is infinitely inferior in its effects to the chloruret of soda, which, as a disinfecting agent, and as a cleanser of sloughing ulcers, we particularly recommend.

Dose. The largest dose of the acid generally borne, prepared by Vauquelin's method, varies from one to five drops. We should begin with one drop, and increase the dose one drop daily, or every other day, till the symptoms yield, or signs of its disagreeing appear, such as severe vomiting, vertigo, or a sense of debility. The dose should be then reduced to what is borne with comfort. It may be continued any length of time without fear of accumulation of effect, or constitutional operation. It should not be given on an empty stomach; and when several doses are combined, the mixture should be well shaken previously to its ad

ministration.

LORD BYRON IN ITALY.+

[For the following article we are indebted to the narrative of M. Stendhal, a gentleman known to the literary circles of France by several agreeable productions, and particularly by a recent work of considerable interest, bearing the title of " Promenades dans Rome." Our readers may feel pleasure in comparing with other accounts on the hackneyed subject of Byron, that of a foreigner, who, when his national prejudices are considered, cannot be suspected of overweening partiality for British genius. The French author prefaces his narrative by stating that a long intimacy with Lord Byron, whilst in Italy, has enabled him to publish from personal observation, the recital which we proceed to clothe in an English dress. Thus much premised on our part, we leave M. Stendhal to tell his own story.]

"IN 1807, a few young people met every evening at the Theatre de la Scala, at Milan, in the box of Monsignor Ludovic de Brême, formerly chief almoner of the ex-King of Italy. This Italian custom, not generally followed in France, banished all ceremony. The affectation that chills the atmosphere of a French saloon is unknown in the society of Milan. How is it possible that such a sentiment can find a place amongst individuals, in the habit of seeing each other above three hundred times in the course of a twelvemonth? One evening a stranger

+ From the Foreign Literary Gazette.--No. XIII.

made his appearance in Monsignor de Brême's box. He was young, of middling stature, and with remarkably fine eyes. As he advanced, we observed that he limped a little. 'Gentlemen,' said Monsignor de Brême, this is Lord Byron.' We were afterwards presented to his lordship, the whole scene passing with as much ceremonious gravity, as if our introducer had been De Brême's grandfather, in days of yore ambassador from the Duke of Savoy to Aware of the the court of Louis XIV. character of the English, who generally avoid such as appear to court their society, we cautiously abstained from conversing with, or even looking at, Lord Byron. The latter had been informed, that in the course of the evening he would probably be introduced to a stranger who had performed the celebrated campaign of Moscow, which still possessed the charm of novelty, as at that time we had not been spoiled by any romances on the subject. A fine-looking man, with a military appearance, happening to be of our party, his lordship naturally concluded that he was the hero; and accordingly, in addressing him, relaxed considerably from the natural coldness of his manner. The next day, however, Byron was undeceived. Changing his battery, he did me the honour to address me on the subject of Russia. I idolized Napoleon, and replied to his lordship as I should have done to a member of the legislative assembly who had exiled the ex-emperor to St. Helena. I subsequently discovered, that Lord Byron was at once enthusiastic in favour of Napoleon, and jealous of his fame. He used to say, 'Napoleon and myself are the only individuals who sign our names with the initials N. B. (Noel Byron.) My determination to be cold offers some explanation for the marked kindness with which, at the end of a few days, Lord Byron did me the favour to regard me. Our friends in the box imagined, that the discussion which had taken place, and which, though polite and respectful on my part, had been rather warm, would prevent all further intimacy between us. They were mistaken. The next evening, his lordship took me by the arm, and walked with me for an hour in the saloon of the Theatre de la Scala. I was gratified with his politeness, for which, at the bottom, I was indebted to his desire of conversing with an eye-witness on the subject of the Russian campaign. He even closely cross-questioned me on this point. However, a second reading of Childe Harold' made amends for all. His progress in the good graces of my Italian friends, who met every evening in Monsignor de Brême's box, was not very rapid. I must confess, that his lordship, one evening, broached rather a whimsical idea-that, in

a discussion which had just been started, his title added weight to his opinion. On that occasion, De Brême retorted with the wellknown anecdote of Marshal de Castries, who, shocked at the deference once paid to D'Alembert's judgment, exclaimed, 'A pretty reasoner truly! a fellow not worth three thousand francs a-year!' On another evening, Lord Byron afforded an opening to ridicule, by the warmth with which he denied all resemblance between his own character, and that of Jean Jacques Rousseau, to whom he had been compared. His principal objection to the comparison, though he would not acknowledge the fact, was that Rousseau had been a servant, and the son of a watchmaker. We could not avoid a hearty laugh, when, at the conclusion of the argument, Byron requested from De Brême, who was allied to the oldest nobility of Turin, some information relative to the family of Govon, in whose service Jean Jacques had actually lived. (See 'Les Confessions.') Lord Byron always entertained a great horror of corpulency. His antipathy

to a full habit of body might be called a fixed idea. M. Polidori, a young physician who travelled with him, assured us, that his lordship's mother was of low stature and extremely fat. During at least a third part of the day, Byron was a dandy, expressed a constant dread of augmenting the bulk of his outward man, concealed his right foot as much as possible, and endeavoured to render himself agreeable in female society. His vanity, however, frequently induced him to lose sight of the end, in his attention to the means. Love was sacrificed ;-an affair of the heart would have interfered with his daily exercise on horseback. At Milan and Venice, his fine eyes, his handsome horses, and his fame, gained him the smiles of several young, noble, and lovely females, one of whom, in particular, performed a journey of more than a hundred miles for the pleasure of being present at a masqued ball to which his lordship was invited. Byron was apprised of the circumstance, but, either from hauteur or shyness, declined an introduction. Your poets are perfect clowns,' cried the fair one, as she indignantly quitted the ball-room. Had Byron succeeded in his pretensions to be thought the finest man in England, and had his claims to fashionable supremacy been at the same time disputed, he would still have been unsatisfied. In his moments of dandyism, he always pronounced the name of Brummel with a mingled emotion of respect and jealousy. When his personal attractions were not the subject of his consideration, his noble birth was uppermost in his thoughts. At Milan we often purposely discussed in his presence the question, if "Henry IV. could justly pretend to the at

tribute of clemency, after having ordered his old companion, the Duke de Biron, to be beheaded.' Napoleon would have acted differently,' was his lordship's constant reply. It was ludicrous to observe his respect wavering undecided between acquired distinction and his own nobility, which he considered far above that of the Duke de Biron.

When the pride of birth and personal vanity no longer usurped undue sway over his mind, he again became the sublime poet and the man of sense. Never, after the example of Madame de Staël, did he indulge in the childish vanity of turning a phrase.' When literary subjects were introduced, Byron was exactly the reverse of an academician; his thoughts flowed with greater rapidity than his words, and his expressions were free from all affectation or studied grace. Towards midnight, particularly when the music of the opera had produced an impression on his feelings, instead of describing them with a view to effect, he yielded naturally to his emotions, as though he had all his life been

an inhabitant of the south.

"Byron seemed to have acquired a taste for the society of Milan. When the performances for the evening were over, we frequently stopped at the door of the theatre to enjoy the sight of the beauties who passed us in review. Perhaps few cities could boast such an assemblage of lovely women as that which chance had collected at Milan in 1817. Many of them had flattered themselves with the idea that Byron would seek an introduction; but, whether from pride, timidity, or a do exactly the contrary of what was expected, remnant of dandyism, which induced him to seemed to prefer a conversation on poetical he invariably declined that honour. He or philosophical subjects. At the theatre, our discussions were frequently so energetical, as to rouse the indignation of the pit. One evening, in the middle of a philosophical argument on the principle of utility, Silvio Pellico, a' delightful poet, who has since died in an Austrian prison, came in breathless haste to apprise Lord Byron that his friend and physician, Polidori, had been arrested. We instantly ran to the guard-house. It turned out that Polidori had fancied himself incommoded in the pit by the fur cap of the officer on guard, and had requested him to take it off, alleging that it impeded his view of the stage. The poet Monti had accompanied us, and, to the number of fifteen or twenty, we surrounded the prisoner. Every one spoke at once; Polidori was beside himself with passion, and his face red as a burning coal. Byron, though he too was in a violent rage, was on the contrary pale as ashes. His patrician blood boiled as he reflected on the slight consideration in which he was held. I have little doubt but at that

moment he regretted the wall of separation which he had reared between himself and the ultra party. At all events, the Austrian officer spied the leaven of sedition in our countenances, and, if he was versed in history, probably thought of the insurrection of Genoa in 1740. He ran from the guard-house to call his men, who seized their arms that had been piled on the outside. Monti's idea was excellent :- Fortiamo tutti; restino solamente i titolati.'t De Brême remained with the Marquis de Sartirana, his brother, Count Confalonieri, and Lord Byron. These gentlemen having written their names and titles, the list was handed to the officer on guard, who instantly forgot the insult offered to his fur cap, and allowed Polidori to leave the guard-house. In the evening, however, the doctor received an order to quit Milan within twenty-four hours. Foaming with rage, he swore that he would one day return and bestow manual castigation on the governor who had treated him with so little respect. He did not return; and two years afterwards a bottle of prussic acid terminated his career at least, sic dicitur. The morning after Polidori's departure, Byron, in a tête-à-tête with me, complained bitterly of persecution. So little was I acquainted with i titolati, to use Monti's expression, that in the simplicity of my heart I gave his lordship the following

counsel: Realize,' said I, four or five hundred thousand francs; two or three con

fidential friends will circulate the report of your death, and bestow on a log of wood the honours of Christian burial in some snug, retired spot the island of Elba, suppose. An authentic account of your decease shall be forwarded to England; meanwhile, under the name of Smith or Wood, you may live comfortably and quietly at Lima. When, in process of time, Mr. Smith or Mr. Wood becomes a venerable, gray-headed old gentle man, he may even return to Europe, and purchase from a Roman or Parisian book seller a set of Childe Harold,' or 'Lara,' thirtieth edition, with notes and annotations. Moreover, when Mr. Smith or Mr. Wood is really about to make his exit from this life, he may, if he pleases, enjoy one bright original moment: thus may he say :- Lord Byron, who for thirty years has been numbered with the dead, even now lingers on this side of eternity:- I am the man: the society of my countrymen appeared to me so insipid, that I quitted them in disgust. My cousin, who is heir to my title, owes you an infinity of thanks,' coldly replied Byron. I repressed the repartee which hovered on my lips. Byron had a defect in common with all the spoiled children of fortune. He cherished in his bosom two

+ Let us all go out: let those only remain who are titled personages,

contradictory inclinations. He wished to be received as a man of rank, and admired as a brilliant poet. The Elena' of Mayer was at that time the performance most in vogue at Milan. The public patiently endured two miserable acts, for the pleasure of hearing a sublime sesteto in the third. One day, when it was sung with more than ordinary power, I was struck with the expression of Byron's eyes. Never had I seen any thing so enthusiastic. Internally, I made a vow that I never would of my own free accord sadden a spirit so noble.

"The house in which Lord Byron resided was situated at the further extremity of a solitary quarter, at the distance of half a league from the Theatre de la Scala. The streets of Milan were at that time much infested with robbers during the night. Some of us, forgetting time and space, in the charm of the poet's conversation, generally accompanied him to his own door, and on our return, at two o'clock in the morning, were obliged to pass through a multitude of intricate, suspicious-looking streets. This circumstance gave an additional air of romance to the noble bard's retreat. For my

part, I often wondered that he escaped being laid under contribution. Had it been other

wise, with his feelings and ideas, he would The fact is, that the practical jokes played undoubtedly have felt peculiarly mortified. off by the knights of the road were frequently of the most ludicrous description—at

least to all but the sufferers. The weather veloped in his cloak, was often attacked by was cold, and the pedestrian, snugly ensome dexterous thief, who, gliding gently behind him, passed a hoop over his head down to his elbows, and thus fettered the victim, whom he afterwards pillaged at his leisure. Polidori informed us that Byron often composed a hundred verses in the course of the morning. On his return from the theatre in the evening, still under the charm of the music to which he had listened, he would take up his papers, and reduce his hundred verses to five-andtwenty or thirty. When he had in this manner put together four or five hundred, he sent the whole to Murray, his publisher, in London. He often sat up all night, in the ardour of composition, and drank a sort of grog made of hollands and water-a beverage in which he indulged rather copiously when his muse was coy. But, generally speaking, he was not addicted to excessive drinking, though he has accused himself of that vice. To restrain the circumference of his person within proper limits, he frequently went without a dinner, or, at most, dined on a little bread and a solitary dish of vegetables. This frugal meal cost but a franc or two; and on such occasions Byron used, with much apparent complacency, to accuse

himself of avarice. His extreme sensibility to the charms of music may partly be attributed to the chagrin occasioned by his domestic misfortunes. Music caused his tears to flow in abundance, and thus softened the asperity of his sufferings. His feelings, however, on this subject were those of a débutant. When he had heard a new opera for upwards of a twelvemonth, he was often enraptured with a composition which had previously afforded him little pleasure, or which he had even severely criticized. I never observed Byron in a more delightful or unaffected vein of gaiety than on the day when we made an excursion about two miles from Milan, to visit the celebrated echo of la Simonetta, which repeats the report of a pistol-shot thirty or forty times. By way of contrast, the next day, at a grand dinner given by Monsignor de Brême, his appearance was lowering as that of Talma in the part of Nero. Byron arrived late, and was obliged to cross a spacious saloon, in which every eye was fixed on him and his club foot. Far from being the indifferent or phlegmatic personage, who alone can play the dandy to perfection, Byron was unceasingly tyrannized by some ruling passion. When not under the influence of nobler failings, he was tormented by an absurd vanity which urged him to pretend to every thing. But his genius once awakened, his faults were shaken off as a garment that would have incommoded the flight of his imagination; the poet soared beyond the confines of earth, and wafted his hearers along with him. Never shall I forget the sublime poem which he composed one evening on the subject of Castruccio-Castracani, the Napoleon of the middle age. Byron had one failing in common with all poets-an extreme sensibility to praise or censure, especially when coming from a brother bard. He seemed not to be aware, that judgments of this nature are generally dictated by a spirit of affectation, and that the most favourable can only be termed certificates of resemblance. I must not omit to notice the astonishing effect produced on Lord Byron by the view of a fine painting of Daniel Crespi. The subject was taken from the well-known story of a monk supposed to have died in the odour of sanctity, and who whilst his brethren were chanting the service of the dead around his bier in the church at midnight, was said to have suddenly lifted the funeral pall, and quitted his coffin, exclaiming, Justo judicio Dei damnatus sum! We were unable to wrest Byron from the comtemplation of this picture, which produced on his mind a sensation amounting to horror. To indulge his humour on this point, we mounted our horses in silence, and rode slowly towards a monastery at a little distance, where he shortly afterwards overtook us. Byron

turned up his lips with an incredulous sneer when he heard, for the first time, that there are ten Italian dialects instead of one, and that amongst the whole population of Italy only the inhabitants of Rome, Sienna, and Florence, speak the language as it is written. Silvio Pellico once said to him :- The most delightful of the ten or twelve Italian dialects, unknown beyond the Alps, is the Venetian. The Venetians are the French of Italy.'' They have, then, some comic poet living?'- Yes,' replied Pellico; a charming poet; but as his comedies are not allowed to be performed, he composes them under the form of satires. The name of this delightful poet is Buratti; and every six months, by the governor's order, he pays a visit to one of the prisons of Venice.' In my opinion, this conversation with Silvio Pellico gave the tone to Byron's subsequent poetical career. He eagerly demanded the name of the bookseller who sold M. Buratti's works; and as he was accustomed to the expression of Milanese bluntness, the question excited a hearty laugh at his expense. He was soon informed, that if Buratti wished to pass his whole life in prison, the appearance of his works in print would infallibly lead to the gratification of his desire; and besides, where could a printer be found hardy enough to run his share of the risk? An incomplete manuscript of Buratti cost from three to four sequins. The next day, the charming Comtessina N. was kind enough to lend her collection to one of our party. Byron, who imagined himself an adept in the language of Dante and Ariosto, was at first rather puzzled by Buratti's manuscript. We read over with him some of Goldoni's comedies, which enabled him at last to comprehend Buratti's satires. One of our Italian friends was even immoral enough to lend him a copy of Baffo's sonnets. What a crime this had been in the eyes of Southey! What a pity he was not, at an earlier period, made acquainted with the atrocious deed! I persist in thinking, that for the composition of Beppo,' and subsequently of Don Juan,' Byron was indebted to the reading of Buratti's poetry. Venice is a distinct world, of which the gloomy society of the rest of Europe can form no conception: care is there a subject of mockery. The poetry of Buratti always excites a sensation of enthusiastic delight in the breasts of the Venetian populace. Never, in my presence, did black and white, as the Venetians themselves say, produce a similar effect. Here, however, I ceased to act the part of an eye-witness, and here, consequently, I close my narrative."

NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ.t

ENGLISH AND SCOTCH EATING.

English Opium-Eater.—I cannot imagine a charge, at once more false and loathsome than the English-as a people-that they are slaves to the passion of the palate epicures and gluttons in one-or, as the Scotch call it, sneeringly and insultingly accompanying the reproach with the vulgar laugh, of which the lowest birth would be incapable but for the lowest breeding"fond of good eating :"-whereas I appeal to the whole history, not of England alone, but of the world, in proof of this simple proposition" that there exists not, nor ever did exist, a people comparable to the English, in the ascendency in their national character of the spirituous over the sensuous, in the due ordination of the correlates

Shepherd.-I grant a' that—but still I manteen that the English are fonder-prooder they canna be-o' rost-beef and plummpudden, than the Scotch o' brose and haggis that they speak mair and think mair-and muse and meditate atween meals mair-and when at meals, eat mair-and drink mair→ and wipe the sweat aff their foreheads mair -and gie' every kind o' proof mair o' a fu' stammach-than the Scoth;-and in proof o' that proposition, alloo me, sir, also to make an appeal, no to the haill history o' the warld, but to the pot-bellies ane sees waddlin' out frae front-doors as he spins through English toons and villages on the top of a licht cotch-pot-bellies, Mr. De Quinshy, o' a' sizes, frae the bouk o' my twa hauns expanded upon ane anither's finger-nebs-sae-up till, moderately speaking, the girth o' a hoghead—and no confined to the men, but extendin' to the women and, pity me, even to the weans-na, to the verra infants (what sookers!) that a' look as they were crammed-instead o' wee piggies -for the second coorse o' the denner o' the king o' the cannibals.

English Opium-Eater. Though I pity your prejudices, my dear Shepherd, I cannot but smile with pleasure at your quaint and humorous illustrations.

Shepherd.-Argument and illustration, sir, a' in ane. Here's anither doobler. Nae fat wean born in Scotland o' Scotch parents, was ever exhibited as a show in a caravan. Answer me that-and confute the deduction? You canna. Again-there never was a Scotch Lambert. Mercy on us-a Scotchman fifty-seven stane wecht! Feenally, a' great eatin' fates hae been performed in England-sic as a beggar devourin' at ae

+ From Blackwood's Magazine.-No. CLXV.

meal, for a wager, atween twa sportin' characters, twal poun' o' lichts and livers, ae pail o' tripe, and anither o' mashed turnip peelin's or a farmer an equal wecht o' beef-steaks, a peck plumm-pudden, and a guse, washin' a' ower wi' twa imperial gallons-that's twal' bottles-o' yill.

English Opium-Eater.-A man worthy to be admitted-by acclamation--member of that society whose sittings are designated by the celebrated sound-Noctes Ambrosianæ.

North. Poor people in Scotland, sir—I do not mean paupers-of whom, in ordinary times, there are few-live almost on nothing --meal and water-nor do they complain of a hard lot. The labouring classes in general, who are not in the same sense poor people, feed not so fully, believe me, in Scotland as in England.

A

Shepherd-Nor sae frequently in ae day. Five times is common in England. In Scotland, never mair nor three-often but twa -and never nane o' your pies and puddens ! rarely flesh-meat, except

North. And thus, Mr. De Quincy, as the appetites are very much habits, " good eating," among the lower orders in Scotland, is an indulgence or enjoyment never thought of, beyond the simple pleasure of the gratification of hunger, and of the restoration of strength and spirits so supplied. Believe me, my dear sir, it is so; whereas in England it assuredly is otherwise-though not to any degrading pitch of sensuality;-there the labouring man enjoys necessaries which here we should reckon luxuries of life.

Shepherd.-Pies! pies! raised crust pies! Puddens! puddens! rice, bread, and eggpuddens !

North. The whole question lies in a nutshell. England has long been a great, powerful, rich, highly-civilized country, and has equalled, if not excelled, all the countries of modern Europe in all the useful and fine arts, in all the sciences, in all literature, and in all philosophy. Her men, as Campbell, himself a glorious Scotchman, has nobly exulted to declare, 66 are of men the chief". as Wordsworth, himself a glorious Englishman, has nobly exulted to declare,

"Are sprung

Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold." During her long course of glory, she has produced from her celestial soil children of celestial_seed-unequalled names-Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton, Newton, Bacon, and other giants who scaled heaven not to storm it, but to worship and adore. Scotland has enjoyed but a single century, it may be said, of full intellectual light. She has not slept nor slumbered beneath the "rutili spatia ampla diei," but uplifted her front in inspiration to the auspicious heavens.