position,
though it is only a miserable dwelling of two stories, somewhat
resembling the habitations of our _Bonnet Lairds_ about the beginning
of the last century. The area of the house is about two Scotch acres,
including the garden. The clipped and shady walks have been long since
cut down, which takes away much interest from it; and the stupid
Fleming to whom it belonged, cut down the young trees in front of it,
because they had been wounded by the bullets, which he was informed
"would cause them to bleed to death!" The nobleman who now possesses
it, had, with better taste, repaired the chateau, and will not permit
any alteration in its appearance.

I asked Byron what he thought of Mr. Scott's "Field of Waterloo," just
published--if it was fair to ask one poet his opinion of a living
contemporary. "Oh," said he, "quite fair; besides, there is not much
subject for criticism in this hasty sketch. The reviewers call it a
_falling off_; but I am sure there is no poet living who could have
written so many good lines on so meagre a subject, in so short a time.
Scott," he added, "is a fine poet, and a most amiable man. We are
great friends. As a prose writer, he has no rival; and has not been
approached since Cervantes, in depicting manners. His tales are my
constant companions. It is highly absurd his denying, what every one
that knows him believes, his being the author of these admirable
works. Yet no man is obliged to give his name to the public, except he
chooses so to do; and Scott is not likely to be compelled by the law,
for he does not write libels, nor a line of which he may be ashamed."
He said a great deal more in praise of his friend, for whom he had the
highest respect and regard. "I wish," added the poet, with feeling,
"it had been my good fortune to have had such a Mentor. No author," he
observed, "had deserved more from the public, or has been so liberally
rewarded. Poor Milton got only 15_l._ for his 'Paradise Lost,' while
a modern poet has as much for a stanza." I know not if he made any
allusion to himself in this remark, but it has been said that Murray
paid him that sum for every verse of "Childe Harold."

Lord Byron, in reading aloud the stanzas of Mr. Scott,

"For high, and deathless is the name,
Oh Hougoinont, thy ruins claim!
The sound of Cressy none shall own,
And Agincourt shall be unknown,
And Blenheim be a nameless spot
Long ere thy glories are forgot," &c.

he exclaimed