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A thing of temperament and not of art,

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; And false-though true; for surely they 're sincerest Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. XCVIII.

This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, Heroes sometimes, though seldom-sages never; But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, Little that's great, but much of what is clever; Most orators, but very few financiers,

Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour, Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, And grow quite figurative with their figures. XCIX.

The poets of arithmetic are they

Who, though they prove not two and two to be Five, as they might do in a modest way,

Have plainly made it out that four are three,
Judging by what they take, and what they pay.
The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea,
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives.
C.

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces,

The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease; Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces, Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize The ridicules of people in all places—

That honey of your fashionable bees-
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment;
And this at present was her kind employment.
CI.

However, the day closed, as days must close;
The evening also waned-and coffee came.
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose,
And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame,
Retired: with most unfashionable bows

Their docile esquires also did the same,
Delighted with their dinner and their host,
But with the Lady Adeline the most.

CII.

Some praised her beauty: others her great grace; The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face,

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. Yes; she was truly worthy her high place!

No one could envy her deserved prosperity. And then her dress-what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity! (1)

The consciousness, indeed, of his own natural tendency to yield thus to every chance impression, and change with every passing impulse, was not only for ever present in his mind, but had the effect of keeping him in that general line of consistency, on certain great subjects, which he continued to preserve throughout life." Moore.-E.

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True, she said little-'t was the rest that broke
Forth into universal epigram ;

But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke:
Like Addison's "faint praise," (2) so wont to
Her own but served to set off every joke, [damn,

As music chimes in with a melo-drame.
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend!
I ask but this of mine, to--not defend.
CV.

There were but two exceptions to this keen
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ;

And Juan, too, in general behind none
In gay remark on what he had heard or seen,
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone:
In vain he heard the others rail or rally,
He would not join them in a single sally.

CVI.

'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though

She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook Its motive for that charity we owe

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look Farther. It might or it might not be so:

But Juan, sitting silent in his nook,

Observing little in his reverie,

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see.

CVII.

The ghost at least had done him this much good, In making him as silent as a ghost,

If in the circumstances which ensued

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. And certainly Aurora had renew'd

In him some feelings he had lately lost
Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal,
Are so divine, that I must deem them real :-

CVIII.

The love of higher things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance

(1) "Curiosa felicitas."-Petronius Arbiter. (2) "Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer; And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer." Pope on Addison -E.

Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another's bosom is the zone.
CIX.

Who would not sigh Aἳ αἳ τὸν Κυθέρειαν

That hath a memory, or that had a heart? Alas! her star must wane like that of Dian:

Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. Anacreon only had the soul to tie an

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks,

Still we respect thee, "Alma Venus Genetrix !" (1)

CX.

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond,
Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond
Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows
Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond
Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep,
And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep.
CXI.

The night was as before: he was undrest,

Saving his night-gown, which is an undress; Completely "sans culotte," and without vest; In short, he hardly could be clothed with less : But apprehensive of his spectral guest,

He sate with feelings awkward to express (By those who have not had such visitations), Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations.

CXII.

And now in vain he listen'd;-Hush! what's that?
I see I see-Ah, no!—'t is not—yet 't is —
Ye powers! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the cat!
The devil may take that stealthy pace of his!
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat,

Or tiptoe of an amatory miss,
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous,

And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe.

CXIII.

CXIV.

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,(2)
Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass,
Sounding like very supernatural water,
Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas!

For immaterialism's a serious matter;
So that even those whose faith is the most great
In souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.
CXV.

Were his eyes open ?-Yes, and his mouth too.
Surprise has this effect-to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,
Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:

His eyes were open, and (as was before
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?—the door.
CXVI.

it open'd with a most infernal creak,
Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza
Voi che entrate!" The hinge seem'd to speak,
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza;
Or-but all words upon such themes are weak:
A single shade's sufficient to entrance a
Hero-for what is substance to a spirit?
Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it?

CXVII.

The door flew wide, not swiftly,-but, as fly
The sea-gulls, with a steady sober flight-
And then swung back; nor close-but stood awry,
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high,

For he had two, both tolerably bright,
And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood
The sable friar in his solemn hood.

CXVIII.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before; but, being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking;
His own internal ghost began to awaken
With him, and to quell his corporal quaking—

Again-what is 't? The wind? No, no,-this time Hinting that soul and body, on the whole,

It is the sable friar as before,

With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again through shadows of the night sublime, When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems-the monk made his blood curdle.

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Were odds against a disembodied soul.

CXIX.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced-the shade retreated; But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated:

(2) See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer: "Karl-Karl-was wollst du mit mir?"-E.

The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone-still.
CXX.

Juan put forth one arm-Eternal powers!

grace themselves by selling it, what can the critic say? His praise or censure ought to found itself on examples produced from the work itself. For praise, as far as regards the poetry, many passages might be exhibited; for condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all: but none for either purpose can be produced, without insult to the ear of decency, and vexation to the heart that feels for domestic or national happiness. This poem is sold in the shops as the work of Lord Byron; but the name of neither author nor bookseller is on the title-page: we are, therefore, at liberty to suppose it not to be Lord Byron's composition; and this scepticism has something to justify it, în the instance which has lately occurred of the name of that noble man having been borrowed for a tale of disgusting horror, pubiden-lished under the title of The Vampire.

It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers,
Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall;
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers
When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal.
How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity
Should cause more fear than a whole host's

tity. (1)

CXXI.

"But the strongest argument against the supposition of its being the performance of Lord Byron is this;—that it can hardly be possible for an English nobleman, even in his mirth, to send forth to the public the direct and palpable falsehood containes

But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes glared, in the 209th and 210th stanzas of the First Canto.
And rather variably for stony death:

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared,
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd;
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath,
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud.
CXXII.

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust

His other arm forth-Wonder upon wonder!
It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust,

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder,
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought.
CXXIII.

The ghost, if a ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood:

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood;
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they reveal'd-alas! that e'er they should!
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk,
The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Fulke!

APPENDIX TO DON JUAN.

Mr. Roberts, the editor of the, since defunct, British Review, fancying himself aggrieved by a joke of Lord Byron's, in the first canto of Don Juan, retorted by the following famous article, which appeared in No. XVIII of the "British," published in

1819.

I fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,
I've bribed my grand mother's review-the British.

I sent it in a letter to the editor,
Who thank'd me duly by return of post-
I'm for a bandsome article his creditor;

Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,
And break a promise after having made it her,
Denying the receipt of what it cost,

And smear his page with gall instead of honey,
All I can say is-that he had the money.'

No misdemeanour-not even that of sending into the world ob-
scene and blasphemous poetry, the product of studious lewd-
ness and laboured impiety-appears to us in so detestable a light
as the acceptance of a present by an editor of a review, as the
condition of praising an author; and yet the miserable man
(for miserable he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get rid),
who has given birth to this pestilent poem, has not scrupled to lay
this to the charge of The British Review; and that not by insi-
nuation, but has actually stated himself to have sent money in
a letter to the Editor of this journal, who acknowledged the
receipt of the same by a letter in return, with thanks. No peer
of the British realm can surely be capable of so calumnious a
falsehood, refuted, we trust, by the very character and spirit of
the journal so defamed. We are compelled, therefore, to con-
clude that this poem cannot be Lord Byron's production; and
we, of course, expect that Lord Byron will, with all gentlemanly
haste, disclaim a work imputed to him, containing a calumny
so wholly the product of malignant invention.

"If somebody personating the Editor of the British Review has received money from Lord Byron, or from any other person, by way of bribe to praise his compositions, the fraud might be traced by the production of the letter which the author states himself to have received in return. Surely then, if the author of this poem has any such letter, he will produce it for this purpose. But lest it should be said that we have not in positive terms denied the charge, we do utterly deny that there is one word of truth, or the semblance of truth, as far as regards this Review, or its Editor, in the assertions made in the stanzas above referred to. We really feel a sense of degradation, as the

idea of this odious imputation passes through our minds.

"We have heard, that the author of the poem under consisideration designed what he has said in the 35th stanza as a sketch of his own character:

Yet Jose was an honourable man;

That I must say, who knew him very well.'

If, then, he is this honourable man, we shall not call in vain for an act of justice at his hands, in declaring that he did not mean his word to be taken, when, for the sake of a jest (our

"Of a poem so flagitious, that no bookseller has been willing to take upon himself the publication, though most of them dis-readers will judge how far such a mode of jesting is defensible),

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he stated, with the particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery of a groundless fiction."

The above vindication of Mr. Roberts called forth from Lord Byron the following

LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF

"MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW, The British (1)".

MY DEAR ROBerts,

As a believer in the Church of England-to say nothing of the State-I have been an occasional reader and great admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your Review, which is rather expensive. But I do not know that any part of its contents ever gave me much surprise till the eleventh article of your twenty-seventh number made its appear ance. You have there most vigorously refuted a calumnious accusation of bribery and corruption, the credence of which in the public mind might not only have damaged your reputation as a clergyman (2) and an editor, but, what would have been still worse, have injured the circulation of your journal; which, I regret to hear, is not so extensive as the "purity" (as you well observe) "of its," etc. etc. and the present taste for propriety, would induce us to expect. The charge itself is of a solemn nature, and, although in verse, is couched in terms of such circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little short of that generally accorded to the thirtynine articles, to which you so frankly subscribed on taking your degrees. It is a charge the most revolting to the heart of man, from its frequent occurrence; to the mind of a statesman, from its occasional truth; and to the soul of an editor, from its moral impossibility. You are charged then in the last line of one octave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the next, viz. 209th and 210th of the first canto of that "pestilent poem," Don Juan, with receiving and still more foolishly acknowledging the receipt of certain moneys, to eulogise the unknown author, who by this account must be known to you, if to nobody else. An impeachment of this nature, so seriously made, there is but one way of refuting; and it is my firm persuasion, that whether you did or did not (and I believe that you did not) receive the said moneys, of which I wish that he had specified the sum, you are quite right in denying all knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this nefarious description are to go forth, sanctioned by all the solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed by the veracity of verse (as Counsellor Philips (3) would say), what is to become of readers, hitherto implicitly confident in the not less veracious prose of our critical journals? What

(1) "Bologna, Aug. 23, 1819. I send you a letter to Roberts, Bigned Wortley Clutterbuck,' which you may publish in what form you please, in answer to his article. I have had many proofs of men's absurdity, but he beats all in folly. Why, the wolf in sheep's clothing has tumbled into the very trap!"Lord B. to Mr. Murray.-E.

is to become of the reviews? And, if the reviews fail, what is to become of the editors? It is common cause, and you have done well to sound the alarm. I myself, in my humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. In the words of the tragedian Liston, "I love a row," and you seem justly determined to make one.

the writer might have been in jest; but this only It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that aggravates his crime. A joke, the proverb says, "breaks no bonès; " but it may break a bookseller, or, it may be the cause of bones being broken. The jest is but a bad one at the best for the author, and might have been a still worse one for you, if your copious contradiction did not certify to all whom it may concern your own indignant innocence, and the immaculate purity of the British Roberts, yet I cannot help wishing that, in a case Review. I do not doubt your word, my dear of such vital importance, it had assumed the more substantial shape of an affidavit sworn before the Lord Mayor Atkins, who readily receives any deposition; and doubtless would have brought it in some way as evidence of the designs of the Rehe himself meditates the same good office towards formers to set fire to London, at the same time that

the river Thames.

I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take these observations of mine in good part; they are written in a spirit of friendship not less pure than your own editorial integrity. I have always admired you; and, not knowing any shape which friendship and admiration can assume more agreeable and useful than that of good advice, I shall continue my lucubrations, mixed with here and there a monitory hint as to what I conceive to be the line you should pursue, in case you should ever again be assailed with bribes, or accused of taking them. By the way, you don't say much about the poem, except that it is "flagitious.” This is a pity-you should have cut it up; because, to say the truth, in not doing so, you somewhat assist any notions which the malignant might entertain on the score of the anonymous asseveration which has made you so angry.

You say no bookseller "was willing to take upon himself the publication, though most of them disgrace themselves by selling it." Now, my dear friend, though we all know that those fellows will do any thing for money, methinks the disgrace is

a clergyman, but a barrister-at-law. In 1792, he established a paper called The Looker-on, which has since been admitted into the collection of British Essayists; and he is known, in his profession, for a treatise on the Law of Fraudulent Bankruptcy.-E.

(3) Charles Philips, barrister, was in those days celebrated for

() Mr. Roberts is not, as Lord Byron seems to have supposed, ultra-Irish eloquence.-E.

:

miles off it may be; so that it will be difficult for him to hurry to your wishes. In the mean time, perhaps you yourself have set an example of more haste than gentility; but" the more haste the worse speed."

inore with the purchasers; and some such, doubt-" with all gentlemanly haste," etc. etc. I am told less, there are, for there can be no very extensive that Lord B. is in a foreign country, some thousand selling (as you will perceive by that of the British Review) without buying. You then add, "What can the critic say?" I am sure I don't know; at present he says very little, and that not much to the purpose. Then comes, "for praise, as far as regards the poetry, many passages might be exhibited for condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all." Now, my dear good Mr. Roberts, I feel for you, and for your reputation: my heart bleeds for both; and I do ask you, whether or not such language does not come positively under the description of "the puff collusive," for which see Sheridan's farce of The Critic (by the way, a little more facetious than your own farce under the same title), towards the close of scene second, act the

first ?

Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Roberts, which appears to me to be in some degree not quite explicitly worded:

"I bribed my Grandmother's Review, the British.”

I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, this subject discussed at the tea-table of Mr. Sotheby the poet, who expressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised that you had never reviewed his epic poem of Saul, nor any of his six tragedies; of which, in one instance, the bad taste of the pit, and, in all the rest, the barbarous repugnance of the principal actors, prevented the performance. Mrs. and the Misses S. being in a corner of the room, perusing the proof-sheets of Mr. S.'s poems in Italy, or on Italy, as he says (I wish, by the by, Mrs. S. would make the tea a little stronger), the male part of the conversazione were at liberty to make a few observations on the poem and passage in question; and there was a difference of opinion. Some thought the allusion was to the British Critic; (1) others, that by the expression, "My Grandmother's Review," it was intimated that “my grandmother" was not the reader of the review, but actually the writer; thereby insinuating, my dear Roberts, that you were an old woman; because, as people often say, "Jeffrey's Review," "Gifford's Review," in lieu of Edinburgh and Quarterly; so “My Grandmother's Review" and Roberts's might be also synonymous. Now, whatever colour this insinuation might derive from the circumstance of your wearing a gown, as well as from your time of life, your general style, and various passages of your

The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord Byron ; but you feel yourself "at liberty to suppose it not Lord B.'s composition." Why did you ever suppose that it was? I approve of your indignation-I applaud it-I feel as angry as you can ; but perhaps your virtuous wrath carries you a little too far, when you say that "no misdemeanour, not even that of sending into the world obscene and blasphemous poetry, the product of studious lewdness and laboured impiety, appears to you in so detestable a light as the acceptance of a present by the editor of a review, as the condition of praising an author." The devil it does n't! Think a little. This is being critical overmuch. In point of Gentile benevolence or Christian charity, it were surely less criminal to praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fellow-creature for nothing; and as to the assertion of the comparative innocence of blasphemy and obscenity, confronted with an editor's "acceptance of a present," I shall merely observe, that as an Editor you say very well, but, as a Christian divine, I would not recommend you to transpose this sentence into a sermon. And yet you say, "the miserable man (for miser-writings,-I will take upon myself to exculpate able he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get rid)”—But here I must pause again, and inquire what is the meaning of this parenthesis? We have heard of people of "little soul," or of "no soul at all," but never till now of "the misery of having a soul of which we cannot get rid; " a misery under which you are possibly no great sufferer, having got rid apparently of some of the intellectual part of your own when you penned this pretty piece of eloquence.

But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, always supposing him not the author, to disclaim

(1) "Whether it be the British Critic or the British Review, against which the noble lord prefers so grave a charge, or rather so facetious an accusation, we are at a loss to determine. The latter has thought it worth its while, in a public paper, to make

you from all suspicion of the kind, and assert,
without calling Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if
ever you should be chosen pope, you will pass
through all the previous ceremonies with as much
credit as any pontiff since the parturition of Joan.
It is very unfair to judge of sex from writings,
particularly from those of the British Review.
We are all liable to be deceived, and it is an in-
disputable fact, that many of the best articles in
your journal, which were attributed to a veteran
female, were actually written by you yourself: and
yet to this day there are people who could never
a serious reply. As we are not so seriously inclined, we shall
leave our share of this accusation to its fate.—British Critic-
--E.

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