Have you seen the 2nd Volume of _Lord Byron_? It is a wicked book, and having made that avowal it is unlucky that I feel myself obliged to own that it is much the most interesting book I ever read in my life--much. I never was so amused, and the more wickeder he is in his actions, the more cleverer he is in his writings. I am afraid I like him very much--that is I cannot bear him really, only I am glad he lived, else we should not have had his _Life_ to read, to say nothing of his poetry. He had some good points; such extreme gratitude to anybody who ever showed him kindness; and if he had lived I still think that he would have been converted, and that once a Christian, there is nothing great or good he would not have been equal to. He had such magnificent talents--an archangel ruined--and I think he regretted the height from which he had fallen. Still the book is a bad book. I was obliged to stop yesterday and recall _mes grands principes_ before I could remember that it was not wrong or ill-natured of Guiccioli to insist on his wife’s[366] separation from Lord Byron. Moore talks about it as an unprincipled disturbance of Lord Byron’s domestic felicity, and with such earnestness, that he very nearly took me in. I wish I had seen you act. Lord Castlereagh’s epilogue was in the papers, with a few lines added, _not_ with a view of pleasing him. Your affectionate E. E. CHAPTER IX 1831-1835 _Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._ GREENWICH PARK, [_October or November_] 1831. MY DEAREST THERESA, I would take a larger sheet of paper, but it does so happen that ever since we have nominally had stationery for nothing, I have never been able to find anything in the nature of paper, pen, or sealing-wax; indeed, for some time one pen served the whole house. It never came to my turn to have it, as you perceived, and I scorned to buy one. The country may yet afford a quarter of a hundred of pens, at least I suppose so. You were quite right, I really did look at the end of your letter for your signature. The date, and your beginning, “You must have forgotten who I am,” and your writing such a simple hand, put me out, and I said to George, “This must be some Carnegie or Elliot cousin, by the token of Edinbro’, whom I ought to remember.” I was so pleased when I found it was you; though your expecting an answer is odd, not to say troublesome. However, anything to please you.