the real and most lasting foundation of his fame. The Manfreds and Cains were but exaggerations doubly exaggerated of his favourite conventionalism; but "Don Juan" is all real. To speak of this poem and of morality in the same breath is simple foolishness, and so must every attempt be to explain or justify its freedom. We believe that, as a mere question of art, the narrowness which limits a man's life to a series of continual indulgences in one favourite sin and varying expressions of one passion, is as narrow as the creed of the poorest precisian who ever was scoffed at by poet. Libertinism is as limited, as cramping and confining, as petty a kind of bondage, as any puritanism; and "passion," SO called, has as little claim to be considered the grand spring of human movements, as any other of the manifold impulses which make or mar us. And at the same time no poem can take the highest rank of poetic excellence which confines it self to a certain audience, whatever that audience may be. Byron boasts that he will not make "ladies' books al dilettar le femine et la plebe;" and this is a foolish vaunt, which we have heard repeated in our own day by various new poets, who think it finer to write for a class than for humankind. But it ought to be understood by all capable minds that this is a very poor and false piece of bravado. Humankind, man and woman, small and great, is more worth writing for than any section of it, even were that section the most gifted, the most wise and great minds of their time. The whole is greater than a part; and he who chooses for himself a limited audience, ought at least to have the good sense to perceive that he is not bigger, but less in his aim, than other men-an amount of perception, however, with which we are not allowed to credit the poets who

profess to produce strong meat for men and not milk for babes. Every such pretension is of its very nature an apology for littleness, little as it is intended so to be.

When we say this we do not pretend to assert or to hope that in any but an ideal state of society it will be possible to maintain that poetry and morality must always go together. But we are confident in saying that few great poems, at least of those which have been written since Christianity began to affect the world (though even this limitation is scarcely necessary), are so interwoven with immoral situations and sentiments as to be inseparable from them, and to keep them continually before the reader. It is this characteristic which must always limit the fame of "Don Juan," a fault infinitely more serious than any amount of occasional aberrations into forbidden ways. Yet with all its manifold defects there is an easy power and mastery in it, which perhaps, more than any other poem of the time, gives to the reader the conception of strength and capacity almost unbounded. This, setting aside not only its morality, but its moral tone (two quite distinct things), and even setting aside the wonderful beauty of many passages, is the thing which strikes us most. The poet manages a measure by no means facile with the perfect ease of one to whom words are absolutely subject, and who can weave them as he likes, now splendidly, now fantastically, now with the most tragic, and now with the most trifling, meaning, but always with an invincible grace, facility, and lightness of touch, which fill the mind of the critic with a purely technical and professional admiration, in addition to the admiration which he must share with every lover of poetry. The melodiousness of the strain never glides, as it

does in Shelley's hands, into mere music,dropping the thread of articulate thought; everything is clear -every incident and detail, every vicissitude of the much-prolonged and lingering narrative. How it must have flowed forth, as natural, as easy as common talk, as spontaneous-boundless so far as the writer's capacity went, limited only by intention, and such poor human details as time and space, which keep the flood within inevitable channels! Even the occasional (and very occasional) jars in the verse give us a sense of careless force, never of poverty. That Byron did not take the trouble to alter here and there a defective line, seems part of the very freedom and ease and careless spontaneity of the strain. Thus it is strength, the sense of gigantic exertion without any strain of power, put forth as lightly as a child's play, yet as effectually as if the earth had been rent by the effort, which is the first great charm of the poem. With that hand so strong, so deft, so easy,so all-capable, what might not the poet do if he would? We are lost in admiration of his vast capacity, his smiling and careless power.

This is the first and greatest quality of "Don Juan." The exquisite passages with which the poem abounds, the absolute lucidity and distinctness of the narrative, and this sense of strength, and ease, and grace, and infinite capability, give to it a claim upon all who love and understand poetry. But when we have said this, we have stated only its real claims to greatness. It has another claim to another kind of greatness which has also been responded to largely, and which perhaps will continue to be responded to as long as men are such as they

ventional ideal. Once more, we have the very climax and apotheosis of commonplace in this handsome young hero, made of coarse flesh and blood, washed over with just that lacker of outside refinement and sensibility which the vulgar love-who roams from love to love, and from adventure to adventure, always lucky, always safe to get clear of any scrape in which he finds himself. Such a personage is the incarnation of fine fancy to all commonplace and prosaic minds. Poor poet, who did not write books to delight the people! It is at once his glory and his shame that he himself loved no other ideal than that which is the god of the plebe; and it is the plebe onlymeaning thereby no social class, but those minds which, irrespective of rank, occupy the lowest imaginative level, and are content with the poorest ideal to whom his revelation was addressed. Cynicism is generally supposed to address itself to a more intellectual class; but the cynicism of "Don Juan" is exactly of the kind which delights the vulgar, and is their highest conception of superiority. This beautiful, daring, fortunate young hero goes about the world and sees the same weaknesses everywhere, and laughs. He is not ill-natured. On the contrary, he asks no better; he takes advantage of the imperfection of nature, and caresses her, and smiles, and goes on. They are all the same, high and low, old and young, he says with perfect complacency; he sees through them all, and does his best to please, and takes whatever he can get, and nods aside at the spectators. He has the ease, the grace, the strength of a god; and he has the soul of a costermonger; Heaven forgive us! there are virtuous costermongers as there are virtuous peers, and why we should thus stigmatise a class we know not.

But this hero of poetry, this epic impersonation of man, is of the commonest and meanest mental type of humanity. His superiorities are all superficial; he is comprehensible through and through-there is neither depth, nor mystery, nor any secret in him that can confuse the vulgarest reader. And accordingly, the vulgar, the plebe whom the poet affected to despise-those who in ordinary cases stare and gape at poetry-rose up and gave their coarse, unaccustomed hand to that other half of the world which prepares the thrones and pedestals of fame; and between them, while the song was still warm on his lips, this strange pair placed Byron on his pinnacle-an elevation half of real greatness, half of false fame- -a place perhaps unparalleled in poetry, and entirely unique in England. Thus it was that, without pause or interval, Byron won everything, in point of reputation, which the world has to give. We need not linger upon the later portion of his life. It had a kind of love in its last chapter which

gave him a kind of happiness-perhaps the only kind of love and happiness of which he was capable. His death was like his life-a mixture of the real and the false, of tragedy and mock tragedy, of some genuine generosity and sentiment and a great deal of counterfeit. Amid the wild, confused, and bewildering melodrama of Greek emancipation amid strangers, with theatrical shouts in his ears, and operatic figures grouped about him, far away from any true affection or friend more trusted than an old servant-he died in the full flower of his days,-Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita. No more was granted to him, no time of reflection, no afternoon of thought. Never was life less happy, more forlorn and wasted, and never was end more pitiful. And thus all was ended upon earth for a man who had received every gift which Heaven could bestow upon a human creature-every gift except the one of knowing how to use the glorious faculties which God had put into his hands.

"Now then, girls, array yourselves in purple and orange; summon Annetta and produce your choicest garments in those colours; or, if you are not provided, let us sally forth and procure them forthwith. A dress of orange, say, with a purple scarf, and a purple bonnet with orange flowers; something in that style would look neat and expressive, wouldn't it? Anyhow there is not a moment to be lost, for we must all repair to the scene of war to-morrow at the very latest."

"What nonsense you talk, Charlie! as if we could possibly make ourselves into such frights. But do you really mean that you have been elected? I shall be so pleased

"Why, not exactly elected, my love; you go too fast, you little thing; but everything has been settled satisfactorily, and I am to stand for the borough, and you must come with me at once to help to carry on the canvass."

This announcement took place, after greetings on my arrival, in the drawing-room in Sackville Street; and then explaining matters to Sybil, who had so far heard nothing of the reason for my absence, I produced a copy of the poster which had been sent from the printing-office, wherein the electors of Leatherby were informed in purple letters on a flaming yellow ground that their very faithful and obedient servant, Charles West, presumed to invite their suffrages for the representation of the borough to fill the vacancy caused by the removal of their noble and respected member to the responsibilities of a seat in the Upper House of Parliament. That he could not express his political sentiments

more clearly than by saying that they were generally in accord with those of their esteemed member and fellow-townsman, Mr. Sheepshanks, and of the great party to whose efforts and measures so much of the prosperity of the country and the manufacturing interests was due. And so forth, according to received practice. Also, that administrative reform would always receive his cordial support, especially such measures as were needed for organising the military forces of the country on a basis of improved efficiency and greater economy. Finally, the candidate stated that, although a comparative stranger himself, he was connected with Leatherby by family ties, and hoped now to become a member of their society in every sense.

The indefatigable Herries accompanied us on our journey the next morning. "I'll see you started properly," he said, "and then you must take your own line for the war-ministership." Mrs. Herries came also to see the fun; and the three ladies, without exactly adopting the costume I had suggested, were yet attired in a manner sufficiently pronounced to denote their connection with the candidate. But any colour would become Eva, or Sybil either; and Mrs. Herries, flushed and happy at being allowed to accompany her husband anywhere, looked handsomer than ever.

But we were not at all prepared for the greeting that awaited us at Leatherby, where, as the train drew up, a discordant clang almost enough to frighten the engine burst forth from the town band, intended to do duty for "See the con

quering hero comes," but with improvised variations on each instrument. On the platform, set off by a background of a purple and orange banner, stood the candidate's committee: Mr. Rupert Bowles, his brother, Mr. William Bowles, Mr. Scrap, Mr. Handsaw, Mr. Hunter, Messrs. St. Leger and Gernell, the bankers, Mr. Hambrowe, the wine merchant of Fore Street, Mr. Tawney, the wine merchant of Stampton Street, Messrs. Dyapur and Ruche, the leading drapers, Mr. Staine, the upholsterer, Mr. Prymekut, the leading butcher, and others too numerous to mention. "There can't be anybody to speak of left for a committee on the other side," whispered Herries, even if they try to get one up." Then as we stepped on to the platform, Mr. Rupert Bowles moved forward, and I shook hands with all the committee, and then introduced them to Eva, who, looking very pretty and shy, shook hands all round; and then Sybil, also looking very pretty and shy, shook hands all round too, while a select deputation of small boys, who had managed to get on to the platform, cried Hooray! and were immediately chased off by the one policeman. Outside the station we found Mrs. Scrap in her pony-carriage, herself and the ponies ablaze with orange ribbons, and Eva was invited to take the vacant seat, while Sybil and Mrs. Herries were assisted into the Three Butts fly, which awaited us with the Fergusson mare and her companion similarly decorated. The whole distance from the station to the Three Butts being rather less than a quarter of a mile, the ladies would fain have walked up after us, but it was represented that this would mar the effect; whereas however it was intended that the carriages should drive on and pull up with a splash at the Three Butts, thus announcing our advent, it happened that the procession was formed

and in motion before the ladies were ready to start, and the street being somewhat narrow the carriages were unable to pass, and so brought up the rear of our procession, to wit:A purple banner with orange streamers, borne by two men.

Band of seven performers, all performing vigorously and independently, supported by juvenile attendants on either side.

Two youths carrying flags.

The candidate, arm-in-arm with Messrs. Rupert Bowles and Scrap.

Mr. Herries, on the same friendly terms with Messrs. William Bowles and Hunter.

The rest of the committee.

Various residents of the borough, for the most part disqualified for exercise of the franchise by reason of their tender age.

Mrs. Scrap's pony-phæton.
The Three Butts fly.

The whole effect must have been inexpressibly ludicrous, but I could not venture to look round. From various houses streamers were suspended, useful rather as indicating the proclivities of the owners than remarkable for size or as works of design; but from the second floor of Messrs. Dyapur and Ruche's establishment which faced the inn just at the entrance into the Fore Street, and at its widest part, quite a balloon of coloured calico floated out in the air. "You see, Captain," said Mr. Dyapur, when the procession stopped, you didn't give us much time for preparation, but we've done our best." I was just going to observe that I hoped it would wash, when the idea suddenly struck me that perhaps this was one of the items to be included in the election bill, and that utilitarian questions of this sort would be held to savour of meanness unworthy of a right-thinking candidate, so I held my peace.

At the open windows of the Three Butts, in the rooms which