He was a mortal of the careless kind,

With no great love for learning, or the learned, Who chose to go where'er he had a mind,

And never dreamed his lady was concerued: The world, as usual, wickedly inclined

To see a kingdom or a house o'erturned, Whispered he had a mistress, some said two, But for domestic quarrels one will do.

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit,

A great opinion of her own good qualities; Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it,

And such, indeed, she was in her moralities; But then she had a devil of a spirit,

And sometimes mixed up fancies with realities, And let few opportunities escape

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape.

This was an easy matter with a man

Oft in the wrong and never on his guard; And even the wisest, do the best they can,

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might brain them with their lady's fan ;' And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard,

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands,
And why and wherefore no one understands.

'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed

With persons of no sort of education,
Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred,
Grow tired of scientific conversation :

I don't choose to say much upon this head,
I'm a plain man, and in a single station,
But-Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not hen-pecked you all?

Don Jose and his lady quarrelled-why,

Not any of the many could divine,

Though several thousand people chose to try,
'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine;

I loathe that low vice curiosity,

But if there's any thing in which I shine

'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs, Not having, of my own, domestic cares.

And so I interfered, and with the best

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind;
I think the foolish people were possessed,
For neither of them could I ever find,
Although their porter afterwards confessed-
But that's no matter, and the worst's behind,
For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs,
A pail of housemaid's water unawares.

A little carley-headed, good-for nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth;
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth;

Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in
Their senses they'd have sent young master forth
To school, or had him soundly whipped at home,
To teach him manners for the time to come.

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led

For some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; They lived respectably as man and wife, Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred,

And gave no outward signs of inward strife,
Until at length the smothered fire broke out,
And put the business past all kind of doubt.

For Inez called some druggists and physicians,
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad;
But, as he had some lucid intermissions,

She next decided he was only bad;
Yet, when they asked her for her depositions,
No sort of explanation could be had,
Save that her duty both to man and God
Required this conduct-which seemed very odd.

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted,
And opened certain trunks of books and letters,
All which might, if occasion served, be quoted;
And then she had all Seville for abettors,

Besides her good old grandmother (who doted);
The hearers of her case became repeaters,
Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges,

Some for amusement, others for old grudges.*

This is indecent and unmanly, and deserves the reprobation which it universally met with. The causes of his separation were well known, and the following severe but just remarks were made upon this part of his poem soon after its publication :

It is in vain for Lord Byron to attempt in any way to justify his own behaviour in that affair; and, now that he has so openly and audaciously invited inquiry and reproach, we do not see any good reason why he should not be plainly told so by the general voice of his countrymen. It would not be an easy matter to persuade any man, who has any knowledge of the nature of woman, that a female such as Lord Byron has himself described his wife to be would rashly, or hastily, or lightly separate herself from the love which she had once been inspired with for such a man as he is, or was. Had he not heaped insult upon insult, and scorn upon scorn-had he not forced the iron of his contempt into her very soul-there is no woman of delicacy and virtue, as he

'I had been shut up in a dark street in London, writing (I think he said) "The Siege of Corinth," and had refused myself to every one till it was finished. I was surprised one day by a doctor and a lawyer almost forcing themselves at the same time into my room. I did not know till afterwards the real object of their visit. I thought their questions singular, frivolous, and somewhat importunate, if not impertinent: but what should I have thought if I had known that they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity?

'I have no doubt that my answers to these emisaries' interrogations were not very rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by other things. But Dr. Bailey could not conscientiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam; and perhaps the lawyer gave a more favorable report to his employers. The doctor said afterwards, he had been told that I always looked down when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms equally infallible, particularly those that marked the late King's case so strongly. I do not, however, tax Lady Byron with this transaction; probably she was not privy to it. She was the tool of others. Her mother always detested me; she had not even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining one day at Sir Ralph's, (who was a good sort of man, and of whom you may form some idea when I tell you that a leg of mutton was always served at his table, that he might cut the same joke upon it,) I broke a tooth, and was in great pain, which I could not avoid showing. "It will do you good," said Lady Noel; "I am glad of it!"-I gave her a look!'MEDWIN.

admitted Lady Byron to be, who would not have hoped all things and suffered all things from one, her love of whom must have been inwoven with so many exalting elements of delicious pride, and more delicious humility. To offend the love of such a woman was wrong—but it might be forgiven; to desert her was unmanly-but he might have returned and wiped for ever from her eyes the tears of her desertion; but to injure, and to desert, and then to turn back and wound her widowed privacy with unhallowed strains of cold-blooded mockerywas brutally, fiendishly, inexpiably mean. For impurities there might be some possibility of pardon, were they supposed to spring only from the reckless buoyancy of young blood and fiery passions—for impiety there might at least be pity, were it visible that the misery of the impious soul were as great as its darkness; but for offences such as this, which cannot proceed either from the madness of sudden impulse, or the bewildered agonies of self-perplexing and self-despairing doubtbut which speak the wilful and determined spite of an unrepenting, unsoftened, smiling, sarcastic, joyous sinner-for such diabolical, such slavish vice, there can be neither pity nor pardon. Our knowledge that it is committed by one of the most powerful intellects our island ever has produced lends intensity a thousand fold to the bitterness of our indignation. Every high thought that was ever kindled in our breast by the muse of Byron-every pure and lofty feeling that ever responded from within us to the sweep of his majestic inspirationsevery remembered moment of admiration and enthusiasm—is up in arms against him. We look back with a mixture of wrath and scorn to the delight with which we suffered ourselves to be filled by one who, all the while he was furnishing us with delight, must, we cannot doubt ît, have been mocking us with a eruel mockery-less cruel only, because less peculiar, than that with which he has now turned him from the lurking-place of his selfish and polluted exile, to pour the pitiful chalice of his contumely on the surrendered devotion of a virgin bosom, and the holy hopes of the mother of his child. The consciousness of the insulting deceit which has been practised upon us mingles with the nobler pain arising from the contemplation of perverted and degraded genius to make us wish that no such being as Byron ever had existed. It is indeed a sad and an humiliating thing to know, that in the same year there proceeded from the same pen two productions in all things so different as the fourth canto of "Childe Harold" and this loathsome" Don Juan.""

The poet, tired of satirizing his wife, proceeds with his poem, and