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filled the nation with this outcry against imaginary ones, while their own conduct produced real and threatening dan'ger.' That excellent man, Bishop Patrick, stood up, and moved, that the judges, also, might be consulted what power the Queen had in visiting the Universities: complaining of the heat and passion of the gentlemen there: which they inculcated into their pupils, who brought with them the same fury to the parishes, when they came abroad, to the great disturbance of public charity. At the election at Cambridge, it C was shameful to see a hundred or more young students, en'couraged in hallooing like schoolboys and porters, and crying No Fanatic, No Occasional Conformity, against two worthy 'gentlemen that stood candidates.' James I. gave members to the Universities, out of his respect for learning, and for the sake of the republic of letters. Late events, were he again on earth, would go far towards provoking him to resume his charter, on a breach of trust. We pray that these encouragers of science and academic merit, in the person of Mr Cavendish, may never have occasion to apply to themselves the reproach Bishop Hough complained of-of having compounded to be the last of their order.
Whoever is disposed to carp at the moral and tendency of our observations, will find that he is likely to have on his hands a much more extensive quarrel with the English constitution, than he was probably at first aware. It has been the fortune of every body, we suspect, within the last three months, to hear a good deal said on all sides, of which he can by no manner of means approve. For our own part, we have never joined in wholesale abuse of the general spirit and character of our institutions. Considering the immense difficulty (according to the experience of mankind in all ages) of constructing and keeping together a tolerably good government, we thought ourselves well off whilst we were in possession of perhaps the best-certainly of the best but one-that ever had existed. On the other hand, we have no distrust of the English people. The system which it is proposed to substitute for the most defective portions of the former one, connects so naturally, and by so easy a transition, with those sound parts which are retained—whilst it is, at the same time, throughout, so much more simple, rational, and honest-that there can be no comparison, if we look at the two on paper, or leave them the matter of plain argument by plain men. In case the middling ranks are at all what we believe them to be, they will not permit the cause of reason to be contradicted and put to shame by the result. The change must secure to us, according to all probability, very nearly every one
of our former advantages, whilst it bids fair to save us from a constantly recurring load of mischief and disgrace. It is no presumption against the intelligence and virtue of the people, that they have resolved to make the experiment. Still less can it be stated (consistently with any respect for truth, sense, or history), that by reason of the revocation of that description of political franchise, which it is necessary to demolish, in order to make room for our alterations, and which had been so long notoriously and irreclaimably abused, we are grounding our reformation on an act of revolutionary injustice.
Art. XI.-Letters and Journals of Lord Byron: with Notices of his Life. By THOMAS MOORE, Esq. 2 vols. 4to. London:
WE have read this book with the greatest pleasure. Considered merely as a composition, it deserves to be classed among the best specimens of English prose which our age has produced. It contains, indeed, no single passage equal to two or three, which we could select from the Life of Sheridan. But, as a whole, it is immeasurably superior to that work. The style is agreeable, clear, and manly; and, when it rises into eloquence, rises without effort or ostentation. Nor is the matter inferior to the manner.
It would be difficult to name a book which exhibits more or kindness, fairness, and modesty. It has evidently been written, not for the purpose of showing, what, however, it often shows, how well its author can write; but for the purpose of vindicating, as far as truth will permit, the memory of a celebrated man who can no longer vindicate himself. Mr Moore never thrusts himself between Lord Byron and the public. With the strongest temptations to egotism, he has said no more about himself than the subject absolutely required. A great part-indeed the greater part of these volumes, consists of extracts from the Letters and Journals of Lord Byron; and it is difficult to speak too highly of the skill which has been shown in the selection and arrangement. We will not say that we have not occasionally remarked in these two large quartos an anecdote which should have been omitted, a letter which should have been suppressed, a name which should have been concealed by asterisks; or asterisks which do not answer the purpose of concealing the
But it is impossible, on a general survey, to deny that
the task has been executed with great judgment and great humanity. When we consider the life which Lord Byron had led, his petulance, his irritability, and his communicativeness, we cannot but admire the dexterity with which Mr Moore has contrived to exhibit so much of the character and opinions of his friend, with so little pain to the feelings of the living.
The extracts from the journals and correspondence of Lord Byron, are in the highest degree valuable-not merely on account of the information which they contain respecting the distinguished man by whom they were written, but on account, also, of their rare merit as compositions. The Letters-at least those which were sent from Italy-are among the best in our language. They are less affected than those of Pope and Walpole; they have more matter in them than those of Cowper. Knowing that many of them were not written merely for the person to whom they were directed, but were general epistles, meant to be read by a large circle, we expected to find them clever and spirited, but deficient in ease. We looked with vigilance for instances of stiffness in the language, and awkwardness in the transitions. We have been agreeably disappointed; and we must confess, that if the epistolary style of Lord Byron was artificial, it was a rare and admirable instance of that highest art, which cannot be distinguished from
Of the deep and painful interest which this book excites, no abstract can give a just notion. So sad and dark a story is scarcely to be found in any work of fiction; and we are little disposed to envy the moralist who can read it without being softened.
The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans illustrates the character of her son the regent, might, with little change, be applied to Byron. All the fairies, save one, had been bidden to his cradle. All the gossips had been profuse of their gifts. One had bestowed nobility, another genius, a third beauty. The malignant elf who had been uninvited, came last, and, unable to reverse what her sisters had done for their favourite, had mixed up a curse with every blessing. In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in his very person, there was a strange union of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages which he possessed over others, there was mingled something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, ancient indeed and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of crimes and follies, which had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he suc
ceeded had died poor, and, but for merciful judges, would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had great intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part in his mind. He had naturally a generous and tender heart; but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot, the deformity of which the beggars in the streets mimicked. Distinguished at once by the strength and by the weakness of his intellect, affectionate yet perverse, a poor lord, and a handsome cripple, he required, if ever man required, the firmest and the most judicious training. But, capriciously as nature had dealt with him, the relative to whom the office of forming his character was intrusted, was more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of rage to paroxysms of fondness. At one time she stifled him with her caresses-at another time she insulted his deformity. He came into the world, and the world treated him as his mother treated him-sometimes with kindness, sometimes with severity, never with justice. It indulged him without discrimination, and punished him without discrimination. He was truly a spoiled child,-not merely the spoiled child of his parent, but the spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of fortune, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society. His first poems were received with a contempt which, feeble as they were, they did not absolutely deserve. The poem which he published on his return from his travels, was, on the other hand, extolled far above its merit. At twenty-four he found himself on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, with Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and a crowd of other distinguished writers, beneath his feet. There is scarcely an instance in history of so sudden a rise to so dizzy an eminence.
Every thing that could stimulate, and every thing that could gratify the strongest propensities of our nature-the gaze of a hundred drawing rooms, the acclamations of the whole nation, the applause of applauded men, the love of the loveliest women— all this world, and all the glory of it, were at once offered to a young man to whom nature had given violent passions, and whom education had never taught to control them. He lived as many men live who have no similar excuses to plead for their faults. But his countrymen and his country women would love him and admire him. They were resolved to see in his excesses only the flash and outbreak of that same fiery mind which glowed in his poetry. He attacked religion; yet in religious circles his name was mentioned with fondness, and in many religious publications his works were censured with singular tenderness. He lampooned the prince regent; yet he could not alienate the
Tories. Every thing, it seemed, was to be forgiven to youth, rank, and genius.
Then came the reaction. Society, capricious in its indignation as it had been capricious in its fondness, flew into a rage with its froward and petted darling. He had been worshipped with an irrational idolatry. He was persecuted with an irrational fury. Much has been written about those unhappy domestic occurrences which decided the fate of his life. Yet nothing is, nothing ever was positively known to the public, but this, that he quarrelled with his lady, and that she refused to live with him. There have been hints in abundance, and shrugs and shakings of the head, and Well, well, we know,' and We 'could an if we would,' and 'If we list to speak,' and 'There be that might an they list.' But we are not aware that there is before the world, substantiated by credible, or even by tangi. ble evidence, a single fact indicating that Lord Byron was more to blame than any other man who is on bad terms with his wife. The professional men whom Lady Byron consulted, were undoubtedly of opinion that she ought not to live with her husband. But it is to be remembered that they formed that opinion without hearing both sides. We do not say, we do not mean to insinuate, that Lady Byron was in any respect to blame. We think that those who condemn her on the evidence which is now before the public, are as rash as those who condemn her husband. We will not pronounce any judgment; we cannot, even in our own minds, form any judgment on a transaction which is so imperfectly known to us. It would have been well if, at the time of the separation, all those who knew as little about the matter then as we know about it now, had shown that forbearance, which, under such circumstances, is but common justice.
We know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality. In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels, pass with little notice. We read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it. But once in six or seven years, our virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer the laws of religion and decency to be violated. We must make a stand against vice. We must teach libertines, that the English people appreciate the importance of domestic ties. Accordingly, some unfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hundreds whose offences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice. If he has children, they are to be taken from him. If he has a profession, he is to be driven from it. He is cut by the higher orders, and hissed by the lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whipping-boy, by whose