seek renown in the fields of party warfare where it might have been his fate to afford a signal instance of that transmuting process by which, as Pope says, the corruption of a poet sometimes leads to the generation of a statesman.  Luckily, however, for the world (though whether luckily for himself may be questioned), the brighter empire of poesy was destined to claim him all its own.  The loneliness, indeed, of his position in society at this period, left destitute, as he was, of all those sanctions and sympathies, by which youth at its first start is usually surrounded, was, of itself, enough to discourage him from embarking in a pursuit, where it is chiefly on such extrinsic advantages that any chance of success must depend.  So far from taking an active part in the proceedings of his noble brethren, he appears to have regarded even the ceremony of his attendance among them as irksome and mortifying; and in a few days after his admission to his seat, he withdrew himself in disgust to the seclusion of his own Abbey, there to brood over the bitterness of premature experience, or meditate, in the scenes and adventures of other lands, a freer outlet for his impatient spirit than it could command at home.

It was not long, however, before he was summoned back to town by the success of his Satire,—­the quick sale of which already rendered the preparation of a new edition necessary.  His zealous agent, Mr. Dallas, had taken care to transmit to him, in his retirement, all the favourable opinions of the work he could collect; and it is not unamusing, as showing the sort of steps by which Fame at first mounts, to find the approbation of such authorities as Pratt and the magazine writers put forward among the first rewards and encouragements of a Byron.

“You are already (he says) pretty generally known to be the author.  So Cawthorn tells me, and a proof occurred to myself at Hatchard’s, the Queen’s bookseller.  On enquiring for the Satire, he told me that he had sold a great many, and had none left, and was going to send for more, which I afterwards found he did.  I asked who was the author?  He said it was believed to be Lord Byron’s.  Did he believe it?  Yes he did.  On asking the ground of his belief, he told me that a lady of distinction had, without hesitation, asked for it as Lord Byron’s Satire.  He likewise informed me that he had enquired of Mr. Gifford, who frequents his shop, if it was yours.  Mr. Gifford denied any knowledge of the author, but spoke very highly of it, and said a copy had been sent to him.  Hatchard assured me that all who came to his reading-room admired it.  Cawthorn tells me it is universally well spoken of, not only among his own customers, but generally at all the booksellers.  I heard it highly praised at my own publisher’s, where I have lately called several times.  At Phillips’s it was read aloud by Pratt to a circle of literary guests, who were unanimous in their applause:—­The Anti-jacobin, as well as the Gentleman’s Magazine, has already blown the trump of fame for you.  We shall see it in the other Reviews next month, and probably in some severely handled, according to the connection of the proprietors and editors with those whom it lashes.”