“Your truly attached and sincere

“BYRON.”

Considering himself bound to replace the copies of his work which he had withdrawn, as well as to rescue the general character of the volume from the stigma this one offender might bring upon it, he set instantly about preparing a second edition for the press, and, during the ensuing six weeks, continued busily occupied with his task.  In the beginning of January we find him forwarding a copy to his friend, Dr. Pigot, in Edinburgh:—­

LETTER 9.

TO MR. PIGOT.

“Southwell, Jan. 13. 1807.

“I ought to begin with sundry apologies, for my own negligence, but the variety of my avocations in prose and verse must plead my excuse.  With this epistle you will receive a volume of all my Juvenilia, published since your departure:  it is of considerably greater size than the copy in your possession, which I beg you will destroy, as the present is much more complete.  That unlucky poem to my poor Mary[57] has been the cause of some animadversion from ladies in years.  I have not printed it in this collection, in consequence of my being pronounced a most profligate sinner, in short, a ‘young Moore,’ by ——­, your ——­ friend.  I believe, in general, they have been favourably received, and surely the age of their author will preclude severe criticism.  The adventures of my life from sixteen to nineteen, and the dissipation into which I have been thrown in London, have given a voluptuous tint to my ideas; but the occasions which called forth my muse could hardly admit any other colouring.  This volume is vastly correct and miraculously chaste.  Apropos, talking of love,...

“If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of unconnected nonsense, you need not doubt what gratification will accrue from your reply to yours ever,” &c.

To his young friend, Mr. William Bankes, who had met casually with a copy of the work, and wrote him a letter conveying his opinion of it, he returned the following answer:—­

LETTER 10.

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES.

“Southwell, March 6. 1807.

“Dear Bankes,

“Your critique is valuable for many reasons:  in the first place, it is the only one in which flattery has borne so slight a part; in the next, I am cloyed with insipid compliments.  I have a better opinion of your judgment and ability than your feelings.  Accept my most sincere thanks for your kind decision, not less welcome, because totally unexpected.  With regard to a more exact estimate, I need not remind you how few of the best poems, in our language, will stand the test of minute or verbal criticism:  it can, therefore, hardly be expected the effusions of a boy (and most of these pieces have been produced at an