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to exquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home for what ihey have done abroad, and especially in the South,“ Verily they will have their reward," and at no very distant period.

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real wellfare can be dearer to none than 10 yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its complete state; and repeat once more how truly I

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Your obliged
And affectionate friend,

BYRON.

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