Lord Byron replied, that he had, from motives of duty, presented this petition to their Lordships’ consideration.  The noble Earl had contended, that it was not a petition, but a speech; and that, as it contained no prayer, it should not be received.  What was the necessity of a prayer?  If that word were to be used in its proper sense, their Lordships could not expect that any man should pray to others.  He had only to say, that the petition, though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of address, but was couched in respectful language towards their Lordships; he should therefore trust their Lordships would allow the petition to be received.

A FRAGMENT.[1]

[Footnote 1:  During a week of rain at Diodati, in the summer of 1816, the party having amused themselves with reading German ghost stories, they agreed at last to write something in imitation of them.  “You and I,” said Lord Byron to Mrs. Shelley, “will publish ours together.”  He then began his tale of the Vampire; and, having the whole arranged in his head, repeated to them a sketch of the story one evening;—­but, from the narrative being in prose, made but little progress in filling up his outline.  The most memorable result, indeed, of their storytelling compact, was Mrs. Shelley’s wild and powerful romance of Frankenstein.—­MOORE.

“I began it,” says Lord Byron, “in an old account book of Miss Milbanke’s, which I kept because it contains the word ‘Household,’ written by her twice on the inside blank page of the covers; being the only two scraps I have in the world in her writing, except her name to the Deed of Separation.”]

June 17. 1816.

In the year 17—­, having for some time determined on a journey through countries not hitherto much frequented by travellers, I set out, accompanied by a friend, whom I shall designate by the name of Augustus Darvell.  He was a few years my elder, and a man of considerable fortune and ancient family; advantages which an extensive capacity prevented him alike from undervaluing or overrating.  Some peculiar circumstances in his private history had rendered him to me an object of attention, of interest, and even of regard, which neither the reserve of his manners, nor occasional indications of an inquietude at times nearly approaching to alienation of mind, could extinguish.

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early; but my intimacy with him was of a recent date:  we had been educated at the same schools and university; but his progress through these had preceded mine, and he had been deeply initiated, into what is called the world, while I was yet in my noviciate.  While thus engaged, I heard much both of his past and present life; and, although in these accounts there were many and irreconcileable contradictions, I could still gather from the whole that he was a being of no common order, and one who, whatever pains he might take to