duties, and connections, which may one day require my presence—­and I am a father.  I have still some friends whom I wish to meet again, and, it may be, an enemy.  These things, and those minuter details of business, which time accumulates during absence, in every man’s affairs and property, may, and probably will, recall me to England; but I shall return with the same feelings with which I left it, in respect to itself, though altered with regard to individuals, as I have been more or less informed of their conduct since my departure; for it was only a considerable time after it that I was made acquainted with the real facts and full extent of some of their proceedings and language.  My friends, like other friends, from conciliatory motives, withheld from me much that they could, and some things which they should have unfolded; however, that which is deferred is not lost—­but it has been no fault of mine that it has been deferred at all.

“I have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome merely to show that the sentiment which I have described was not confined to the English in England, and as forming part of my answer to the reproach cast upon what has been called my ‘selfish exile,’ and my ‘voluntary exile.’  ‘Voluntary’ it has been; for who would dwell among a people entertaining strong hostility against him?  How far it has been ‘selfish’ has been already explained.”

[Footnote 2:  While these sheets are passing through the press, a printed statement has been transmitted to me by Lady Noel Byron, which the reader will find inserted in the Appendix to this volume. (First Edition.)]

* * * * *

The following passages from the same unpublished pamphlet will be found, in a literary point of view, not less curious.

“And here I wish to say a few words on the present state of English poetry.  That this is the age of the decline of English poetry will be doubted by few who have calmly considered the subject.  That there are men of genius among the present poets makes little against the fact, because it has been well said, that ’next to him who forms the taste of his country, the greatest genius is he who corrupts it.’  No one has ever denied genius to Marino, who corrupted not merely the taste of Italy, but that of all Europe for nearly a century.  The great cause of the present deplorable state of English poetry is to be attributed to that absurd and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which, for the last few years, there has been a kind of epidemical concurrence.  Men of the most opposite opinions have united upon this topic.  Warton and Churchill began it, having borrowed the hint probably from the heroes of the Dunciad, and their own internal conviction that their proper reputation can be as nothing till the most perfect and harmonious of poets—­he who, having no fault, has had REASON made his reproach—­was reduced to what they conceived to be his level; but