"C----l last night seemed a little nettled at something or other--I know
not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out
of the other room a vessel of some composition similar to that which is
used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, 'Here is some
_incense_ for you.' C----l answered--'Carry it to Lord Byron, _he is
used to it_.'

"Now, this comes of 'bearing no brother near the throne.' I, who have no
throne, nor wish to have one _now_, whatever I may have done, am at
perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity: or, at least, if I
dislike any, it is not _poetically_, but _personally_. Surely the field
of thought is infinite; what does it signify who is before or behind in
a race where there is no _goal_? The temple of fame is like that of the
Persians, the universe; our altar, the tops of mountains. I should be
equally content with Mount Caucasus, or Mount Anything; and those who
like it, may have Mount Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their
elevation.

"I think I may _now_ speak thus; for I have just published a poem, and
am quite ignorant whether it is _likely_ to be _liked_ or not. I have
hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can _downright_
abuse it to one's face, except in print. It can't be good, or I should
not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very title.
But I began it with my heart full of * * *, and my head of
oriental_ities_ (I can't call them _isms_), and wrote on rapidly.

"This journal is a relief. When I am tired--as I generally am--out comes
this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows
what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I