than childish tales? tales, too, not in fancy to be compared with those of that venerable dry-nurse, Mother Bunch.  Compare the poets that babble of green fields with those who deal in the actions and passions of men, such as Shakspeare, and it must be confessed that it is not those who have looked at external nature who are the true poets, but those who have seen and considered most about the business and bosom of man.  It may be an advantage that a poet should have the benefit of landscapes and storms, as children are the better for country air and cow’s milk; but the true scene of their manly work and business is in the populous city.  Inasmuch as Byron was a lover of solitude, he was deficient as an observer of men.

The barrenest portion, as to materials for biography, in the life of this interesting man, is the period he spent at the University of Cambridge.  Like that of most young men, it is probable the major part of his time was passed between the metropolis and the university.  Still it was in that period he composed the different poems which make up the little volume of The Hours of Idleness; a work which will ever be regarded, more by its consequences than its importance, as of great influence on the character and career of the poet.

It has been supposed, I see not how justly, that there was affectation in the title.  It is probable that Byron intended no more by it than to imply that its contents were sketches of leisure.  This is the less doubtful, as he was at that period particularly sensitive concerning the opinion that might be entertained of his works.  Before he made the collection, many of the pieces had been circulated, and he had gathered opinions as to their merits with a degree of solicitude that can only be conceived by those who were acquainted with the constantly excited sensibility of his mind.  When he did publish the collection, nothing appeared in the style and form of the publication that indicated any arrogance of merit.  On the contrary, it was brought forward with a degree of diffidence, which, if it did not deserve the epithet of modesty, could incur nothing harsher than that of bashfulness.  It was printed at the obscure market-town press of Newark, was altogether a very homely, rustic work, and no attempt was made to bespeak for it a good name from the critics.  It was truly an innocent affair and an unpretending performance.  But notwithstanding these, at least seeming, qualities of young doubtfulness and timidity, they did not soften the austere nature of the bleak and blighting criticism which was then characteristic of Edinburgh.

A copy was somehow communicated to one of the critics in that city, and was reviewed by him in the Edinburgh Review in an article replete with satire and insinuations calculated to prey upon the author’s feelings, while the injustice of the estimate which was made of his talent and originality, could not but be as iron in his heart.  Owing to the deep and severe impression which it left, it ought to be preserved in every memoir which treats of the development of his genius and character; and for this reason I insert it entire, as one of the most influential documents perhaps in the whole extent of biography.