“I am glad that you venture to say something about the children, for it is only by such minutiae that I can judge of the manner in which they amuse or behave themselves.  I really do not see the least propriety in leaving John, at an age when the first impressions are so deep and lasting, to receive the rudiments and foundation of his education in Scotland.  If learning English, his native language, mean anything, it is not merely to read it correctly and understand it grammatically, but to speak and pronounce it like the most polished native.  But how can you expect this to be effected, even with the aid of the best teachers, when everybody around him, with whom he can practise his instructions, speaks in a totally different manner?  No!  I rather think it better that he should go to Edinburgh after he has passed through the schools here, and when he is sixteen or seventeen.  He should certainly go to some school next spring, and I most confidingly trust that you are unremitting in your duty to give him daily lessons of preparation, or he may be so far behind children of his age when he does go to school, that the derision he may meet there may destroy emulation.  All this, however, is matter for serious consideration and for future consultation, in which your voice shall have its rightful influence....”

Mr. Murray was under the necessity of postponing his visit to France.  He went to Brighton instead, and spent a few pleasant days with Mr. D’Israeli and his friends.

On September 24 Mr. Murray, having returned to London, informed his wife, still at Edinburgh, of an extraordinary piece of news.

John Murray to Mrs. Murray.

“I was much surprised to learn from Dallas, whom I accidentally met yesterday, that Lord Byron was expected in town every hour.  I accordingly left my card at his house, with a notice that I would attend him as soon as he pleased; and it pleased him to summon my attendance about seven in the evening.  He had come to town on business, and regretted that he would not be at Newstead until a fortnight, as he wished to have seen me there on my way to Scotland.  Says he, ’Can you keep a secret?’ ‘Certainly—­positively—­my wife’s out of town!’ ’Then—­I am going to be MARRIED!’ ’The devil!  I shall have no poem this winter then?’ ‘No.’  ‘Who is the lady who is to do me this injury?’ ’Miss Milbanke—­do you know her?’ ‘No, my lord.’

“So here is news for you!  I fancy the lady is rich, noble, and beautiful; but this shall be my day’s business to enquire about.  Oh! how he did curse poor Lady C——­ as the fiend who had interrupted all his projects, and who would do so now if possible.  I think he hinted that she had managed to interrupt this connexion two years ago.  He thought she was abroad, and, to his torment and astonishment, he finds her not only in England, but in London.  He says he has written some small poems which his friends think beautiful, particularly one of eight lines, his very best—­all