The gallant defence of this post seemed to interest him more, and I recapitulated all the particulars I knew of the attack.  From the bravery displayed by the handful of troops (the Guards) who defended it, it has acquired its reputation.  Though they were reinforced more than once, the number never exceeded twelve hundred; and notwithstanding the enemy having, by battering down the gate of the farmyard, and setting fire to the straw in it, got possession of the outer works, in the evening attack, they could make no impression on the strong hold, the garden—­

  “Whose close pleach’d walks and bowers have been
  The deadly marksman’s lurking screen.”

They reaped no advantage by these assaults; on the contrary, they sacrificed a great many brave men without any purpose.  It was a most important post; for had they succeeded in getting possession of it, and driving out our troops, their guns would have enfiladed us, and we should have been obliged to change our front.  The pompous title of chateau gives a little additional importance to this position, though it is only a miserable dwelling of two stories, somewhat resembling the habitations of our Bonnet Lairds about the beginning of the last century.  The area of the house is about two Scotch acres, including the garden.  The clipped and shady walks have been long since cut down, which takes away much interest from it; and the stupid Fleming to whom it belonged, cut down the young trees in front of it, because they had been wounded by the bullets, which he was informed “would cause them to bleed to death!” The nobleman who now possesses it, had, with better taste, repaired the chateau, and will not permit any alteration in its appearance.

I asked Byron what he thought of Mr. Scott’s “Field of Waterloo,” just published—­if it was fair to ask one poet his opinion of a living contemporary.  “Oh,” said he, “quite fair; besides, there is not much subject for criticism in this hasty sketch.  The reviewers call it a falling off; but I am sure there is no poet living who could have written so many good lines on so meagre a subject, in so short a time.  Scott,” he added, “is a fine poet, and a most amiable man.  We are great friends.  As a prose writer, he has no rival; and has not been approached since Cervantes, in depicting manners.  His tales are my constant companions.  It is highly absurd his denying, what every one that knows him believes, his being the author of these admirable works.  Yet no man is obliged to give his name to the public, except he chooses so to do; and Scott is not likely to be compelled by the law, for he does not write libels, nor a line of which he may be ashamed.”  He said a great deal more in praise of his friend, for whom he had the highest respect and regard.  “I wish,” added the poet, with feeling, “it had been my good fortune to have had such a Mentor.  No author,” he observed, “had deserved more from the public, or has been so liberally rewarded.  Poor Milton got only 15_l._ for his ‘Paradise Lost,’ while a modern poet has as much for a stanza.”  I know not if he made any allusion to himself in this remark, but it has been said that Murray paid him that sum for every verse of “Childe Harold.”