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refusing any explanation-never answering his letters, or holding out even a hope that in future years their child might form a bond of union between them, he felt exasperated against her, and vented this feeling in his writings; nay more, he blushed for his own weakness in thinking so often and so kindly of one who certainly showed no symptom of ever bestowing a thought on him. The mystery attached to Lady Byron's silence has piqued him, and kept alive an interest that, even now, appears as lively as if their separation was recent. There is something so humiliating in the consciousness that some dear object, to whom we thought ourselves necessary, and who occupies much of our thoughts, can forget that we exist, or at least act as if she did so, that I can well excuse the bitterness of poor Byron's feelings on this point, though not the published sarcasms caused by this bitterness; and whatever may be the sufferings of Lady Byron, they are more than avenged by what her husband feels.

It appears to me extraordinary, that a person who has given such interesting sketches of the female character, as Byron has in his works,* should be so little au fait of judging feminine feeling under certain circumstances. He is surprised that Lady Byron has never relented since his absence from England; but he forgets how that absence has been filled up on his part. I ventured to suggest this, and hinted that, perhaps, had his conduct been irreproachable during the first years of their separation, and unstained by an attachment that could have widened the breach between them, it is possible that Lady Byron might have become reconciled to him; but that no woman of delicacy could receive or answer letters written beneath the same roof that sheltered some female favorite, whose presence alone proved that the husband could not have those feelings of propriety or affection towards his absent wife, the want of which constitutes a crime that all women, at least, can understand to be one of those least pardonable. How few men understand the feelings of women! Sensitive, and easily wounded as we are, obliged to call up pride to support us in trials that always leave fearful marks behind, how often are we compelled to assume the semblance of coldness and indifference when the heart inly bleeds; and the decent composure, put on with our visiting garments to appear in public, and, like them, worn for a few hours, are with them laid aside; and all the dreariness, the heart-consuming cares, that woman alone can know, return to make us feel, that though we may disguise our sufferings from others, and deck our countenance with smiles, we cannot deceive ourselves, and are but the more miserable from the constraint we submit to. A woman can only understand a woman's heart-we cannot, dare not complain-sympathy is denied us, because we must not lay open the wounds that excite it; and even the most legitimate feelings are too sacred in female estimation to be exposed-and while we nurse the grief that lies too deep for tears,' and consumes alike health and peace, a man may with impunity express all, nay, more than he feels-court and meet sympathy, while his leisure hours are cheered by occupations and pleasures, the latter too often such as ought to prove how little he stood in need of compassion, except for his vices.

I stated something of this to Lord Byron to-day, apropos to the difference between his position and that of his wife. He tried to prove to me

*With due deference to the acute narrator, may we ask if he has really done so? Is the female character itself drawn in the Medoras and Zuleikas? or are those heroines mere and dim personifications of common-place traits in the female character ?-Ed.

how much more painful was his situation than hers; but 1 effected some alteration in his opinion when I had fairly placed their relative positions before him-at least such as they appeared to me. I represented Lady Byron to him, separating in early youth, whether from just or mistaken motives for such a step, from the husband of her choice, after little more than a brief year's union, and immediately after that union had been cemented by the endearing, strengthening tie of a new-born infant! carrying with her into solitude this fond and powerful remembrancer of its father, how much must it have cost her to resist the appeals of such a pleader!— wearing away her youth in almost monastic seclusion, her motives questioned by some, and appreciated by few-seeking consolation alone in the discharge of her duties, and avoiding all external demonstrations of a grief that her pale cheek and solitary existence are such powerful vouchers for. Such is the portrait I gave him of Lady Byron-his own I ventured to sketch as follows:

I did not enter into the causes, or motives of the separation, because I know them not, but I dwelt on his subsequent conduct:-the appealing on the separation to public sympathy, by the publication of verses, that ought only to have met the eye of her to whom they were addressed, was in itself an outrage to that delicacy, that shrinks from and shuns publicity, so inherent in the female heart. He leaves England, the climate, modes, and customs of which had never been congenial to his taste, to seek beneath the sunny skies of Italy, and all the soul-exciting objects that classic land can offer, a consolation for domestic disappointment. How soon were the broken ties of conjugal affection replaced by less holy ones! I refer not to his attachment to La Contessa Guiccioli, because at least it is of a different and a more pure nature, but to those degrading liaisons which marked the first year or two of his residence in Italy, and must ever from their revolting coarseness remain a stain on his fame. It may be urged that disappointment and sorrow drove him into such excesses; but admitting this, surely we must respect the grief that is borne in solitude, and with the most irreproachable delicacy of conduct, more than that which flies to gross sensualities for relief.

Such was the substance, and I believe nearly the words I repeated to him to-day; and it is but justice to him to say that they seemed to make a deep impression. He said that if my portrait of Lady Byron's position was indeed a faithful one, she was much more to be pitied than he; that he felt deeply for her, but that he had never viewed their relative situations in the same light before: he had always considered her as governed wholly by pride.

I urged that my statement was drawn from facts; that, of the extreme privacy and seclusion of her life, ever since the separation, there could be no doubt; and this alone vouched for the feelings that led to it.

He seemed pleased and gratified by the reflections I had made, insensibly fell into a tone of tenderness in speaking of Lady Byron, and pressed my hand with more than usual cordiality. On bidding me good bye, his parting words were 'you probe old and half-healed wounds, but though you give pain, you excite a more healthy action, and do good.' His heart yearns to see his child: all children of the same age remind him of her, and he loves to recur to the subject.

Poor Byron has hitherto been so continually occupied with dwelling on, and analyzing his own feelings, that he has not reflected on those of his wife. He cannot understand her observing such a total silence on their position, because he could not, and cannot resist making it the

topic of conversation with even chance associates: this, which an impartial observer of her conduct would attribute to deep feelings, and a sense of delicacy, he concludes to be caused by pride and want of feeling. We are always prone to judge of others by ourselves, which is one of the reasons why our judgments are in general so erroneous. Man may be judged of by his species en masse, but he who would judge of mankind in the aggregate, from one specimen of the genus, must be often in error, and this is Byron's case.

(To be continued.)

SONG OF THE SEA NYMPHS.

I gazed upon her silent face,
But death had rested there,
And on her marble cheek I dropt
A burning heart-wrung tear;
And every breast was sobbing loud,
Within that mournful cot;

I thought my bleeding heart would break,
But ah! they knew me not.

I saw her settled eye-lids shade
Those orbs of softest blue,

Which beam'd a welcome when we met,
Where dark trees closely grew;

I saw her auburn ringlets lie,
And have not yet forgot,
How once I stole a waving tress-
But ah! they knew me not.

I saw those lips I oft had kiss'd,
Like faded roses lie,

I gazed upon her cold white breast,
And gave a deep, deep sigh;

I thought how once that bosom beat
When scated in her grot,
And I recall'd my broken vow-
But ah! they knew me not.

I bent to kiss her placid brow,
All eyes on me did gaze,

Save those which had forever closed

Their brightly piercing rays;

I saw them strew around her bier

Wild flowers, and knew the spot,

Where once they bloom'd-I saw no more :
But ah! they knew me not.

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