n his high rank, beloved and respected by those he
governed, until the patriotic sentiments inseparable from a great mind
induced him to sacrifice rank, fortune, and power, to the cause of
Greece, his native land. He only saved his life by flight; for the
angry Sultan with whom he had previously been a great favourite, had
already sent an order for his decapitation! Never was a reverse of
fortune borne with greater equanimity than by this charming family,
whose virtues, endowments, and acquirements, fit them for the most
elevated station.

My old acquaintances, Mr. Rogers the poet, and Mr. Luttrell, called on
me to-day. Of how many pleasant days in St. James's Square did the
sight of both remind me! Such days I shall pass there no more: but I
must not give way to reflections that are, alas! as unavailing as they
are painful. Both of these my old friends are unchanged. Time has dealt
gently by them during the seven years that have elapsed since we last
met: the restless tyrant has been less merciful to me. We may, however,
bear with equanimity the ravages of Time, if we meet the destroyer side
by side with those dear to us, those who have witnessed our youth and
maturity, and who have advanced with us into the autumn of life; but,
when they are lost to us, how dreary becomes the prospect!

How difficult it is to prevent the mind from dwelling on thoughts
fraught with sadness, when once the chord of memory vibrates to the
touch of grief!

Mr. Rogers talked of Byron, and evinced a deep feeling of regard for
his memory, He little knows the manner in which he is treated in a
certain poem, written by him in one of his angry moods, and which I
urged him, but in vain, to commit to the flames. The knowledge of it,
however, would, I am convinced, excite no wrath in the heart of Rogers,
who would feel more sorrow than anger that one he believed his friend
could have written so bitter a diatribe against him. And, truth to say,
the poem in question is more injurious to the memory of Byron than it
could be painful to him who is the subject of it; but I hope that it
may never be published, and I think no one who had delicacy or feeling
would bring it to light.

Byron read this lampoon to us one day at Genoa, and enjoyed our dismay
at it like a froward boy who has achieved what he considers some
mischievous prank. He offered us a copy, but we declined to accept it;
for, being in the habit of seeing Mr. Rogers frequently beneath our