nderstand, I for one.

Southey would have attacked me too there, if he durst, further than by
hints about Hunt's friends in general, and some outcry about an
"Epicurean System" carried on by men of the most opposite habits and
tastes and opinions in life and poetry (I believe) that ever had their
names in the same volume--Moore, Byron, Shelley, Hazlitt, Haydon, Leigh
Hunt, Lamb. What resemblance do ye find among all or any of these men?
And how could any sort of system or plan be carried on or attempted
amongst them? However, let Mr. Southey look to himself; since the wine
is tapped, he shall drink it.

I got some books a few weeks ago--many thanks. Amongst them is Israeli's
new edition; it was not fair in you to show him my copy of his former
one, with all the marginal notes and nonsense made in Greece when I was
not two-and-twenty, and which certainly were not meant for his perusal,
nor for that of his readers.

I have a great respect for Israeli and his talents, and have read his
works over and over and over repeatedly, and been amused by them
greatly, and instructed often. Besides, I hate giving pain, unless
provoked; and he is an author, and must feel like his brethren; and
although his Liberality repaid my marginal flippancies with a
compliment--the highest compliment--that don't reconcile me to
myself--nor to _you_. It was a breach of confidence to do this without
my leave; I don't know a living man's book I take up so often or lay
down more reluctantly than Israeli's, and I never will forgive you--that
is, for many weeks. If he had got out of humour I should have been less
sorry; but even then I should have been sorry; but really he has heaped
his "coals of fire" so handsomely upon my head that they burn
unquenchably.

You ask me of the two reviews [Footnote: Of "Childe Harold" in the
_Quarterly_ and _Blackwood._]--I will tell you. Scott's is the review
of one poet on another--his friend; Wilson's, the review of a poet too,
on another--his _Idol_; for he likes me better than he chooses to avow
to the public with all his eulogy. I speak judging only from the
article, for I don't know him personally.

Here is a long letter--can you read it?

Yours ever,

B.

In the course of September 1818 Lord Byron communicated to Mr. Moore
that he had finished the first canto of a poem in the style and manner
of "Beppo." "It is called," he said, "'Don Juan,' and is meant to be a
little quietly facetious upon everythi