says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived in
a garret, like thoroughbred poets, and though he once roved a
careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland, he has not of late
enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his
publication; and whether it succeeds or not, it is highly improbable,
from his situation and pursuits, that he should again condescend to
become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get and be
thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well
off to have got so much from a man of this lord's station, who does
not live in a garret, but has got the sway of Newstead Abbey. Again
we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless
the giver, nor look the gift-horse in the mouth."


The criticism is ascribed to Mr Francis Jeffrey, an eloquent member
of the Scottish bar, and who was at that time supposed to be the
editor of the Edinburgh Review. That it was neither just nor fair is
sufficiently evident, by the degree of care and artificial point with
which it has been drawn up. Had the poetry been as insignificant as
the critic affected to consider it, it would have argued little for
the judgment of Mr Jeffrey, to take so much pains on a work which he
considered worthless. But the world has no cause to repine at the
severity of his strictures, for they unquestionably had the effect of
kindling the indignation of Byron, and of instigating him to that
retaliation which he so spiritedly inflicted in his satire of English
Bards and Scotch Reviewers.

It is amusing to compare the respective literary reputation of the
poet and the critic, as they are estimated by the public, now that
the one is dead, and the other dormant. The voice of all the age