But we must put an end to this agreeable conference,--though we think, that if we could for ever listen to such vivid gossip, we should never grow old. We had intended to have treated of the romantic intimacy, and subsequent determined hatred, that existed between Lady Mary and Pope; but our limits warn us that we must not indulge in a lengthy discussion of the subject. She, it is clear, was flattered by his wit and his mental beauty. In him real passion took root. His advances she appears to have repulsed, and he was thus suddenly driven to the galling contemplation of his own person, and he at once from the adoring poet became the "Deformed Transformed" into hate itself. Byron never forgave an allusion to his lameness. The separation of Mr. Wortley from his accomplished wife still remains unexplained; but it is clear that kindly and respectful feelings were preserved unblemished between them; and there is a delicate tenderness in each towards the other in the veriest trifles, which shows how feeble a thing is absence over sincere affections. We are rather surprised that no letters from Lady Mary to her grand-daughter Lady Jane, (one of the daughters of the Countess of Bute,) have not straggled into print. How beautifully must she have written to children, and particularly to such a child as Lady Jane appears to have been! The letters, however, we fear are lost. If we might be permitted to adopt a new manner of life, and to pitch our tent in whatever part of his Majesty's dominions we pleased,--we have no hesitation in saying that we should lose no time in directing _those people_, however respectable they may be, who inhabit Strawberry Hill, to _get out_! We should then send down by the Twickenham carrier complete sets of the works of Pope, Swift, Johnny Gay, and the dear Arbuthnot,--of the Letters of Horace Walpole, of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Pepys' Memoirs, Evelyn's Memoirs, Shakspeare, and some other works of trifling interest,--begging they may be placed in _that_ little library with the stained glass. We should then Ourselves go down!--have a comfortable annuity from government, and a moderate handful of servants from the neighbourhood; and there we would pass away our life, "from morn to noon,--from noon to dewy eve,--a summer's day!" This plan has something in it so modest and reasonable, that we cannot help thinking it will attract the attention of the existing ministry, and in the end be realized! A LAMENT OVER THE BANNISTER. And have we lost thee!--has the monarch grim To his dull court borne off the child of whim! And art thou gone, _Oldboy_?[26] thou brave and good _Protector_[27] of the _Children in the Wood_? Then has the _World's_ great _Echo_[28] died away; Out of his time th' _Apprentice_[29] could not stay: The _Squib_'s[30] gone off, extinguish'd ev'ry spark, And Momus mourns his region left so dark.