“I don’t pretend to defend him in any thing,” said Fitzhenry, very impatiently; “I only say, that persons with totally different feelings and characters cannot judge of each other. What would be keen suffering to one, might be none to another. I might answer you in the words of Madame de Staël—”_Les gens mediocres ne cessent de s’étonner que le talent ait des besoins differens des leurs_; and as for Lord Byron’s private history, neither you nor I have any business with it, or know any thing about it.” “The deuce we don’t?” said Moore, “many thanks, _par parenthese_, for your pretty compliment to me, _au sujet de la mediocrité_; but we will let that pass: I am well used to such from you,” said he, laughing; “but I cannot give up so quietly Lord Byron, who certainly has had the bad taste (to say no worse) to take pains to tell us all what a villain he is, so that few of us can be ignorant of his private history.” Fitzhenry said nothing; and resuming his book, turned away, as if the light hurt his eyes. “Lady Fitzhenry, don’t _you_ agree with me about Lord Byron,” continued the indefatigable Moore. “I believe not,” said Emmeline with a tremulous voice—”I _should_ not—I think no one can, or should presume to judge of the feelings, hardly of the situation and conduct of another.” An involuntary sigh finished the sentence; fortunately it escaped her neighbour’s ear, as he was hastily turning over the leaves of the book, reading a line here and there. “_Il faut pourtant etre juste_,” said Moore; “and, to give the devil his due, Lord Byron is in truth a most delightful poet. We all find that he describes our own thoughts and feelings, which we have not had the wit to put into rhyme ourselves. Here is a pretty specimen of sing-song sentiment, for instance:— ‘Florence, whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,) Whilst thou art fair, and I am young; ‘Sweet Florence, those were pleasant times When worlds were staked for ladies eyes; Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. ‘Though fate forbids such things to be, Yet, by thine eye and ringlets curled, I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world.’ Prudent vows those, making them to depend on his own youth, and his fair one’s beauty. What think you of that moral sentiment, Lady Fitzhenry?” Emmeline dared not speak; she feared a double meaning might be given to whatever she said; but the crimson on her cheeks betrayed how well she knew the lines. Fitzhenry, for an instant, looked up—his face was scarcely less suffused than hers, and hastily rising from his seat, he left the room.