e of
other men:" and he has used the last almost recklessly in portrayal of
the first.

As the poet reclines in sombre meditation, his reverie is broken by
the not unwelcome entrance of his friends--who may be better termed
his intimate acquaintances. For, to that brooding, introspective
spirit,--constitutionally shy, and morbidly conscious of the
fact,--"friendship is a propensity," he has declared, "to which my
genius is very limited. I do not know the _male_ human being, except
Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom I feel anything that
deserves the name. All my others are men-of-the-world friendships."
Be that as it may, it is with a warmly cordial expression, and with
that peculiarly sweet smile of his, that Byron welcomes his usual
visitors,--Captain Williams, Captain Medwin, Taafe the Irishman, and
Percy Bysshe Shelley, "the most companionable person under thirty,"
he has avowed, "that ever I knew." When they have discussed the latest
little Pisan _on dits_, and the progress of Shelley's boat-building,
the conversation trends more and more towards literary topics: personal
topics, be it understood, for Byron is not an omnivorous reader like
Shelley. Williams and Medwin, themselves dabblers in verse and prose,
listen with respectful admiration to the _dicta_ of the great poets
exchanging views. The low, clear, harmonious voice of Byron "is a sort
of intoxication: men are held by it as under a spell." He makes no
secret of his open contempt for the professional writing fraternity.
"Who would write, if he had anything better to do?" he scornfully
enquires, "I think the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by
themselves and others, a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness."

Shelley, whose assiduous studies in literature have led him to quite
other conclusions, defends his craft with ardour. But Byron's chief
successes have been too lightly won. He who wrote the _Corsair_ in ten
days, the _Bride of Abydos_ in four, and _Lara_ whilst undressing after
balls and masquerades, cannot be expected to take a very serious view of
poetry as the one business of a lifetime. "I by no means rank poetry or
poets," says he, "high in the scale of imagination. Poetry is the lava
of the imagination, whose eruption prevents an earthquake. If I live ten
years longer," he adds prophetically, "you will see that all is not over
with me,--I don't mean in literature, for that is nothing, and, it may
seem odd enough t