A Letter to the Editor of “My Grandmother’s Review”
LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF “MY
TO THE EDITOR OF THE BRITISH REVIEW.
MY DEAR ROBERTS,
As a believer in the Church of England—to say
nothing of the State—I have been an occasional reader, and
great admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your Review,
which is rather expensive. But I do not know that any part
of its contents ever gave me much surprise till the eleventh
article of your twenty-seventh number made its appearance.
You have there most vigorously refuted a calumnious accu-
sation of bribery and corruption,(2) the credence of which in
the public mind might not only have damaged your reputation
as a barrister and an editor, but, what would have been still
worse, have injured the circulation of your journal; which,
I regret to hear, is not so extensive as the “purity (as you
well observe) of its,”(3) &c. &c. and the present taste for pro-
priety, would induce us to expect. The charge itself is of a
solemn nature, and, although in verse, is couched in terms
of such circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little
short of that generally accorded to the thirty-nine articles,(4)
to which you so frankly subscribed on taking your degrees.
It is a charge the most revolting to the heart of man, from its
frequent occurrence; to the mind of a lawyer, from its occa-
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sional truth; and to the soul of an editor, from its moral
impossibility. You are charged then in the last line of one
octave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the next, viz.
209th and 210th of the first canto of that “pestilent poem,”(5)
Don Juan,(6) with receiving, and still more foolishly acknow-
ledging the receipt of, certain monies,(7) to eulogize the un-
known author, who by this account must be known to you, if
to nobody else. An impeachment of this nature, so seriously
made, there is but one way of refuting; and it is my firm
persuasion, that whether you did or did not (and I believe
that you did not) receive the said monies, of which I wish
that he had specified the sum, you are quite right in denying
all knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this nefa-
rious description are to go forth, sanctioned by all the so-
lemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed by the veracity of
verse (as Counsellor Phillips(8) would say) what is to become
of readers hitherto implicitly confident in the not less vera-
cious prose of our critical journals? what is to become of
the reviews? And, if the reviews fail, what is to become of
the editors? It is common cause, and you have done well
to sound the alarm. I myself, in my humble sphere, will be
one of your echoes. In the words of the tragedian Liston,(9)
“I love a row,”(10) and you seem justly determined to make
one.
It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that the writer
might have been in jest; but this only aggravates his crime.
A joke, the proverb says, “breaks no bones;” but it may
break a bookseller, or it may be the cause of bones being
broken. The jest is but a bad one at the best for the author,
and might have been a still worse one for you, if your copious
contradiction did not certify to all whom it may concern your
own indignant innocence, and the immaculate purity of the
British Review. I do not doubt your word, my dear Roberts,
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yet I cannot help wishing that in a case of such vital im-
portance, it had assumed the more substantial shape of an
I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take these ob-
servations of mine in good part; they are written in a spirit
of friendship not less pure than your own editorial integrity.
I have always admired you; and not knowing any shape
which friendship and admiration can assume more agreeable
and useful than that of good advice, I shall continue my
lucubrations, mixed with here and there a monitory hint as
to what I conceive to be the line you should pursue, in case
you should ever again be assailed with bribes, or accused of
taking them. By the way, you don’t say much about the
poem, except that it is “flagitious.”(13) This is a pity—you should
have cut it up; because, to say the truth, in not doing so,
you somewhat assist any notions which the malignant might
entertain on the score of the anonymous asseveration which
has made you so angry.
You say, no bookseller “was willing to take upon himself
“the publication, though most of them disgrace themselves
“by selling it.”(14) Now, my dear friend, though we all know
that those fellows will do any thing for money, methinks the
disgrace is more with the purchasers; and some such, doubt-
less, there are, for there can be no very extensive selling (as
you will perceive by that of the British Review) without
buying. You then add, “what can the critic say?” I am
sure I don’t know; at present he says very little, and that
not much to the purpose. Then comes, “for praise, as far
“as regards the poetry, many passages might be exhibited;
“for condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all.”
Now, my dear good Roberts, I feel for you and for your repu-
tation; my heart bleeds for both; and I do ask you, whether
or not such language does not come positively under the
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description of “the puff collusive,” for which see Sheridan’s
farce of “The Critic”(15) (by the way, a little more facetious
than your own farce under the same title) towards the close
of scene second, act the first.
The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord Byron;
but you feel yourself “at liberty to suppose it not Lord B.’s
“composition.” Why did you ever suppose that it was? I
approve of your indignation—I applaud it—I feel as angry as
you can; but perhaps your virtuous wrath carries you a lit-
tle too far, when you say that “no misdemeanour, not even
“that of sending into the world obscene and blasphemous
“poetry, the product of studious lewdness and laboured im-
“piety, appears to you in so detestable a light as the ac-
“ceptance of a present by the editor of a review, as the
“condition of praising an author.” The devil it doesn’t!—
Think a little. This is being critical overmuch. In point of
Gentile benevolence or Christian charity, it were surely less
criminal to praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fellow creature
for nothing; and as to the assertion of the comparative in-
nocence of blasphemy and obscenity, confronted with an
editor’s “acceptance of a present,”(16) I shall merely observe,
that as an editor you say very well, but as a Christian barris-
ter, I would not recommend you to transplant this sentence
into a brief.
And yet you say, “the miserable man (for miserable he is,
“as having a soul of which he cannot get rid”)—But here I
must pause again, and inquire what is the meaning of this
parenthesis. We have heard of people of “little soul,” or of
“no soul at all,” but never till now of “the misery of having
“a soul of which we cannot get rid;”(17) a misery under which
you are possibly no great sufferer, having got rid apparently
of some of the intellectual part of your own when you penned
this pretty piece of eloquence.
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But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, always sup-
posing him not the author, to disclaim “with all gentlemanly
“haste,” &c. &c. I am told that Lord B. is in a foreign
country, some thousand miles off it may be; so that it will be
difficult for him to hurry to your wishes. In the mean time,
perhaps you yourself have set an example of more haste than
gentility; but “the more haste the worse speed.”
Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Roberts,
which appears to me to be in some degree not quite expli-
citly worded:
I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, this subject
discussed at the tea-table of Mr. S. the poet,(19) who expressed
himself, I remember, a good deal surprised that you had
never reviewed his epic poem, nor any of his six tragedies,
of which, in one instance, the bad taste of the pit, and in all
the rest, the barbarous repugnance of the principal actors,
prevented the performance. Mrs. and the Misses S. being
in a corner of the room perusing the proof sheets of some
new poems on Italy (I wish, by the by, Mrs. S. would make
the tea a little stronger) the male part of the conversazione(20)
were at liberty to make a few observations on the poem and
passage in question, and there was a difference of opinion.
Some thought the allusion was to the “British Critic;”
others, that by the expression, “my Grandmother’s Review,”
it was intimated that “my grandmother” was not the reader
of the review, but actually the writer; thereby insinuating,
my dear Roberts, that you were an old woman; because, as
in lieu of Edinburgh and Quarterly; so “my Grandmother’s
“Review” and Roberts’s might be also synonimous. Now,
whatever colour this insinuation might derive from the cir-
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cumstance of your wearing a gown, as well as from your
time of life, your general style, and various passages of your
writings,—I will take upon myself to exculpate you from all
suspicion of the kind, and assert, without calling Mrs. Ro-
berts in testimony, that if ever you should be chosen Pope,
you will pass through all the previous ceremonies with as
much credit as any pontiff since the parturition of Joan.(23) It
is very unfair to judge of sex from writings, particularly
from those of the British Review. We are all liable to be
deceived; and it is an indisputable fact, that many of the best
articles in your journal, which were attributed to a veteran
female,(24) were actually written by you yourself; and yet to this
day there are people who could never find out the difference.
But let us return to the more immediate question.
I agree with you that it is impossible Lord Byron should
be the author, not only because, as a British peer,(25) and a
British poet, it would be impracticable for him to have re-
course to such facetious fiction, but for some other reasons
which you have omitted to state. In the first place, his lord-
ship has no grandmother. Now the author—and we may
believe him in this—doth expressly state that the “British”
is his “Grandmother’s Review;” and if, as I think I have
distinctly proved, this was not a mere figurative allusion to
your supposed intellectual age and sex, my dear friend, it
follows, whether you be she or no, that there is such an
elderly lady still extant. And I can the more readily credit
this, having a sexagenary aunt of my own, who perused you
constantly, till unfortunately falling asleep over the leading
article of your last number, her spectacles fell off and were
broken against the fender, after a faithful service of fifteen
years, and she has never been able to fit her eyes since; so
that I have been forced to read you aloud to her; and this is
in fact the way in which I became acquainted with the sub-
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ject of my present letter, and thus determined to become
your public correspondent.
In the next place, Lord B.’s destiny seems in some sort
like that of Hercules(26) of old, who became the author of all
unappropriated prodigies. Lord B. has been supposed the
author of the “Vampire,” of a “Pilgrimage to Jerusalem,”
“To the Dead Sea,” of “Death upon the Pale Horse,” of
odes to “La Valette,” to “Saint Helena,” to the “Land of
the Gaul,” and to a sucking child.(27) Now he turned out to have
written none of these things. Besides, you say, he knows
in what a spirit of, &c. you criticise—Are you sure he knows
all this? that he has read you like my poor dear aunt?
They tell me he is a queer sort of a man; and I would not
be too sure, if I were you, either of what he has read or
of what he has written. I thought his style had been the
serious and terrible. As to his sending you money, this is
the first time that ever I heard of his paying his reviewers in
that coin; I thought it was rather in their own, to judge
from some of his earlier productions. Besides, though he
may not be profuse in his expenditure, I should conjecture
that his reviewer’s bill is not so long as his tailor’s.
Shall I give you what I think a prudent opinion? I don’t
mean to insinuate, God forbid! but if, by any accident, there
should have been such a correspondence between you and
the unknown author, whoever he may be, send him back his
money: I dare say he will be very glad to have it again: it
can’t be much, considering the value of the article and the
circulation of the journal; and you are too modest to rate your
praise beyond its real worth.—Don’t be angry,—I know you
won’t, —at this appraisement of your powers of eulogy; for on
the other hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your abuse is
worth, not its own weight,—that’s a feather,—but your weight
in gold. So don’t spare it: if he has bargained for that,
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give it handsomely, and depend upon your doing him a
friendly office.
But I only speak in case of possibility; for, as I said be-
fore, I cannot believe in the first instance, that you would
receive a bribe to praise any person whatever; and still less
can I believe that your praise could ever produce such an
offer. You are a good creature, my dear Roberts, and a
clever fellow; else I could almost suspect that you had fallen
into the very trap set for you in verse by this anonymous
wag, who will certainly be but too happy to see you saving
him the trouble of making you ridiculous. The fact is,
that the solemnity of your eleventh article does make you
look a little more absurd than you ever yet looked, in all
probability, and at the same time does no good; for if any
body believed before in the octave stanzas, they will believe
still, and you will find it not less difficult to prove your ne-
gative, than the learned Partridge found it to demonstrate
his not being dead, to the satisfaction of the readers of
almanacs.
What the motives of this writer may have been for (as you
magnificently translate his quizzing you) “stating, with the
“particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery of a ground-
“less fiction,” (do pray, my dear R., talk a little less “in
“King Cambyses’ vein”(28)) I cannot pretend to say; perhaps
to laugh at you, but that is no reason for your benevolently
making all the world laugh also. I approve of your being
angry; I tell you I am angry too; but you should not have
shown it so outrageously. Your solemn “if somebody per-
“sonating the Editor of the,” &c. &c. “has received from
“Lord B. or from any other person,” reminds me of Charley
Incledon’s(29) usual exordium when people came into the tavern
to hear him sing without paying their share of the reckoning
—“If a maun, or ony maun, or ony other maun,” &c. &c.;
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you have both the same redundant eloquence. But why
should you think any body would personate you? Nobody
would dream of such a prank who ever read your composi-
tions, and perhaps not many who have heard your conversa-
tion. But I have been inoculated with a little of your pro-
lixity. The fact is, my dear Roberts, that somebody has
tried to make a fool of you, and what he did not succeed in
doing, you have done for him and for yourself.
With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom I
cannot find out (can you?) I have nothing to say; my busi-
ness is with you. I am sure that you will, upon second
thoughts, be really obliged to me for the intention of this
letter, however far short my expressions may have fallen of
the sincere good will, admiration, and thorough esteem, with
which I am ever, my dear Roberts,
Most truly yours,
WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK.(30)
Sept.—,—.
P.S. My letter is too long to revise, and the post is going.
I forget whether or not I asked you the meaning of your last
words, “the forgery of a groundless fiction.” Now, as all
forgery is fiction, and all fiction a kind of forgery, is not this
tautological? The sentence would have ended more strongly
with “forgery;” only it hath an awful Bank of England
sound, and would have ended like an indictment, besides
sparing you several words, and conferring some meaning
upon the remainder. But this is mere verbal criticism.
Good bye—once more yours truly,
W. C.
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P. S. 2nd.—Is it true that the Saints make up the losses of
the review?—It is very handsome in them to be at so great an
expence—Pray pardon my taking up so much of your time
from the bar, and from your clients, who I hear are about the
same number with the readers of your journal. Twice more
yours,
W. C.
EDITORIAL NOTES
EDITORIAL NOTES
[1] Reference to the British Review and London Critical Journal (1811-25) and its editor, William Roberts (1767-1849). In Don Juan I.209 (1819), Byron called The British “My Grandmother’s Review”, claiming to have bribed it in order to write a positive review of his poem. Roberts responded to this accusation in his article “Don Juan” (art. XI in The British Review, vol. 14, 1819), denying said charges. Byron replied to Roberts in “Letter to the Editor of ‘My Grandmother’s Review’”, written in 1819 but published only in 1822 in The Liberal. No further response from Roberts ever appeared.
[2] Reference to Lord Byron’s Don Juan I.209-10: “For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, / I’ve bribed My Grandmother’s Review, – the British!”
[3] Reference to “Don Juan”, The British Review 14 (1819), p. 267: “A Review which has long maintained, in the cause of public and private virtue, its consistency and purity”.
[4] Thirty-nine Articles of Religion (1571), doctrinal statements of the Church of England.
[5] Reference to “Don Juan”, The British Review 14 (1819), p. 267: “The miserable man […] who has given birth to this pestilent poem”.
[6] Lord Byron’s Don Juan, the first two cantos of which appeared in 1819.
[7] Plural of “money”, a form frequently used at this time.
[8] Charles Phillips (1786-1859), Irish poet and barrister.
[9] John Liston (1776-1846), English comedian.
[10] Untraced quotation.
[11] A sworn statement in writing, especially one made under oath before a magistrate or an officer.
[12] Reference to John Atkins (1760-1838), Lord Mayor of London in 1818 and 1819.
[13] (Latin) Shameful thing. Reference to “Don Juan”, The British Review 14 (1819), p. 266: “Of a poem so flagitious that no bookseller has been willing to take upon himself the publication”.
[14] “Don Juan”, The British Review 14 (1819).
[15] Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The Critic; or, a Tragedy Rehearsed (produced at Drury Lane in 1779 and published in 1781), a burlesque drama in three acts. In Act I, sc. 2, the “Puff collusive” assumes “as circumstances require, the various forms of Letter to the Editor, Occasional Anecdote, Impartial Critique, Observation from Correspondent, or Advertisement from the party”; the “puff collusive” also “acts in the disguise of determined hostility. It is much used by bold booksellers and enterprising poets”.
[16] See “Don Juan”, The British Review 14 (1819), p. 267: “The product of ‘studious lewdness’, and ‘laboured impiety’, appears to us in so detestable a light as the acceptance of a present by an editor of a review as the condition of praising an author”.
[17] Reference to “Don Juan”, The British Review 14 (1819), p. 267: “For miserable he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get rid”.
[18] Lord Byron, Don Juan I.209-10.
[19] William Sotheby (1757-1833), English poet and translator. Sotheby was the author of the epic poem Saul; A Poem, in Two Parts (1807), Five Tragedies (1814), and Farewell to Italy (1818).
[20] (Italian) Conversation. During the Romantic period, the term Conversazione was used to refer to social gatherings also dedicated to intellectual discussions about art, literature or music.
[21] The Edinburgh Review (1802-1929), Whig periodical published by Archibald Constable (1774-1827) and edited by Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) during the Romantic period.
[22] The Quarterly Review (1809-1967), Tory periodical published by John Murray and edited by William Gifford (1756-1826) during the Romantic period.
[23] Pope Joan, a legendary female pope said to have reigned from 855 to 858.
[24] With a nod to the title of this “letter”, Byron mockingly refers to Roberts as an elderly woman.
[25] See “Don Juan” , The British Review 14 (1819), p. 267: “Lord Byron could not have been the author of this assertion concerning us […] not only because he is a British peer”.
[26] Heracles (or Hercules), in Greek mythology the son of Zeus and Alcmene.
[27] Here Byron takes some liberty with the titles of works that were falsely attributed to him, whether by error or with fraudulent intent.
[28] In William Shakespeare’s Henry IV (1597), Act II, sc. 4, Falstaff speaks “in King Cambyses’ vein”, mocking the pretentious style of monarchs in medieval plays.
[29] Charles Incledon (1763-1826), Cornish tenor singer.
[30] See Lord Byron’s letter to John Murray of 23 August 1819: “I send you a letter to R**ts, signed ‘Wortley Clutterbuck’, which you may publish in what form you please, in answer to this article”.
[31] Fictional place, possibly Piddington in Oxfordshire.
Ultimo aggiornamento
08.03.2025