memory.

Alas! it is delusion all:
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall
Nor dare we think on what we are.

The foregoing lines were officiously taken up by a person who
arrogated to himself some self-importance in criticism, and who made
an observation upon their demerits, on which his lordship quaintly
observed, "they were written in haste and they shall perish in the
same manner," and immediately consigned them to the flames; as my
music adapted to them, however, did not share the same fate, and
having a contrary opinion of any thing that might fall from the pen of
Lord Byron, I treasured them up, and on a subsequent interview with
his lordship I accused him of having committed suicide in making so
valuable a _burnt offering_: to which his lordship smilingly replied,
"the act seems to _inflame_ you: come, Nathan, since you are
displeased with the _sacrifice_, I give them to you as a _peace
offering_, use them as you may deem proper."

When the Hebrew Melodies were first published, Sir Walter, then Mr.
Scott, honoured me with a visit at my late residence in Poland Street:
I sang several of the melodies to him--he repeated his visit, and
requested I would allow him to introduce his lady and his daughter;
they came together, when I had the pleasure of singing to them
Jephtha's Daughter and one or two more of the most favourite airs;
they entered into the spirit of the music with all the true taste and
feeling so peculiar to the Scotch.

Mr. Scott again called on me to take leave before his return to
Scotland; we entered into conversation respecting the sublimity and
beauty of Lord Byron's poetry, and he spoke of his lordship with
admiration, exclaiming "He is a man of wonderful genius--he is a
great man."

I called on Lord Byron the same day, and mentioned to him that Walter
Scott had been with me that morning. His lordship observed, "Then,
Nathan, you have been visited by the greatest man of the age, and,"
continued his lordship, "I suppose you have read _Waverley_." I
replied in the negative. "Then," returned his lordship, "you have a
pleasure to come, let me recommend it to you; it is decidedly the best
novel I ever read; you are of course aware that it was written by
Walter Scott." It had at this period scarcely been rumoured that such
was actually the case, but Lord Byron was more than usually positive
in identifying the author with his writings.

In speaking of Moore,