he has derived from being considered as too bad for repentance, and too desperate to be pitied. We wish to see him trying his strength fairly with other writers, without other pretentions than those which we are confident he has never forfeitedviz. to private honour, and the respectability of an unsullied title.That he is beloved as a friend we know; that he is generous, or rather magnificent, in his temper; hospitable and kind when occasion serves; frank to forgive causes of offence, we also know. Although, in the course of this article, we shall have laid grave faults to his charge, they are not faults of an unpardonable nor are they committed with apparent struggles,- -nor hinted at in his confessions, nor do we believe that he yet repents of them,-nor, when he does, will any very heavy penance be imposed upon him by society. He must not, therefore, pique himself too much on the censure which we shall apply to him in the conscientious discharge of the duties of criticism, for we have been obliged to state some very large sets-off of good qualities, to be subtracted from the sum total of blame to which we think him fairly entitled. nature, To return, however, from this which has become almost a digression. His frequent allusions to his own private history; his almost constant appeals to sickly sensibility by tricked-out representations of disreputable and garrulous sorrow and suffering; and the false and inconsistent character of many of his heroes, in whom strong effect is purchased at the expense of propriety of every kind, constitute faults in Lord Byron's style of composition, palpable to an eye of any discernment. But, more unfortunately, they are hurtfully seductive to inexperienced and uninstructed taste, and most mischievously calculated to give ascendancy to the heterodox judgments, generated in the heat and rankness of fashionable manners. It is the popularity of these faults that has made us feel it necesary to commence our observations by noticing them. We should not have deemed ourselves free to give full vent to our admiration of the marvellous powers of this remarkable intellect, if we had not at the outset entered a protest against its various heresies. That Lord Byron irradiates the literature of the day by his genius, is incontestable; but that it can be said of him, that he elevates the general reputation › of the literature of his country, we doubt. The truth is, he mingles up many questions that are not literary, but of a more serious and important nature, with the consideration of his literary merits. It is his misfortune to have done this; for not only, we apprehend, must a verdict be given against him whenever the inquiry is directed towards moral tendency, personal fairness, and public decency, but the worst faults of his style are, we think, clearly traceable to that looseness of feeling which is the unhappy source of so much irregularity of another nature staining his works often demanding indulgence, and often forbidding it altogether. Lord Byron's last work is avowedly licen tious;-it is a satire on decency, on fine feeling, on the rules of conduct necessary to the conservation of society, and on some of his own near connections. Having said this, we need say no more on its character independently of literary considerations: he would himself, we are sure, allow it to be all we now say; his publisher has done so by scrupling to put his name in the title-page.The only questions, agreeably to the known frankness of his disposition, which it is probable he would think of dicussing, would be the degree of mischief it is likely to do; and whether jokes on the inconsistencies of human professions and practice, and exposures of the ridiculous side of social institutions and domestic observances, have not before been ventured, quite as pointed as Don Juan, without incurring on their parents the heavy charge of being arrayed in hostility against the best interests of their fellow men.-We would be disposed to concede a good deal to his lordship on these points: the world has by this time been pretty-well accustomed to see the vivacity of talent employed in raising a laugh against things which do honour to conduct, and passing as pleasantry what is discreditable. Man, in fact, is at once a laughing animal, and a laughable one; he is not, and cannot ve, consistent. His nature is made up of absurdities, as they now appear, which are probably only enigmas, the solution of which is reserved for another state of being. Hence, very considerable freedom has always been taken with the stricter doctrines of the moralist, and the most essential regulations of social intercourse, in the vivacity of penetrating intellects, seeing through disguises, and solemn hypocrisies, and necessary, but unreal pretensions, and all the solemn masquerade of serious life. The temptation to irreverent mirth and dangerous ridicule is so great, that we are obliged to seek securities against their effects, rather than to prohibit or severely condemn their exercise. It is now pretty well understood, what these poetical licences are worth; their language may introduce impure terms and images into breasts that would otherwise have remained, for some time longer at least, unsullied: so far they are mischievous and reprehensible; but as to actually furnishing grounds of conduct, or leading to the formation of false principles, we do not think that these evident caricatures of manners are like ly to do this. They pass as exaggerations, or caprices on their side: they are considered to be intentionally wide of the truth: their authors are supposed to be prepared to say with Prior, Gadzooks, who would swear to the truth of a. song! In our view of the matter, Lord Byron's serious poetry is of a much more deleterious tendency than his láte compositions professing levity of purpose. The former is calculated to introduce disease into the heart through admiration excited in favour of false and hateful qualities of character: the latter address themselves only to the unscrupulous, and the experienced. To regard what is improper in them with approbation, would bespeak previous corruption. But the first ruin taste, infect feeling, and unsettle principle: what is showy in them wins and perverts; what is pathetic softens towards temptation; what is horrible familiarizes with evil, and misrepresents nature. Still, however, it must be admtted; that Lord Byron has carried the licence of his levities farther than we have been accustomed to see men of his powers of mind care to commit themselves in such irregularities; and it is to be deplored, for his sake, as well as for ours, that, with such undoubted possession of genius as he certainly has, he should only vary o his style of writing to make a new trespass. Much, too, do we regret, that a very suspicious circumstance attends the variation: the qualities that are objectionable in both his styles, equally belong to the class of expedients for cheaply gaining popula rity: they are equally included within the set of resources which grovel ling souls have recourse to, in the absence of talent, to realize their.. selfish schemes. Indecency is saleable; so are lampoons; so are pieces of overcharged colouring and staring effect; so are affected confidences, and allusions to domestic discords, private errors, and mental horrors. All of these present baneful stimuli to depraved appetites:-it is lucky for Lord Byron's reputation as a poet, that he has mingled much of the ce lestial fire, and of glowing feeling of that which is inspiring in the noblest terrestrial objects, with these baser materials of composition: he has done this to a degree quite sufficient" to exculpate him from having sought to shelter his weakness by pandering to the baser desires: but what we have stated, the candour of which we are sure cannot be denied by any reader of his works,-fully bears out what we affirmed of him at the com mencement of this article ;-viz. that he strangely reconciles those dubious and. questionable qualities which fall under the head of empirical, with the acquirement of sterling renown. pieces are indeed of a "mingled yarn:" the coarse is mixed with the fire; the subtlest texture with the veriest botch-work.-We would point out to his lordship's serious reflection, if we had any assurance of being honoured by his notice, as the features most degrading to the charac ter of the author in his last composi tions, those which are calculated tothrow doubt altogether on the since rity of his emotions, and the healthi ness of his heart, putting joke and levity out of the question. Vivacious allusions to certain practical irregu larities are things which it is to be Hi supposed innocence is strong enough to resist, otherwise, the commerce of the world forbids hope of its longlife. But the quick alternation of pathos and profaneness,-of serious and moving sentiment and indecent ribaldry, of afflicting, soul-rending pictures of human distress, rendered keen by the most pure and hallowed sympathies of the human breast, and absolute jeering of human nature, and general mockery of creation, destiny, and heaven itself,-this is a sort of violence, the effect of which is either to sear or to disgust the mind of the reader-and which cannot be fairly characterized but as an insult and outrage. This is not an English fault; for it affects the sincerity of the writer's design, and the honour of his intentions. Some bad specimens of it exist in foreign literature, -but that of our own country has not hitherto been so contaminated.Our writers have composed burlesque, and grossness, and caricature, and indecency; but they have not insulted the very principle of goodness, the image of God in the soul of man, by exciting the best affections of the spirit, and leading it to direct communion with the powers that scatter sublimity and beauty ⚫ over this sublunary scene, in order to startle and shame it, by suddenly confronting it with a Satanic laugh at some mortifying slur thrown on what is best and fairest to human eye and thought, and dearest to human feeling! To do this is to reduce reader, author, and subject to one general level of contempt: to make us, so far as he has power over us, despise and hate ourselves, him, and all about us.-Degradation of nature is felt to be suffered, when from so exquisite, so elaborate, so painfully exact a description of parental tenderness, hanging over the mortal agonies of a beloved child, as we find in the Don Juan, we are suddenly called upon to turn our sympathies to sneering jests and cruel mirth. What is the difference between doing this in a poem, and doing it in real life?-and what should we say of the disposition of him who should turn from the death-bed of a fine boy, round which hearts are breaking, and from which hopes are departing, to crack scurril jokes on human weakness, calamity, and de spair? Lord Byron would be as much shocked at this as any man; and, therefore, we must come to the conclusion, that he considers his authorship a mere piece of representation altogether, in which he is to perform the part of the moment,now in tragedy, now in farce, as Garrick performed Hamlet and Abel Drugger in the same evening; and Kean, Othello and Harlequin. This we are pretty sure, from the general evidence of his works, is what he really does; but he ought not to do it to the injury either of personal or public feeling, or even to the perversion of taste.-He ought not, on such a system as this, to write such pieces as the Farewell, following them up by certain indelicate caricatures and offensive insults. Professions of tenderness, of generous fidelity, of clinging fondness, made in his own person, and used to the injury of the reputation of another party, are not justifiable, supposing them to be genuine--but if they form only a part of a poetical masquerade, in which the next character, supported by the same individual, may be a malicious satirist, or careless laughing profligate, they are very bad. In the same way, we would object, though with less zeal, to the author of Beppo talking so much of the " ruins of his years" though few, yet full of fate; of his having calmly "borne good,” and of none having "beheld decline on his brow,' or "" seen his mind's convulsions leave it weak.”— On that principle of acting an assumed part, which we have above referred to, and which can alone render much that he has done at all excusable, he ought to leave his personal identity quite behind the scenes. Kemble, beyond an occasional cough, which he could not restrain, gave no sign of John Philip amidst the misanthropy of the Stranger, and the moodiness of Penruddock. If, on this system of versatility and powerful exhibition, reckless of consistency, and careless about binding, himself to his own real feelings, Lord Byron commences regular satirist, or rather lampooner, it is quite clear that he will possess great advantages for the infliction of pain, and the excitement of interest, which, like those other advantages helping him to popularity, that we have been noticing, will be very inconsistent with the dignity of the poetical character, and, may we not add, with that respect for him as an individual, which his high rank and genius so naturally incline people to entertain. His Beppo and Don Juan lead us to fear that he has almost determined to take this course. ter declaring it of himself, with refeAfrence to his own family, in language sufficiently pompous— there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire: Something unearthly which they deem Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, move, In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love! after this heroical, and solemn, and singular announcement from a British Peer, we certainly could not have surmised that his next appearance before the public, would have been as a merry burlesque tormentor of others. Nothing, after the above, seemed left for Lord Byron, but a sort of state existence,-a sort of demi-god sojourning below, in sedate grandeur, and sublime melancholy instead, however, of being careful to maintain an appearance suitable to this serious self-devotion to immortality, the next time we hear of him, his mouth is full of laughing scandal, and barbed jeers. The incongruity here, is at least startling: such a line as this, With one fair spirit for my minister, Childe Harold, Canto 4. all this is very touching-at least it is intended to be so: but if it be thy of Lord Byron; and if it had mere theatrical strut, it is not worbeen sincere, his next compositions would not have sparkled with jestson the "bustling Botherby's" of Lonworth and Southey. Satire and ridon, or with lampoons on Wordsdicule are free to Lord Byron as to any other writer; but there is much tools, in which by the bye he has in his manner of handling these edgeit proper we should regard his pleabeen unfortunate before, that renders santry and severity as very similar to his melancholy, his mental tortures, and resignation under them,—and give weight to his satire accordingly. We find our objections have run out to fill a larger proportion of our paper than we had anticipated,-for, personal inclination to handle favourwhen we set out, we felt chiefly our ably the object of our intended remarks. put the volumes of this great and We necessarily, however, prolific author on the table before us, and their collected evidence has compelled us to what we have said. But how much remains to be said of a very different nature, with referplayed in these eloquent rhapsodies! ence to the real poetical power disWe know there are critics who deny that Lord Byron is a distinguished poet,-affirming that his style is oftsentiments are often unnatural, his en false, and often feeble,-that his imagery tawdry, his effects forced, and in bad taste. We think so too, -and yet affirm him to be one of For one was in debt, and both were in li- the greatest of poets. The mere vi quor, Don Juan. applied to two living individuals by name, for one of whom his Lordship had expressed respect,-is not at all in the style of the verse quoted just above his lordship's nature seems suddenly changed:-it is as if the statue of Apollo, in the Vatican, had left its pedestal, to appear as that of Pasquin, the squib publisher, in the common Roman market place. He had but just invoked "the desart for his dwelling place," gour and rapidity of his course would external creation. An empty urn within her withered hands, situations which have long fed our dreams of beauty, and of wonders, and to the influence of which he has now added tenfold efficacy? Whom have we amongst us to do any thing like what follows to bring home the Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle power of a classical land, and the enchantments of classical monuments, so as to make them bear with force on the mass of public feeling, and give a general elevation to the level of fancy and thought amongst us? But when he saw the evening star above He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Sulis' rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer: beak, her distress! This may not be the very purest of all styles of poetry, (though we confess our perceptions are not open to its faults), but at least it is noble declamation, rich with splendour, and sonorous with lofty music. It enlivens the circulation of thought and feeling, and raises the port of the imagination. The principal charm of Lord Byron's poetry consists, we are willing to confess, in its scenery, -but no one we think, but himself, could have brought it to bear so point-blank on the universal sympathy. It is the glory of the places and objects themselves that beams on his page, that has intoxicated, his soul, and that inspires the reader: he seems to have been rendered poetical solely by the influence of his subjects-that is to say, when his ob ject is not to make a representation of himself, or to wound others: with these exceptions he speaks as one full of the sacred inflatus. What vivacity of observation is apparent in his descriptions, what zeal in his celebrations, how quick, varied, and bright, the running flame of his allusions! He is justly entitled to be the most popular of poets, though he is not the best, and though he so often condescends to improper lures of popularity. But he is entitled to be so, because, more than any other modern writer whom we can name, he is the minstrel of fame, whose lays are best adapted to gain the common ear, and find their way to the com◄ mon heart. He fills galleries, long vistas of magnificence, with images of glory, with stories of passion and suffering, with the annals of departed greatness, and the sublimities of the world that never depart: and he issues an irresistible summons to thousands, to millions, to enter these, and admire and venerate what they see, and bow before that might of des◄ tiny which, while it seems to reduce individuals to nothing, gives grandeur and importance to the race, by storing human consciousness with |