to the warmth of his affections, and the charms of his conversation, and to the candour which, as he confessed to Lady Blessington, sometimes tried his patience.  There is little doubt that they had some misunderstanding when travelling together, but it was a passing cloud.  Eighteen months after his return the poet admits that Hobhouse was his best friend; and when he unexpectedly walked up the stairs of the Palazzo Lanfranchi, at Pisa, Madame Guiccioli informs us that Byron was seized with such violent emotion, and so extreme an excess of joy, that it seemed to take away his strength, and he was forced to sit down in tears.

On the edge of this inner circle, and in many respects associated with it, was the Rev. Francis Hodgson, a ripe scholar, good translator, a sound critic, a fluent writer of graceful verse, and a large-hearted divine, whoso correspondence, recently edited with a connecting narrative by his son, has thrown light on disputed passages of Lord Byron’s life.  The views entertained by the friends on literary matters were almost identical; they both fought under the standards of the classic school; they resented the same criticisms, they applauded the same successes, and were bound together by the strong tie of mutual admiration.  Byron commends Hodgson’s verses, and encourages him to write; Hodgson recognizes in the Bards and Reviewers and the early cantos of Childe Harold the promise of Manfred and Cain.  Among the associates who strove to bring the poet back to the anchorage of fixed belief, and to wean him from the error of his thoughts, Francis Hodgson was the most charitable, and therefore the most judicious.  That his cautions and exhortations were never stultified by pedantry or excessive dogmatism, is apparent from the frank and unguarded answers which they called forth.  In several, which are preserved, and some for the first time reproduced in the recently-published Memoir, we are struck by the mixture of audacity and superficial dogmatism, sometimes amounting to effrontery, that is apt to characterize the negations of a youthful sceptic.  In September, 1811, Byron writes from Newstead:—­“I will have nothing to do with your immortality; we are miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon another.  Christ came to save men, but a good Pagan will go to heaven, and a bad Nazarene to hell.  I am no Platonist, I am nothing at all; but I would sooner be a Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, than one of the seventy-two villainous sects who are tearing each other to pieces for the love of the Lord and hatred of each other.  I will bring ten Mussulman, shall shame you all in good will towards men and prayer to God.”  On a similar outburst in verse, the Rev. F. Hodgson comments with a sweet humanity, “The poor dear soul meant nothing of this.”  Elsewhere the poet writes, “I have read Watson to Gibbon.  He proves nothing; so I am where I was, verging towards