with an entrance on Clifford Street, opposite Long's; and at Gordon's Hotel, No. 1 Albemarle Street, corner of Piccadilly. According to Mr. Jesse, the greater part of The Corsair' was composed by Byron while he was walking up and down Albemarle Street, between Grafton Street and Piccadilly.

On the 9th of April, 1814, Byron wrote to Moore from A, No. 2, The Albany :

Viscount Althorp is about to be married, and I have gotten his spacious bachelor apartments in the Albany, to which I hope you will address a speedy answer to this mine epistle.

The Albany is a long row of semi-detached buildings, extending from Piccadilly through to Burlington Gardens, just east of the Royal Academy of Arts. It is let out in chambers to single gentlemen, and has had many distinguished occupants. Here Byron wrote the 'Ode on the Fall of Napoleon,' and herefrom he set out to be married to Miss Milbanke, on January 2, 1815.

Lord and Lady Byron, in the spring of 1815, took possession of the mansion No. 13 Piccadilly Terrace, where in December of the same year the sole daughter of his house and heart was born; and this house, in January, 1816, Lady Byron quitted, never to see her lord again. It was still standing in 1885, near Park Lane, and numbered 139 Piccadilly."1

Moore first met Byron at Samuel Rogers's, No. 22 St. James's Place, Piccadilly, in 1811 (see ROGERS).

Moore's

It was at first intended by Mr. Rogers that his company at dinner should not extend beyond Lord Byron and myself; but Mr. Thomas Campbell, having called upon our host Byron, vol. that morning, was invited to join the party, and consented. Such a meeting could not be otherwise than interesting to us all. It was the first time that Lord Byron was ever seen by any of his three companions; while he, on his side, for the first time found himself in the society of persons

ii., 1811.

whose names had been associated with his first literary dreams, and to two of whom he looked up with that tributary admiration which youthful genius is ever ready to pay its precursors. Among the impressions which this meeting left upon me, what I chiefly remember to have remarked, was the nobleness of his air, his beanty, the gentleness of his voice and manners, and — what was naturally not the least attraction his marked kindness to myself. Being in mourning for his mother, the color as well of his dress as of his glossy, curling, and picturesque hair gave more effect to the pure, spiritual paleness of his features, in the expression of which, when he spoke, there was a perpetual play of lively thought, though melancholy was their habitual character when in repose. As we had none of us been apprised of his peculiarities with respect to food, the embarrassment of our host was not a little on discovering that there was nothing upon the table which his noble guest could eat or drink. Neither meat, fish, nor wine would Lord Byron touch, and of biscuits and sodawater, which he asked for, there had been unluckily no provision. He professed, however, to be equally well pleased with potatoes and vinegar, and of these meagre materials contrived to make rather a hearty dinner.

Some days after, meeting Hobhouse, I said to him, 'How long will Lord Byron persevere in his present diet?' He replied, 'Just as long as you continue to notice it.' I did not Rogers's then know what I now know to be a fact, that Byron, Table Talk. after leaving my house, had gone to a club in St. James's Street, and eaten a hearty meat supper.

Byron's meeting with Sir Walter Scott, the latter thus describes in a letter to Moore, written after Byron's death :

It was in the spring of 1815 that, chancing to be in London, I had the advantage of a personal introduction to Lord Byron. Report had prepared me to meet a man of peculiar Lockhart's habits and a quick temper; and I had some doubts Life of Scott, whether we were likely to suit each other in society. I was most agreeably disappointed in this respect. I found Lord Byron in the highest degree courteous and even kind. We met for an hour or two almost daily in Mr. Murray's drawingroom [No. 50 A, Albemarle Street], and found a great deal to say

vol. i. chap. xxxiv.

to each other. . . I saw Lord Byron for the last time in 1815, after I returned from France. He dined, or lunched, with me at Long's, in Bond Street. I never saw him so full of gayety or goodhumor, to which the presence of Mr. Mathews, the comedian, added not a little. After one of the gayest parties I ever was present at, I set off for Scotland, and I never saw Lord Byron again.

5

Long's Hotel still stood,*in 1885, at No. 16 New Bond Street, and Murray's Publishing House was still in Albemarle Street, near Piccadilly, on the same spot as in the days of Scott and Byron.

Moore's Diary, July 12, 1824.

Lord Byron died in Missolonghi, Greece, on the 19th of April, 1824. His remains were carried to England, lay in state in the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull, No. 25 Great George Street, Westminster (the Institution of Civil Engineers in 1885), on the 9th and 10th of July, and on the 16th of July were buried by the side of those of his mother in the family vault near Newstead Abbey.

...

Was with Rogers at half past eight; set off for George Street, Westminster, at half past nine. When I approached the house and saw the crowd assembled, felt a nervous trembling come over me which lasted till the whole ceremony was over. . . . The riotous curiosity of the mob, the bustle of the undertakers, etc., and all the other vulgar accompaniment of the ceremony mixing with my recollections of him who was gone, produced a combination of disgust and sadness that was deeply painful to me. . . . Saw a lady crying in a barouche as we turned out of George Street, and said to myself, 'Bless her heart, whoever she is!' There were, however, few respectable persons in the crowd, and the whole ceremony was anything but what it ought to have been. Left the hearse as soon as it was off the stones, and returned home to get rid of my black clothes and try to forget as much as possible the wretched feelings I had experienced in them.

Byron's clubs were Watier's, a gambling-house, No. 81 Piccadilly, corner of Bolton Street, and the Alfred, No.