15368	----	Proofreading Team. FUGITIVE PIECES BY GEORGE GORDON NOËL BYRON REPRODUCED FROM THE FIRST EDITION WITH A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE BY MARCEL KESSEL PUBLISHED FOR THE FACSIMILE TEXT SOCIETY BY COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW YORK: MCMXXXIII BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE _Fugitive Pieces_, Byron's first volume of verse, was privately printed in the autumn of 1806, when Byron was eighteen years of age. Passages in Byron's correspondence indicate that as early as August of that year some of the poems were in the printers' hands and that during the latter part of August and during September the printing was suspended in order that Byron might give his poems an "entire new form." The new form consisted, in part, in an enlargement; for he wrote to Elizabeth Pigot about September that he had nearly doubled his poems "partly by the discovery of some I conceived to be lost, and partly by some new productions." According to Moore, _Fugitive Pieces_ was ready for distribution in November. The last poem in the volume bears the date of November 16, 1806. A difficulty in supposing the date of completion of the volume to be about November 16 is that two copies contain inscriptions in Byron's hand with earlier dates. On the copy of the late Mr. J.A. Spoor, of Chicago, the inscription reads: "October 21st Tuesday 1806--Haec poemata ex dono sunt--Georgii Gordon Byron, Vale." That on the copy in the Morgan library reads: "Nov. 8, 1806, H.P.E.D.S.G.G.B., Southwell.--Vale!--Byron," the initials evidently standing for the Latin words of the preceding inscription. The Latin "Vale" in each inscription, however, suggests that it commemorates a leave-taking, the date referring not to the presentation but to the farewell. It has been suggested that copies of the volume were distributed earlier than November and that some of the poems, printed separately and distributed in fly-leaf form, were added later. This would explain such discrepancies as the early dates of the inscriptions, and the presence of Byron's name on pages 46 and 48 in a volume otherwise anonymous, but there is little evidence to support it. Moore's account of _Fugitive Pieces_ is that it was distributed in November, Byron presenting the first copy to the Reverend J.T. Becher, prebendary of Southwell minster, who objected to what he considered the too voluptuous coloring of the poem "To Mary." The objection led Byron to suppress the edition immediately, he himself burning nearly every copy. This account is corroborated in part by Miss Pigot and in part by Byron. Immediately after the destruction, Byron began the preparation of a second volume, to replace _Fugitive Pieces_. This appeared in January, 1807, as _Poems on Various Occasions_, Byron describing it as "vastly correct and miraculously chaste." Of the 38 poems that constitute _Fugitive Pieces_, all except "To Mary," "To Caroline," and the last six stanzas of "To Miss E.P." were reprinted in _Poems on Various Occasions_. Nineteen of the original 38 poems occur in Byron's third work, _Hours of Idleness_, published in June or July, 1807. All three editions were printed by S. and J. Ridge, booksellers of Newark, England. Byron himself never reprinted the poems "To Mary" or "To Caroline," or the last six stanzas of "To Miss E.P." Except in a limited facsimile of _Fugitive Pieces_, supervised by H. Buxton Forman in 1886, "To Mary" has never been reprinted--not even in supposedly complete editions of Byron's works. Only four copies of _Fugitive Pieces_ are known to-day, and one of these is incomplete. The copy from which the present facsimile is made was originally given by Byron to Becher and preserved by him in spite of his objections to the poem "To Mary." From Becher's family it passed into the possession of Mr. Faulkner, of Louth, solicitor for the Becher family. In 1885 it was in the possession of H.W. Ball, antiquary and bookseller of Barton-on-Humber, who sold it to H. Buxton Forman. Forman used it for his facsimile, but incorporated certain manuscript corrections of the original, so that his facsimile is not exact. The original is now owned by Mr. Thomas J. Wise, who has kindly permitted its use for the present facsimile. Of the other three copies, the incomplete one, lacking pages 17-20 ("To Mary") and all after page 58, is in the possession of the family of the late Mr. H.C. Roe, of Nottingham. This was originally sent by Byron to Pigot, then studying medicine in Edinburgh. Byron later asked Pigot to destroy the copy and Pigot seems to have complied so far as to tear out the offending verses "To Mary." For many years it was thought that only the Pigot and Becher copies had escaped destruction at Byron's hands. But another complete copy came to light in 1907 and is now in the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York. This contains numerous manuscript corrections and alterations, and seems to have been used as a proof copy for _Poems on Various Occasions_ (not, as has sometimes been stated, for _Hours of Idleness_). A fourth copy, also complete, was offered at public sale in 1912, and is now in the hands of the executors of the late Mr. J.A. Spoor, of Chicago. The present facsimile is an exact photographic reproduction of the text with all typographical and other errors as in the original, except that certain manuscript corrections which appear in the original perforce appear in the photographic reproduction, as follows: Page 3, _To E_.... line 2. "me" has been inserted by hand. Page 8, stanza 5, line 2. A letter ("s"?) has been erased between "so" and "oft," and the second "e" of "meets" has been inserted to replace "l." Page 14, line 10. "j" in "jargon" has been inserted by hand. Page 19, stanza (11), line 1. "night" was originally printed "might," the "m" later changed to "n" by erasure. Page 24, stanza 4, line 4. "s" in "setting" has been inserted by hand. Page 25, _Thoughts Suggested by_ "e" in "tremble" has been _a College Examination_, inserted, correcting "trimble." line 4. Page 31, line 4. "f" in "fast" was originally "l," but was changed by hand. The text has been collated with that in the Morgan library, and except for later corrections made in ink in the Morgan copy, the only differences noted are as follows: 1.) On p. 5, in the first line of the footnote, the Morgan copy reads "piece" where the Wise copy reads "p*ece," the "[dotless i]" lacking. 2.) The two pages of signature M are incorrectly numbered in the Wise copy as "41, 41," this copy having no page numbered 42; and are incorrectly numbered in the Morgan copy as "40, 42," the latter copy having no page numbered 41. The text of these pages is identical. M.K. _FUGITIVE PIECES._ TO THOSE FRIENDS, AT WHOSE REQUEST THEY WERE PRINTED, FOR WHOSE AMUSEMENT OR APPROBATION THEY ARE SOLELY INTENDED; These TRIFLES are respectfully dedicated, BY THE _AUTHOR_. As these POEMS are never intended to meet the public eye, no apology is necessary for the form in which they now appear. They are printed merely for the perusal of a few friends to whom they are dedicated; who will look upon them with indulgence; and as most of them were, composed between the age of 15 and 17, their defects will be pardoned or forgotten, in the youth and inexperience of the WRITER. * * * * * _FUGITIVE PIECES._ * * * * * ON LEAVING N--ST--D. Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle, For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay; And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way. Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain; The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more does old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast, for the war laurell'd wreath, Near Askalon's Towers John of Horiston[1] slumbers, Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy, For the safety of Edward and ENGLAND they fell, My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye, How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell. On [2]Marston with Rupert[3] 'gainst traitors contending, Four Brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field For Charles the Martyr their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty scal'd. Shades of heroes farewell! your descendant departing, From the seat of his ancestors, bids ye adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory, and you. Though a tear dims his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret; Far distant he goes with the same emulation, In the grave, he alone can his fathers forget. Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish, He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; Like you will he live, or like you will he perish, When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. 1803. [Footnote 1: Horiston Castle, in _Derbyshire_, an ancient seat of the B--r--n family.] [Footnote 2: The battle of _Marston Moor_, where the adherents of CHARLES I. were defeated.] [Footnote 3: Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to CHARLES I. He afterwards commanded the Fleet, in the Reign of CHARLES II.] * * * * * TO E----. Let Folly smile, to view the names Of thee and me in friendship twin'd, Yet virtue will have greater claims To love, than rank with vice combin'd. And though unequal is _thy_ fate, Since title deck'd my higher birth; Yet envy not this gaudy state, _Thine_ is the pride of modest worth. Our _souls_ at least congenial meet, Nor can _thy_ lot _my_ rank disgrace; Our intercourse is not less sweet, Since worth of rank supplies the place. _November_, 1802. * * * * * ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR AND VERY DEAR TO HIM. * * * * * Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 2. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once such animation beam'd; The king of terrors seiz'd her as his prey, Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 3. Oh! could that king of terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate, Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 4. But wherefore weep! her matchless spirit soars, Beyond where aplendid shines the orb of day. And weeping angels lead her to those bowers, Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay. 5. And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign! And madly God-like Providence accuse! Ah! no far fly from me attempts so vain, I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 6. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear. Such sorrow brings me honour, not disgrace.[4] 1802. [Footnote 4: The Author claims the indulgence of the reader, more for this piece, than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest, (being composed at the age of 14) and his first Essay, be preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.] * * * * * TO D. ---- In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp, A friend whom death alone could sever, But envy with malignant grasp, Has torn thee from my breast for ever. 2. True, she has forc'd thee from my _breast_, But in my _heart_ thou keep'st thy seat; There, there, thine image still must rest, Until that heart shall cease to beat. 3. And when the grave restores her dead, When life again to dust is given, On _thy dear_ breast I'll lay my head, Without _thee_! _where_ would be _my Heaven?_ _February_, 1803. * * * * * TO ---- Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffus'd in tears implore to stay; And heard _unmov'd_, thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words could say. Though deep the grief, _thy_ tears exprest, When love, and hope, lay _both_ o'erthrown, Yet still, my girl, _this_ bleeding breast, Throbb'd with deep sorrow, as _thine own_. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When _thy_ sweet lips where join'd to mine; The tears that from _my_ eye-lids flow'd, Were lost in those which fell from _thine_. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, _Thy_ gushing tears had quench'd its flame, And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In _sighs alone_ it breath'd my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, But _that_, will make us weep the more. Again, thou best belov'd, adieu! Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review, Our only _hope_ is to _forget_. 1805. * * * * * TO CAROLINE. You say you love, and yet your eye No symptom of that love conveys, You say you love, yet know not why, Your cheek no sign of love betrays. 2. Ah! did that breast with ardour glow, With me alone it joy could know, Or feel with me the listless woe, Which racks my heart when far from thee. 3. Whene'er we meet my blushes rise, And mantle through my purpled cheek, But yet no blush to mine replies, Nor e'en your eyes your love bespeak. 4. Your voice alone declares your flame, And though so sweet it breaths my name; Our passions still are not the same, Alas! you cannot love like me. 5. For e'en your lip seems steep'd in snow, And though so oft it meets my kiss, It burns with no responsive glow, Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss. 6. Ah! what are words to love like mine, Though uttered by a voice like thine, I still in murmurs must repine, And think that love can ne'er be true. 7. Which meets me with no joyous sign, Without a sigh which bids adieu; How different is my love from thine, How keen my grief when leaving you. 8. Your image fills my anxious breast, Till day declines adown the West, And when, at night, I sink to rest, In dreams your fancied form I view. 9. 'Tis then your breast, no longer cold, With equal ardour seems to burn, While close your arms around me fold, Your lips my kiss with warmth return. 10. Ah! would these joyous moments last; Vain HOPE! the gay delusions past, That voice!--ah! no, 'tis but the blast, Which echoes through the neighbouring grove. 11. But when _awake_, your lips I seek, And clasp enraptur'd all your charms, So chill's the pressure of your cheek, I fold a statue in my arms. 12. If thus, when to my heart embrac'd, No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd, You may be prudent, fair, and chaste, But ah! my girl, you _do not love_. * * * * * TO MARIA ---- Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover, Since now, our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part, to meet no more; Which tears me far from _one_ so dear, _Departing_ for a distant shore. Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, And joy will mingle with our tears; When thinking on these ancient towers, The shelter of our infant years. Where from this gothic casement's height, We view'd the lake, the park, the dell, And still though tears obstruct our sight, We lingering look a last farewell.-- O'er fields, through which we us'd to run, And spend the hours in childish play, O'er shades where, when our race was done, Reposing on my breast you lay, Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss, It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes. See still the little painted _bark_, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The _elm_, I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past, our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes, I must retrace alone, Without thee, what will they avail. Who can conceive, who has not prov'd, The anguish of a last embrace? When torn from all you fondly lov'd, You bid a long adieu to peace. _This_ is the deepest of our woes, For _this_, these tears our cheeks bedew, This is of love the final close, Oh GOD! the fondest, _last_ adieu! 1805. * * * * * FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES, FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS. Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne, Both Gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall, In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain, 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. * * * * * How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When plac'd aloft in godlike state, The blushing beauty by thy side. Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smil'd, And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd; The nymphs and Tritons danc'd around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd nor Jove relentless frown'd. HARROW, _December_ 1, 1804. * * * * * LINES IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN," BY J.J. ROUSSEAU, FOUNDED ON FACTS. Away, away,--your flattering arts, May now betray some simpler hearts; And _you_ will _smile_ at their believing, And _they_ shall _weep_ at your deceiving. _ANSWER TO THE ABOVE, ADDRESS'D TO MISS ----_. Dear simple girl those flattering arts, (From which you'd guard frail female hearts,) Exist but in imagination, Mere phantoms of your own creation; For he who sees that witching grace, That perfect form, that lovely face; With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, He never wishes to deceive thee; Once let you at your mirror glance, You'll there descry that elegance, Which from our sex demands such praises, But envy in the other raises.-- Then he who tells you of your beauty, Believe me only does his duty; Ah! fly not from the candid youth, It is not flattery, but truth. _July_, 1804. * * * * * ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS, AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. Where are those honours? IDA, once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne; As ancient Rome fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a Barbarian in her Cæsar's place; So you degenerate share as hard a fate, And seat _Pomposus_, where your _Probus_ sate. Of narrow brain, but of a narrower soul, Pomposus, holds you in his harsh controul; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense, and new fangled rules, (Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools,) Mistaking _pedantry_, for _learning's_ laws, He governs, sanctioned but by self applause. With him, the same dire fate attending Rome, Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom; Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name. HARROW, _July_, 1805. * * * * * EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND. Oh Boy! forever lov'd, for ever dear, What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier; What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death. Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course, Could sighs have check'd his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey. Thou still had'st liv'd, to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight: Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer, was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live, (Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive) Heart broken now, I wait an equal doom, Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb; Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest, I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast; That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head, Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead; This life resign'd without one parting sigh, Together in one bed of earth we'll lie! Together share the fate to mortals given, Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven. HARROW, 1803. * * * * * ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN DYING. Animula! vagula, Blandula, Hospes, comesque, corporis, Quoe nunc abibis in Loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec ut soles dabis Jocos. _TRANSLATION_. Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite! Friend and associate of this clay, To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 1806. * * * * * TO MARY. Rack'd by the flames of jealous rage, By all her torments deeply curst, Of hell-born passions far the worst, What hope my pangs can now assuage? 2. I tore me from thy circling arms, To madness fir'd by doubts and fears, Heedless of thy suspicious tears, Nor feeling for thy feign'd alarms. 3. Resigning every thought of bliss, Forever, from your love I go, Reckless of all the tears that flow, Disdaining thy polluted kiss. 4. No more that bosom heaves for me, On it another seeks repose, Another riot's on its snows, Our bonds are broken, both are free. 5. No more with mutual love we burn, No more the genial couch we bless, Dissolving in the fond caress; Our love o'erthrown will ne'er return. 6. Though love than ours could ne'er be truer, Yet flames too fierce themselves destroy, Embraces oft repeated cloy, _Ours_ came too _frequent_, to endure. 7. You quickly sought a second lover, And I too proud to share a heart, Where once I held the _whole_, not _part_, Another mistress must discover. 8. Though not the _first_ one, who hast blest me, Yet I will own, you was the dearest, The one, unto my bosom nearest; So I conceiv'd, when I possest thee. 9. Even now I cannot well forget thee, And though no more in folds of pleasure, Kiss follows kiss in countless measure, I hope _you_ sometimes will regret me. 10. And smile to think how oft were done, What prudes declare a sin to act is, And never but in darkness practice, Fearing to trust the tell-tale sun. 11. And wisely therefore night prefer, Whose dusky mantle veils their fears, Of _this_, and _that_, of eyes and ears, Affording shades to those that err. 12. Now, by my foul, 'tis most delight To view each other panting, dying. In love's _extatic posture_ lying, Grateful to _feeling_, as to _sight_. 13. And had the glaring God of Day, (As formerly of Mars and Venus) Divulg'd the joys which pass'd between us, Regardless of his _peeping_ ray. 14. Of love admiring such a _sample_, The Gods and Goddesses descending, Had never fancied us offending, But _wisely_ followed _our example_. * * * * * When to their airy hall, my father's voice, Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice, When pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns, To mark the spot, where earth to earth returns. No lengthen'd scroll of virtue, and renown, My _epitaph_, shall be my name alone; If _that_ with honour fails to crown my clay, Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay; _That_, only _that_, shall single out the shot, By _that_ remember'd, or fore'er forgot.-- 1803. * * * * * TO ---- 1. Oh! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay? The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow, But brings with new torture, the curse of to-day. 2. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, I blast not the fiends, who have hurl'd me from bliss, For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses, Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this-- 3. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning. Would my lips breathe a flame, which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 4. But now tears and curses alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us, our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 5. Yet still though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 6. Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me, Since in life, love and friendship, for ever are fled, If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead. 1805. * * * * * 1. When I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe, For your lip, would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray, which can never deceive. 2. Yet still, this fond bosom regrets whilst adoring, That love like the leaf, must fall into the sear, That age will come on, when remembrance deploring, Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear. 3. That the time must arrive, when no longer retaining Their auburn, these locks must wave thin to the breeze. When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay, and disease. 4. 'Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my features Tho' I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree; Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, In the death which one day will deprive me of thee. 5. No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd, To rivet the fetters of husband and wife; By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd, To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life. 6. But as death my belov'd, soon or late, shall o'ertake us, And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low. 7. Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours will unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 1805. * * * * * ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 1806. Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection, Embitters the present, compar'd with the past; Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last. 2. Where fancy yet joys, to retrace the resemblance, Of comrades in friendship, and mischief allied; How welcome once more your ne'er fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd. 3. Again I revisit the hills where we sported, The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; The school where loud warn'd by the bell we resorted, To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught. 4. Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining at eve on yon tombstone I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 5. I once more view the room with spectators surrounded, Where as Zanga I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While to swell my young pride such applauses resounded, I fancied that MOSSOP[5] himself was outshone. 6. Or as Lear I pour'd for the deep imprecation, By my daughters of kingdom and reason depriv'd: Till fir'd by loud plaudits, and self adulation, I consider'd myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd. 7. Ye dreams of my boyhood how much I regret you, As your memory beams through this agoniz'd breast, Thus sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you, Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest. 8. I thought this poor brain fever'd even to madness, Of tears as of reason forever was drain'd, But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness, Convince me, the springs have some moisture retain'd. 9. Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection, Has wrung from these eye-lids to weeping long dead, In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection, The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed. [Footnote 5: MOSSOP, a cotempory of GARRICK, famous for his performance of _Zanga_, in YOUNG's tragedy of the _Revenge_.] * * * * * THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. High in the midst surrounded by his peers, M--ns--l his ample front sublime uprears; Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God, While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod. Whilst all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, _His_ voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach, to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little vers'd in any art beside; Who with scarce sense to pen an _English_ letter, Yet with precision, scans an _attic metre_. What! though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead, When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France; Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_, Yet, well he recollects the _laws of Sparta_. Can tell what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made, Whilst _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf neglected_ laid; Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame, Of _Avon's bard_, remembering scarce the name. Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, Class honours, medals, fellowships await; Or even perhaps the _declamation_ prize, If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes. But lo! no _common_ orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope; Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require, The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire. The _manner_ of the speech is nothing, since We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_; Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_, We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd. Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone, A proper mixture of the _squeak and groan_; No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_, must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the _dean_. Whilst every staring graduate would prate, Against what, _he_ could never imitate. The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup, Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_, Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word, No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard; Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest, Who speaks the _fastest_, 's sure to speak the _best_; Who utters most within the shortest space, May safely hope to win the _wordy race_. The sons of _Science these_, who thus repaid, Linger in ease, in Granta's sluggish shade; Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, die. Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls: In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts, affecting to despise. Yet prizing _Bentley's[6] Brunck's[6]_ or _Porson's_[7] note, More than the _verse, on which the critic wrote_; With eager haste, they court the tool of power, (Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour:) To _him_, with suppliant smiles they bend the head, Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread. But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place; _Such_ are the men who learning's treasures guard, _Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward_; This _much_ at least we may presume to say, Th' _reward's_ scarce equal, to the _price_ they _pay_. 1806. [Footnote 6: Celebrated Critics.] [Footnote 7: The present Greek Professor at Cambridge.] * * * * * TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 1. This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give) My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 2. Here I can trace the locks of gold, Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips which made me _Beauty's_ slave. 3. Here I can trace--ah no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. 4. Here I behold, its beauteous hue, But where's the beam of soft desire? Which gave a lustre to its blue, Love, only love, could e'er inspire. 5. Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her, who plac'd thee next my heart. 6. She plac'd it, sad with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there, Held every sense in fast controul. 7. Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer, My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life's last conflict 't'will appear, And meet my fond, expiring gaze. * * * * * ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING POST. "Our Nation's foes, lament on _Fox's_ death, "But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath; "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, "We give the palm, where Justice points its due." _To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for Insertion in the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.-- Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth, Would mangle still the dead, in spite of truth, What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall therefore dastard tongues assail the name Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame? When PITT expired in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits "war not with the dead;" His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave, And all his errors slumber'd in the grave. He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight, Of cares oppressing our unhappy state; But lo! another Hercules appear'd, Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd; He too is dead! who still our England propp'd, With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd; Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn. "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, "And give the palm where Justice points it due;" But let not canker'd calumny assail, And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep; For whom at last, even hostile nations groan, And friends and foes alike his talents own; Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine, Nor e'en to _Pitt_, the patriot's _palm_ resign; Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask. * * * * * TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. These locks which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine; Than all th' unmeaning protestations, Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it, Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine, With groundless jealousy repine. With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Merely to make our love romantic. Why should you weep like _Lydia Languish_, And fret with self-created anguish. Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights, to sigh half frozen: In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, Only because the scene's a garden. For gardens seem by one consent (Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;) (Since Juliet first declar'd her passion) To form the place of assignation. Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire, Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain; He surely in commiseration, Had chang'd the place of declaration. In Italy I've no objection, Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here, our climate is so rigid, That love itself, is rather frigid; Think on our chilly situation, And curb this rage for imitation. Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you, Oh! let me in your chamber greet you; _There_ we can love for hours together, Much better in such snowy weather, Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves, That ever witness'd rural loves; _There_ if my passion fail to please, Next night I'll be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter, But curse my fate, forever after. * * * * * TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. Sweet girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; And though we ne'er may meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain; I would not say, "I love" but still My senses struggle with my will; In vain to drive thee from my breast, My thoughts are more and more represt, In vain, I check the rising sighs, Another to the last replies; Perhaps this is not love, but yet Our meeting I can ne'er forget. What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale, it never feels; Deceit, the guilty lips impart, And hush the mandates of the heart, But soul's interpreters, the eyes Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. As thus our glances oft convers'd, And all our bosoms felt, rehears'd, No _spirit_ from within reprov'd us, Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd us_." Though what they utter'd, I repress, Yet, I conceive, thou'lt partly guess; For, as on thee, my memory ponders, Perchance, to me thine also wanders; This for myself, at least I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through day, Awake, with it my fancy teems, In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; The vision charms the hours away, And bids me curse Aurora's ray; For breaking slumbers of delight, Which make me wish for endless night. Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await; Tempted by love, by storms beset, Thine image, I can ne'er forget. Alas! again no more we meet, No more our former looks repeat; Then let me breathe this parting prayer, The dictate of my bosom's care: "May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, "That anguish never can o'ertake her; "That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, "But bliss be aye, her heart's partaker: "No jealous passion shall invade, "No envy that pure breast pervade;" For he that revels in such charms, Can never seek another's arms; "Oh! may the happy mortal fated, "To be by dearest ties related; "For _her_ each hour _new joy_ discover, "And lose the husband in the lover. "May that fair bosom never know "What 'tis to feel the restless woe; "Which stings the soul, with vain regret, "Of him, who never can forget." * * * * * TO JULIA! Julia! since far from you I've rang'd, Our souls with fond affection glow not; You say 'tis I, _not you_ have chang'd, I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not. 2. Your polish'd brow, no cares have crost, And Julia! we are not much older, Since trembling first my heart I lost, Or told my love with hope, grown bolder. 3. Sixteen was then our utmost age, Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least, _I_ feel disposed to stray, love! 4. 'Tis _I_, that am alone to blame, _I_, that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast, is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason. 5. I do not, love, suspect your truth, With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not, Warm was the passion of my youth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 6. No, no, my flame was not pretended, For oh! I lov'd you most sincerely, And though our dream at last is ended, My bosom still esteems you dearly. 7. No more we meet in yonder bowers, Perhaps my soul's too prone to roving, But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours, Have found monotony in loving. 8. Your cheeks soft bloom is unimpair'd, Your beauties still are daily bright'ning, Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd, The forge of love's resistless lightning. 9. Arm'd thus to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng to sigh like me, love, More constant they may prove indeed, Fonder alas! they ne'er can be, love! * * * * * TO WOMAN. Surely experience might have told me, That all must love thee, who behold thee; Surely experience might have taught, A woman's promises are naught, But plac'd in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to _adore_ thee. Oh memory! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing; Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating, "What oft we've done, we're still repeating." But how much curst by every lover, When hope is fled, and passion's over. Woman that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her, How throbs the pulse, when first we view, The eye that rolls in glossy blue; Or sparkles black, or mildly throws, A beam from under hazel brows; How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth; Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When lo! she changes in a day, The Record will forever stand, "That woman's vows, are writ in sand." * * * * * AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR, PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. Since the refinement of this polish'd age, Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence--though she find not fame. But not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, _Others_ appear more conscious of defect; To night, no _Veteran Roscii_ you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear, To night, you thong to witness the debut, Of embryo actors to the drama new; Here then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try, Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_; Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas, we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise; But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate; No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For them each _Hero_ all his power displays, Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze: Surely these last will some protection find, None to the softer sex can prove unkind; Whilst youth and beauty form the female shield, The sternest critic to the fair must yield. But should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail; Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, And if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_. * * * * * TO MISS E.P. 1. Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to woman deny the soul's future existence, Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. 2. Had their Prophet possess'd but an atom of sense, He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven, But instead of his _Houris_ a flimsy pretence, With _woman alone_, he had peopled his Heaven. 3. But still to increase your calamities more, Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots but _one husband_ to share amongst four, With _souls_ you'd dispense--but this last who could bear it. 4. His religion to please neither _party_ is made, On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil; But I can't contradict what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil." 5. This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture; If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold, Of St. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter. 6. 'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd, With wives who eternal confusion are spreading; "But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelist's Text,) "We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding." 7. From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,) That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more, And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway, All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar. 8. Distraction and discord would follow in course, Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor St. PAUL, can deny it, The only expedient is general divorce, To prevent universal disturbance and riot. 9. But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever, Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd, We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you forever. 10. Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes, Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you, Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes, The Garden of Eden would wither without you. SOUTHWELL, _October_ 9, 1806. * * * * * THE TEAR. 1. When Friendship or Love, Our sympathies move, When Truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a _tear_. 2. Too oft is a smile, But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear, Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _tear_. 3. Mild charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear, Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a _tear_. 4. The man doom'd to sail, With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave, Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a _tear_. 5. The soldier braves death, For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe, When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a _tear_. 6. When with high bounding pride, He returns to his bride, Renouncing the gore crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid, When embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the tear. 7. Sweet scene of my youth, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where Love chac'd each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a _tear_. 8. Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, My Mary to love once so _dear_, In the shade of her bower, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a _tear_. 9. By another possest, May she live ever blest, Her name still my heart must revere, With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a _tear_. 10. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near, If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we _meet_, as we _part_, with a _tear_. 11. When my soul wings her flight, To the regions of night, And my body shall sleep on its bier; As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a _tear_. 12. May no marble bestow, The splendour of woe, Which the children of Vanity rear, No fiction of fame, Shall blazon my name, All I ask, all I wish, is a _tear_. BYRON, _October 26_, 1806. * * * * * REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J.M.B. PIGOT, ESQ. ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 1. Why PIGOT, complain, Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair, do you fret? For months you may try, But believe me a _sigh_, Will never obtain a coquette. 2. Would you teach her to love, For a time seem to rove, At first she may _frown_ in a _pet_; But leave her awhile, She shortly will smile, And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_. 3. For such are the airs, Of these fanciful fairs, They think all our _homage_ a _debt_; But a partial neglect, Soon takes an effect, And humbles the proudest _coquette_. 4. Dissemble your pain, And lengthen your chain, Nor seem her _hauteur_ to _regret_, If again you shall sigh, She no more will deny, That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_. 5. But if from false pride, Your pangs she deride, This whimsical virgin forget; Some _other_ admire, Who will _melt_ with your _fire_, And laugh at the _little_ coquette. 6. For _me_, I adore, Some _twenty_ or more, And love them most dearly, but yet, Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all, Did they act like your blooming _coquette_. 7. No longer repine, But form this design, And break through her slight woven net; Away with despair, No longer forbear, To fly from the captious coquette. 8. Then quit her, my friend! Your bosom defend, Ere quite with her snares you're beset; Lest your deep wounded heart When incens'd by the smart, Should lead you to _curse_ the coquette. BYRON, _October_ 27, 1806. * * * * * GRANTA, A MEDLEY. Oh! could LE SAGE's[8] demon's gift, Be realized at my desire, This night my trembling form he'd lift, And place it on St. Mary's spire. 2. Then would unroof'd old Granta's Halls Pedantic inmates full display, _Fellows_ who dream on _lawn_, or _stalls_, The price of hireling votes to pay. 3. Then would I view each rival Wight, PETTY and PALMERSTON survey, Who canvass now with all their might, Against the next elective day. 4. One on his power and place depends, The other on the Lord knows what, Each to some eloquence pretends, But neither will convince by _that_. 5. The first indeed may not demur, Fellows are sage reflecting men, And know preferment can occur, But very seldom, _now_ and _then_. 6. They know the Chancellor has got, Some pretty livings in disposal, Each hopes that _one_ may be his _lot_, And therefore smiles at his proposal. 7. Now from corruption's shameless scene, I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, And view unheeded, and unseen, The studious sons of Alma Mater. 8. There in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes, Sits poring by the midnight lamp, Goes late to bed and early rises. 9. He surely well deserves to gain them, And all the honours of His college, Who striving hardly to obtain them, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge. 10. Who sacrifices hours of rest, To scan precisely metres attic, And agitates his anxious breast, In solving problems mathematic. 11. Who reads false quantities in Sele,[9] Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, And robs himself of many a meal, In _barbarous latin_[10] doom'd to wrangle. 12. Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use, Preferring to the lettered sage, The square of the hypothenuse.[11] 13. But harmless are these occupations, Which hurt none but the hapless student; Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent. 14. Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness and dice unite, And every sense is steep'd in wine. 15. Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay, In humble attitude they sue, And for the sins of others pray. 16. Forgetting that their pride of spirit, And exultation in their trial; Detracts most largely from the merit, Of all their boasted self-denial. 17. 'Tis morn,--from these I turn my sight, What scene is this which meets the eye, As numerous crowd array'd in white,[12] Across the green in numbers fly. 18. Loud rings in air, the chapel bell, 'Tis hush'd,--what sounds are these I hear, The organ's soft celestial swell, Rolls deeply on the listening ear. 19. To this is join'd the sacred song, The royal minstrel's hallowed strain, But _he_ who hears the _music_ long, Will _never_ wish to _hear again_. 20. Our choir would scarcely be excus'd, Even as a band of raw beginners, But mercy now must be refus'd, To such a set of croaking sinners. 21. If David when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended, In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 22. The luckless Israelites when taken, By some inhuman tyrant's order, Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, On Babylonian river's border. 23. But had they sung in notes like these, Inspir'd by stratagem, or fear, They might have set their hearts at ease, The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 24. _But if I write_ much longer now, The deuce a soul _will stay to read_, My pen is blunt, the ink is low, 'Tis almost time to _stop, indeed_. 25. Therefore farewell, old GRANTA's spires, No more like _Cleofas_ I fly, No more thy theme my muse inspires, The reader's tired, and so am I. _October_ 28, 1806. [Footnote 8: The Diable Boiteux of LE SAGE, where Asmodeus the Demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for his inspection.] [Footnote 9: Sele's publication on Greek metres is not remarkable for its accuracy.] [Footnote 10: Every Cambridge man will assent to this,--the Latin of the Schools is almost unintelligible.] [Footnote 11: The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the Hypothenuse, is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right angled triangle.] [Footnote 12: On a Saint Day, the Students wear Surplices in Chapel.] * * * * * TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. Your pardon my friend, If my rhymes did offend, Your pardon a thousand times o'er, From friendship I strove, Your pangs to remove, But I swear I will do so no more. 2. Since your _beautiful_ maid Your flame has repaid, No more I your folly regret; She's now most divine, And I bow at the shrine, Of this quickly reformed coquette. 3. But still I must own, I should never have known, From _your verses_ what else she deserv'd, Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate, As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd. 4. But since the chaste kiss, Of this magical Miss, Such wonderful transports produce, Since the "_world you forget," "When your lips once have met_," My Counsel will get but abuse. 5. You say "when I rove" "I know nothing of love," 'Tis true I am given to range, If I rightly remember, I've kiss'd a good number, But there's pleasure at least in a change. 6. I ne'er will advance, By the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair, Though a smile may delight, Yet a _frown_ wont _affright_, Or drive me to dreadful despair. 7. Whilst my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shall reform, To mix in the Platonist's school; Of this I am sure, Was my passion so pure, _My mistress_ must think me _a fool_. 8. Though the kisses are sweet, Which voluptuously meet, Of kissing I ne'er was so fond, As to make me forget, Though our lips oft have met, That still there was _something beyond_. 9. And if I should shun, Every _woman_ for _one_, Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast; Whom I must _prefer_, And _sigh_ but for _her_, What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest_! 10. Now, Strephon, good bye, I cannot deny, _Your passion_ appears most absurd, Such _love_ as you plead, Is _pure_ love indeed, For it _only_ consists in the _word_. * * * * * THE CORNELIAN. No specious splendour of this stone, Endears it to my memory ever, With lustre _only once_ it shone, But blushes modest as the giver. 2. Some who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have for my weakness oft reprov'd me, Yet still the simple gift I prize, For I am sure, the giver lov'd me. 3. He offered it with downcast look, As _fearful_ that I might refuse it, I told him when the gift I took, My _only fear_ should be to lose it. 4. This pledge attentively I view'd, And _sparkling_ as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, And ever since _I've lov'd a tear_. 5. Still to adorn his humble youth, Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield, But he who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden for the field. 6. 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume, The flowers which yield the most of both, In nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 7. Had Fortune aided nature's care, For once forgetting to be blind, _His_ would have been an ample share, If well proportioned to his mind. 8. But had the Goddess clearly seen, His form had fixed her fickle breast, _Her_ countless hoards would _his_ have been, And none remain'd to give the rest. * * * * * TO A. ---- Oh! did those eyes instead of fire, With bright, but mild affection shine, Though they might kindle less desire, Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 2. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, _Howe'er_ those orbs _may_ wildly beam, We _must_ admire, but still despair, That fatal glance forbids esteem. 3. When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone, She fear'd, that too divine for earth, The skies might claim thee for their own. 4. Therefore to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk, Within those once celestial eyes. 5. These might the boldest Sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze, Thy beauty must enrapture all, But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 6. 'Tis said that Berenice's hair, In stars adorns the vault of heaven, But they would ne'er permit _thee_ there, _Thou_ would'st so far outshine the seven. 7. For did those eyes as planets roll, Thy sister lights would scarce appear, E'en suns which systems now controul, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. _Friday, Nov. 7th_, 1806. * * * * * AS THE AUTHOR WAS DISCHARGING HIS PISTOLS IN A GARDEN, TWO LADIES PASSING NEAR THE SPOT, WERE ALARMED BY THE SOUND OF A BULLET HISSING NEAR THEM. TO ONE OF WHOM THE FOLLOWING VERSES ON THE OCCASION, WERE ADDRESSED THE NEXT MORNING. 1. Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, Wafting destruction near thy charms, And hurtling[13] o'er thy lovely head, Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 2. Surely some envious Demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career. 3. Yes! in that nearly fatal hour, The ball obey'd some hell-born guide, But Heaven with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside. 4. Yet, as perchance one trembling tear, Upon that thrilling bosom fell, Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell;-- 5. Say, what dire penance can atone? For such an outrage done to thee, Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, What punishment wilt thou decree? 6. Might I perform the Judge's part, The sentence I should scarce deplore. It only would restore a heart, Which but belong'd to _thee_ before. 7. The least atonement, I can make, Is to become no longer free, Henceforth, I breathe, but for thy sake. Thou shall be _all in all_ to me. 8. But thou perhaps may'st now reject Such expiation of my guilt, Come then--some other mode elect? Let it be death--or what thou wilt. 9. Choose then relentless! and I swear, Nought shall thy dread decree prevent, Yet hold--one little word forbear! Let it be aught but _banishment_. [Footnote 13: This word is used by GRAY in his poem to the fatal Sisters:-- "Iron sleet of arrowy shower, _Hurtles_ through the darken'd air." * * * * * TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. AD LESBIAM. Equal to Jove, that youth must be, _Greater_ than Jove he seems to me; Who free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms; That cheek which ever dimpling glows, That mouth from whence such music flows; To him alike are always known, Reserv'd for him, and him alone. Ah Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, I cannot choose, but look on thee; But at the sight, my senses fly, I needs must gaze, but gazing die; Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres. My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, My limbs deny their slight support. Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head. My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing; My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary death.-- * * * * * TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS, BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's [14]_unequal_ hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. [Footnote 14: The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus, at his decease.] * * * * * IMITATION OF TIBULLUS "SULPICIA AD CERINTUM." LIB. QUART. Cruel Cerintus! does this fell disease, Which racks my breast, your fickle bosom please. Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love, and you again, But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate, By Death alone, I can avoid your hate. * * * * * TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. LUCTUS DE NORTE PASSERIS. Ye Cupids droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Which dearer than her eyes she lov'd: For he was gentle and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd. And softly fluttering here, and there, He never sought to cleave the air, But chirrup'd oft, and free from care, Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain. But now he's pass'd the gloomy bourn, From whence he never can return, His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs alas! but sighs in vain. Oh curst be thou! devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away. From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, _Thou_ art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. * * * * * IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. TO ANNA. Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire, Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss, and cling to thee, Nought should my kiss from thine dissever. Still would we kiss, and kiss forever; E'en though the number did exceed, The yellow harvest's countless seed, To part would be a vain endeavour, Could I desist?--ah! never--never. _November_ 16, 1806. * * * * * Printed by S. and J. RIDGE, Newark. 
5131	----	CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE By Lord Byron List of Contents To Ianthe Canto the First Canto the Second Canto the Third Canto the Fourth TO IANTHE. {1} Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed, Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed: Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as they beamed-- To such as see thee not my words were weak; To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak? Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine: Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To one so young my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined; And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once numbered, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require? CANTO THE FIRST. I. Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth, Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale--this lowly lay of mine. II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. III. Childe Harold was he hight:--but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. IV. Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly, Nor deemed before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell; He felt the fulness of satiety: Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. V. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, But pride congealed the drop within his e'e: Apart he stalked in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII. The Childe departed from his father's hall; It was a vast and venerable pile; So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile! Where superstition once had made her den, Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII. Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurked below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. IX. And none did love him: though to hall and bower He gathered revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea, none did love him--not his lemans dear-- But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother--not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun; A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun: If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimmed with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite, Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line. XII. The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam; And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. XIII. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string, And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deemed he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he poured his last 'Good Night.' Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My Native Land--Good Night! A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, My dog howls at the gate. 'Come hither, hither, my little page: Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, Our ship is swift and strong; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along.' 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee--and One above. 'My father blessed me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again.'-- 'Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. 'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman, Or shiver at the gale?'-- 'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake; And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make?'-- 'Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away.' For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour? Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My Native Land--Good Night! XIV. On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay; And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. XV. Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! But man would mar them with an impious hand: And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, But now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride, Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword. To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. XVII. But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, Disconsolate will wander up and down, Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e; For hut and palace show like filthily; The dingy denizens are reared in dirt; No personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwashed, unhurt. XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves! yet born midst noblest scenes-- Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates? XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent crowned, The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain moss by scorching skies imbrowned, The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, Mixed in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, And rest ye at 'Our Lady's House of Woe;' Where frugal monks their little relics show, And sundry legends to the stranger tell: Here impious men have punished been; and lo, Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. XXI. And here and there, as up the crags you spring, Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path; Yet deem not these devotion's offering-- These are memorials frail of murderous wrath; For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Poured forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life! XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilom kings did make repair; But now the wild flowers round them only breathe: Yet ruined splendour still is lingering there. And yonder towers the prince's palace fair: There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. XXIII. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan. Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow; But now, as if a thing unblest by man, Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide. XXIV. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the urchin points, and laughs with all his soul. XXV. Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foiled the knights in Marialva's dome: Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's plume, And Policy regained what Arms had lost: For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! Woe to the conquering, not the conquered host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra, at thy name; And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. How will posterity the deed proclaim! Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII. So deemed the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise: Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, More restless than the swallow in the skies: Though here awhile he learned to moralise, For Meditation fixed at times on him, And conscious Reason whispered to despise His early youth misspent in maddest whim; But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes grew dim. XXVIII. To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul: Again he rouses from his moping fits, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. Onward he flies, nor fixed as yet the goal Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage; And o'er him many changing scenes must roll, Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen; And church and court did mingle their array, And mass and revel were alternate seen; Lordlings and freres--ill-sorted fry, I ween! But here the Babylonian whore had built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to garnish guilt. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede, And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows-- Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: For Spain is compassed by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. XXXII. Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?-- Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow: For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. XXXIV. But ere the mingling bounds have far been passed, Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among. Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest; Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mixed on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppressed. XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain! renowned, romantic land! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore? Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? Red gleamed the cross, and waned the crescent pale, While Afric's echoes thrilled with Moorish matrons' wail. XXXVI. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, See how the mighty shrink into a song! Can volume, pillar, pile, preserve thee great? Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong? XXXVII. Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar! In every peal she calls--'Awake! arise!' Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? XXXVIII. Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?--the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high:--from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe: Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon Flashing afar,--and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. XL. By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share: The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can cumber their array. XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies. The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory! The foe, the victim, and the fond ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, Are met--as if at home they could not die-- To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain. XLII. There shall they rot--Ambition's honoured fools! Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay! Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts--to what?--a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? XLIII. O Albuera, glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed. Peace to the perished! may the warrior's meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. XLIV. Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perished, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: Yet is she free--the spoiler's wished-for prey! Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famished brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds; Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds; Here Folly still his votaries enthralls, And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet. XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer? Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!' And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long level plain, at distance crowned With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded ground; And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darkened vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the brave peasant stormed the dragon's nest; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. L. And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet: Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true: Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foemen rue, If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflowed, The stationed bands, the never-vacant watch, The magazine in rocky durance stowed, The holstered steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, LII. Portend the deeds to come:--but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; A little moment deigneth to delay: Soon will his legions sweep through these the way; The West must own the Scourger of the world. Ah, Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning day, When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurled, And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurled. LIII. And must they fall--the young, the proud, the brave-- To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign? No step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsexed, the anlace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appalled, an owlet's larum chilled with dread, Now views the column-scattering bayonet jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Marked her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks--she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her chief is slain--she fills his fatal post; Her fellows flee--she checks their base career; The foe retires--she heads the sallying host: Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foiled by a woman's hand, before a battered wall? LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But formed for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: In softness as in firmness far above Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. LVIII. The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch: Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much Hath Phoebus wooed in vain to spoil her cheek Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! Who round the North for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear? how languid, wan, and weak! LIX. Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye harems! of the land where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that even a cynic must avow! Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters--deign to know, There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. LX. O thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing. LXI. Oft have I dreamed of thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on thee! LXII. Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene, Which others rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter.--Even amidst my strain I turned aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; Her fate, to every free-born bosom dear; And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme--but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt. LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair mount, when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir; Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. LXV. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days, But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze? A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. LXVI. When Paphos fell by Time--accursed Time! The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee-- The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deigned to flee, And fixed her shrine within these walls of white; Though not to one dome circumscribeth she Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. LXVII. From morn till night, from night till startled morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, The song is heard, the rosy garland worn; Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. LXVIII. The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn: The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor e'en affects to mourn. LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, washed artizan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair, Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till morn. LXXI. All have their fooleries; not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy saint adorers count the rosary: Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. LXXII. The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, No vacant space for lated wight is found: Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. LXXIII. Hushed is the din of tongues--on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed, But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed-- Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed. LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. LXXVI. Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away, Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; Now is thy time to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career. With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears. LXXVIII. Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the matadores around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Once more through all he bursts his thundering way-- Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye--'tis past--he sinks upon the sand. LXXIX. Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. He stops--he starts--disdaining to decline: Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle dies. The decorated car appears on high: The corse is piled--sweet sight for vulgar eyes; Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by. LXXX. Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain: Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain! Though now one phalanxed host should meet the foe, Enough, alas, in humble homes remain, To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow. LXXXI. But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, His withered sentinel, duenna sage! And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deemed he could encage, Have passed to darkness with the vanished age. Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen? LXXXII. Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, Or dreamed he loved, since rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream: And lately had he learned with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. LXXXIII. Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: Pleasure's palled victim! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom. LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But viewed them not with misanthropic hate; Fain would he now have joined the dance, the song, But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, Poured forth this unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, Alas! I cannot smile again: Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang even thou must fail to soothe? It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most: It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see: To me no pleasure Beauty brings; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, That will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before. What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake: Oh! may they still of transport dream, And ne'er, at least like me, awake! Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. What is that worst? Nay, do not ask-- In pity from the search forbear: Smile on--nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the hell that's there. LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? When all were changing, thou alone wert true, First to be free, and last to be subdued. And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, A traitor only fell beneath the feud: Here all were noble, save nobility; None hugged a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! They fight for freedom, who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of Treachery; Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!' LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe Can act, is acting there against man's life: From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need-- So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain: Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain; Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, Let their bleached bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchained. Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained, While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil? XCI. And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain-- Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain: But thus unlaurelled to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and esteemed the most! Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear! Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, In dreams deny me not to see thee here! And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, And mourned and mourner lie united in repose. XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage. Ye who of him may further seek to know, Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? Stern critic, say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doomed to go: Lands that contain the monuments of eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quelled. CANTO THE SECOND. I. Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!--but thou, alas, Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-- Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire, And years, that bade thy worship to expire: But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow. II. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were: First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and passed away--is this the whole? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. III. Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come--but molest not yon defenceless urn! Look on this spot--a nation's sepulchre! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. E'en gods must yield--religions take their turn: 'Twas Jove's--'tis Mahomet's; and other creeds Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. IV. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven-- Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies! Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. V. Or burst the vanished hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps; He fell, and falling nations mourned around; But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appeared, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scattered heaps: Is that a temple where a God may dwell? Why, e'en the worm at last disdains her shattered cell! VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, The dome of Thought, the Palace of the Soul. Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, And Passion's host, that never brooked control: Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 'All that we know is, nothing can be known.' Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers groan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron: There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. VIII. Yet if, as holiest men have deemed, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light! To hear each voice we feared to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade revealed to sight, The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! IX. There, thou!--whose love and life together fled, Have left me here to love and live in vain-- Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, When busy memory flashes on my brain? Well--I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: If aught of young Remembrance then remain, Be as it may Futurity's behest, For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! X. Here let me sit upon this mossy stone, The marble column's yet unshaken base! Here, son of Saturn, was thy favourite throne! Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be: nor even can Fancy's eye Restore what time hath laboured to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas lingered, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign-- The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! England! I joy no child he was of thine: Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant brine. XII. But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared: Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. XIII. What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: Yes, she, whose generous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand. Which envious eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. XIV. Where was thine aegis, Pallas, that appalled Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthralled, His shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array! What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wandered on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatched thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorred! XVI. But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little recked he of all that men regret; No loved one now in feigned lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave, Ere the cold stranger passed to other climes. Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave; But Harold felt not as in other times, And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. XVII. He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea, Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight; When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight, Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are manned on high: Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry, While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides Or schoolboy midshipman that, standing by, Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and feared by all: not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever baulks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. XX. Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale, Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze! What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sails hauled down to halt for logs like these! XXI. The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand! Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love: A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. XXII. Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; Europe and Afric, on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor, Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase: But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. XXIII. 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy? XXIV. Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; A flashing pang! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. XXV. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean: This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled. XXVI. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flattered, followed, sought, and sued: This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! XXVII. More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been, Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. XXVIII. Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, And each well-known caprice of wave and wind; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn--lo, land! and all is well. XXIX. But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, The sister tenants of the middle deep; There for the weary still a haven smiles, Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep, And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sighed. XXX. Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: But trust not this; too easy youth, beware! A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. Sweet Florence! could another ever share This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: But checked by every tie, I may not dare To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. XXXI. Thus Harold deemed, as on that lady's eye He looked, and met its beam without a thought, Save Admiration glancing harmless by: Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, Who knew his votary often lost and caught, But knew him as his worshipper no more, And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: Since now he vainly urged him to adore, Well deemed the little god his ancient sway was o'er. XXXII. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, 'twas said, still sighed to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hailed with real or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law: All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: And much she marvelled that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feigned at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. XXXIII. Little knew she that seeming marble heart, Now masked by silence or withheld by pride, Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, And spread its snares licentious far and wide; Nor from the base pursuit had turned aside, As long as aught was worthy to pursue: But Harold on such arts no more relied; And had he doted on those eyes so blue, Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. XXXIV. Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; What careth she for hearts when once possessed? Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes, But not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes; Disguise e'en tenderness, if thou art wise; Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes. XXXV. 'Tis an old lesson: Time approves it true, And those who know it best deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, These are thy fruits, successful Passion! these! If, kindly cruel, early hope is crossed, Still to the last it rankles, a disease, Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. XXXVI. Away! nor let me loiter in my song, For we have many a mountain path to tread, And many a varied shore to sail along, By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led-- Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head Imagined in its little schemes of thought; Or e'er in new Utopias were read: To teach man what he might be, or he ought; If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. XXXVII. Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; Though always changing, in her aspect mild: From her bare bosom let me take my fill, Her never-weaned, though not her favoured child. Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, Where nothing polished dares pollute her path: To me by day or night she ever smiled, Though I have marked her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath. XXXVIII. Land of Albania! where Iskander rose; Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes, Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise: Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! The cross descends, thy minarets arise, And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. XXXIX. Childe Harold sailed, and passed the barren spot Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave; And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot, The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save That breast imbued with such immortal fire? Could she not live who life eternal gave? If life eternal may await the lyre, That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. XL. 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar; A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave: Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar: Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight. XLI. But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow: And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watched the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid front. XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills, Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills, Arrayed in many a dun and purple streak, Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. XLIII. Now Harold felt himself at length alone, And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu: Now he adventured on a shore unknown, Which all admire, but many dread to view: His breast was armed 'gainst fate, his wants were few: Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet: The scene was savage, but the scene was new; This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter's blast; and welcomed summer's heat. XLIV. Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, Though sadly scoffed at by the circumcised, Forgets that pride to pampered priesthood dear; Churchman and votary alike despised. Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised, Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross. XLV. Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! In yonder rippling bay, their naval host Did many a Roman chief and Asian king To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter, bring Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose, Now, like the hands that reared them, withering; Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! God! was thy globe ordained for such to win and lose? XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold passed o'er many a mount sublime, Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales: Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails, Though classic ground, and consecrated most, To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. XLVII. He passed bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: Yet here and there some daring mountain-band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. XLVIII. Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow, Thou small, but favoured spot of holy ground! Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, And bluest skies that harmonise the whole: Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. XLIX. Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, Might well itself be deemed of dignity, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high; Here dwells the caloyer, nor rude is he, Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. L. Here in the sultriest season let him rest, Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: The plain is far beneath--oh! let him seize Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. LI. Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, Chimera's alps extend from left to right: Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir Nodding above; behold black Acheron! Once consecrated to the sepulchre. Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none. LII. No city's towers pollute the lovely view; Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, Veiled by the screen of hills: here men are few, Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; But, peering down each precipice, the goat Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scattered flock, The little shepherd in his white capote Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. LIII. Oh! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove, Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? What valley echoed the response of Jove? What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine? All, all forgotten--and shall man repine That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke? LIV. Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: E'en on a plain no humble beauties lie, Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, And woods along the banks are waving high, Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, Or with the moonbeam sleep in Midnight's solemn trance. LV. The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, When, down the steep banks winding wearily Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, The glittering minarets of Tepalen, Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh, He heard the busy hum of warrior-men Swelling the breeze that sighed along the lengthening glen. LVI. He passed the sacred harem's silent tower, And underneath the wide o'erarching gate Surveyed the dwelling of this chief of power Where all around proclaimed his high estate. Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, While busy preparation shook the court; Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; Within, a palace, and without a fort, Here men of every clime appear to make resort. LVII. Richly caparisoned, a ready row Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, Circled the wide-extending court below; Above, strange groups adorned the corridor; And ofttimes through the area's echoing door, Some high-capped Tartar spurred his steed away; The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, Here mingled in their many-hued array, While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day. LVIII. The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroidered garments, fair to see: The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; The Delhi with his cap of terror on, And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son; The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, Master of all around, too potent to be meek, LIX. Are mixed conspicuous: some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, and some that play are found; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 'There is no god but God!--to prayer--lo! God is great!' LX. Just at this season Ramazani's fast Through the long day its penance did maintain. But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again: Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in. LXI. Here woman's voice is never heard: apart And scarce permitted, guarded, veiled, to move, She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove; For, not unhappy in her master's love, And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, Blest cares! all other feelings far above! Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. LXII. In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While Gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face, The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. LXIII. It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard Ill suits the passions which belong to youth: Love conquers age--so Hafiz hath averred, So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth-- But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, have marked him with a tiger's tooth: Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span, In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. LXIV. Mid many things most new to ear and eye, The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gazed around on Moslem luxury, Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise: And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet; But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys. LXV. Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. Where is the foe that ever saw their back? Who can so well the toil of war endure? Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship sure, When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. LXVI. Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower, Thronging to war in splendour and success; And after viewed them, when, within their power, Himself awhile the victim of distress; That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press: But these did shelter him beneath their roof, When less barbarians would have cheered him less, And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof-- In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! LXVII. It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, When all around was desolate and dark; To land was perilous, to sojourn more; Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. LXVIII. Vain fear! the Suliotes stretched the welcome hand, Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, Kinder than polished slaves, though not so bland, And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, And filled the bowl, and trimmed the cheerful lamp, And spread their fare: though homely, all they had: Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp-- To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. LXIX. It came to pass, that when he did address Himself to quit at length this mountain land, Combined marauders half-way barred egress, And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; And therefore did he take a trusty band To traverse Acarnania forest wide, In war well-seasoned, and with labours tanned, Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, And from his farther bank AEtolia's wolds espied. LXX. Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, As winds come whispering lightly from the west, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene: Here Harold was received a welcome guest; Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean. LXXI. On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, And he that unawares had there ygazed With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, The native revels of the troop began; Each palikar his sabre from him cast, And bounding hand in hand, man linked to man, Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan. LXXII. Childe Harold at a little distance stood, And viewed, but not displeased, the revelrie, Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee: And as the flames along their faces gleamed, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that to their girdles streamed, While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed: Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, To his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? Macedonia sends forth her invincible race; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarves of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy: Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, And many a maid from her mother shall tear. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth; Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe: Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. Remember the moment when Previsa fell, The shrieks of the conquered, the conqueror's yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the Vizier; Since the days of our prophet, the crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasha. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-haired Giaours view his horsetail with dread; When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! Selictar! unsheath then our chief's scimitar: Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war. Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! LXXIII. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long accustomed bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait-- Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? LXXIV. Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned. LXXV. In all save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who would but deem their bosom burned anew With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage: For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. LXXVI. Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe: Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; And the Serai's impenetrable tower Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest The Prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne'er will Freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth--ere lenten days begin, That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, In motley robe to dance at masking ball, And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. LXXIX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine, O Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, All felt the common joy they now must feign; Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore; Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, And timely echoed back the measured oar, And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: The Queen of tides on high consenting shone; And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seemed to light the banks they lave. LXXXI. Glanced many a light caique along the foam, Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, No thought had man or maid of rest or home, While many a languid eye and thrilling hand Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, Or gently pressed, returned the pressure still: Oh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band, Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, These hours, and only these, redeemed Life's years of ill! LXXXII. But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, E'en through the closest searment half-betrayed? To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! LXXXIII. This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, If Greece one true-born patriot can boast: Not such as prate of war but skulk in peace, The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most-- Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! LXXXIV. When riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood, When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, When Athens' children are with hearts endued, When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then. A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust: and when Can man its shattered splendour renovate, Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate? LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now; Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough: So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth; LXXXVI. Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, Where the grey stones and unmolested grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 'Alas!' LXXXVII. Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild: Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olives ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields; There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. LXXXVIII. Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. LXXXIX. The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord-- Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame; The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bowed beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, As on the morn to distant Glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word; Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. XC. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below; Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! Such was the scene--what now remaineth here? What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground, Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. XCI. Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng: Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore: Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. XCII. The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. XCIII. Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste: But spare its relics--let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced! Not for such purpose were these altars placed. Revere the remnants nations once revered; So may our country's name be undisgraced, So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared, By every honest joy of love and life endeared! XCIV. For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading bays-- Ill may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please where none are left to love. XCV. Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! Nor stayed to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see-- Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er returned to find fresh cause to roam! XCVI. Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed! But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, thou hast: The parent, friend, and now the more than friend; Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend. XCVII. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak! Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique; Smiles form the channel of a future tear, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. XCVIII. What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed: Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow, Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed, And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloyed. CANTO THE THIRD. I. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,--not as now we part, But with a hope.-- Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. II. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme, then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life--where not a flower appears. IV. Since my young days of passion--joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar: it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness--so it fling Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. V. He who, grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. VI. 'Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings' dearth. VII. Yet must I think less wildly: I HAVE thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poisoned. 'Tis too late! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time cannot abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. VIII. Something too much of this: but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long-absent Harold reappears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; Yet Time, who changes all, had altered him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. IX. His had been quaffed too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he filled again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain! Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which galled for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clanked not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took through many a scene. X. Secure in guarded coldness, he had mixed Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deemed his spirit now so firmly fixed And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurked behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find Fit speculation; such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. XI. But who can view the ripened rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? Harold, once more within the vortex rolled On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelled, In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled, He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebelled; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. XIII. Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake. XIV. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. XV. But in Man's dwellings he became a thing Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, Drooped as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, To whom the boundless air alone were home: Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, As eagerly the barred-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. XVI. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though 'twere wild--as on the plundered wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck-- Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust! An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be;-- How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? XVIII. And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! In 'pride of place' here last the eagle flew, Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through: Ambition's life and labours all were vain; He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain. XIX. Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? Did nations combat to make ONE submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving thraldom again be The patched-up idol of enlightened days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones? No; PROVE before ye praise! XX. If not, o'er one fall'n despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrowed with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions: all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! XXII. Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! XXIII. Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. XXIV. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--'The foe! They come! they come!' XXVI. And wild and high the 'Cameron's gathering' rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. XXVII. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturniug brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! XXIX. Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song; And his was of the bravest, and when showered The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard! XXX. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wild field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring. XXXI. I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall: The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruined wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: XXXIII. E'en as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,--a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were As nothing did we die; but life will suit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea shore, All ashes to the taste: Did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name threescore? XXXV. The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: They are enough: and if thy tale be TRUE, Thou, who didst grudge him e'en that fleeting span, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say, 'Here, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day!' And this is much, and all which will not pass away. XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit anithetically mixed One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fixed; Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek'st Even now to reassume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deemed thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVIII. Oh, more or less than man--in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the field; Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield: An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men's spirits skilled, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eye; When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child, He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. XL. Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them Ambition steeled thee on to far too show That just habitual scorn, which could contemn Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turned unto thine overthrow: 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. XLI. If, like a tower upon a headland rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, THEIR admiration thy best weapon shone; The part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. XLII. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And THERE hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul, which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. XLIII. This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool; Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule: XLIV. Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. XLV. He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high ABOVE the sun of glory glow, And far BENEATH the earth and ocean spread, ROUND him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. XLVI. Away with these; true Wisdom's world will be Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells From grey but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells. XLVII. And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, Or holding dark communion with the cloud. There was a day when they were young and proud, Banners on high, and battles passed below; But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. XLVIII. Beneath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have But History's purchased page to call them great? A wider space, an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. XLIX. In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discoloured Rhine beneath its ruin run. L. But thou, exulting and abounding river! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict,--then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be. LI. A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, But these and half their fame have passed away, And Slaughter heaped on high his weltering ranks: Their very graves are gone, and what are they? Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray; But o'er the blackened memory's blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. LII. Thus Harold inly said, and passed along, Yet not insensible to all which here Awoke the jocund birds to early song In glens which might have made e'en exile dear: Though on his brow were graven lines austere, And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place Of feelings fierier far but less severe, Joy was not always absent from his face, But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. LIII. Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. It is in vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us; the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust Hath weaned it from all worldlings: thus he felt, For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. LIV. And he had learned to love,--I know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood,-- The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipped affections have to grow, In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow. LV. And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal; and, though unwed, THAT love was pure, and, far above disguise, Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour! The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine. Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert THOU with me! And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, And many a rock which steeply lours, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers: But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-- Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! I send the lilies given to me; Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must withered be, But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherished them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine e'en here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine! The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To Nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! LVI. By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, Our enemy's,--but let not that forbid Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb Tears, big tears, gushed from the rough soldier's lid, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. LVI. Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career,-- His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, The few in number, who had not o'erstept The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons; he had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. LVIII. Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall Black with the miner's blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Rebounding idly on her strength did light; A tower of victory! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watched along the plain; But Peace destroyed what War could never blight, And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain-- On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain. LIX. Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long, delighted, The stranger fain would linger on his way; Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, not too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. LX. Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is coloured by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise--more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft;--the glories of old days. LXI. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall. LXII. But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gathers around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. LXIII. But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be passed in vain,-- Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquered on that plain; Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument;--the Stygian coast Unsepulchred they roamed, and shrieked each wandering ghost. LXIV. While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; They were true Glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-entailed Corruption; they no land Doomed to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making king's rights divine, by some Draconic clause. LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A grey and grief-worn aspect of old days 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild bewildered gaze Of one to stone converted by amaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands, Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levelled Aventicum, hath strewed her subject lands. LXVI. And there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name!-- Julia--the daughter, the devoted--gave Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. LXVII. But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, Imperishably pure beyond all things below. LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue: There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold; But soon in me shall Loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherished than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penned me in their fold. LXIX. To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In one hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be. LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake;-- Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doomed to inflict or bear? LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture: I can see Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXIII. And thus I am absorbed, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert Past, As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm,-- When elements to elements conform, And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turned below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile--a passing guest, Where he became a being,--whose desire Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest. LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. LXXVIII. His love was passion's essence--as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of Ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distempered though it seems. LXXIX. THIS breathed itself to life in Julie, THIS Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; This hallowed, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fevered lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet: But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flashed the thrilled spirit's love-devouring heat; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was frenzied by disease or woe To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: Did he not this for France, which lay before Bowed to the inborn tyranny of years? Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown fears? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument! The wreck of old opinions--things which grew, Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refilled, As heretofore, because ambition was self-willed. LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another; Pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in Oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourished with the day; What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? LXXXIV. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquished, bear Silence, but not submission: in his lair Fixed Passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came, it cometh, and will come,--the power To punish or forgive--in ONE we shall be slower. LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen. Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. LXXXVIII. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: -- All heaven and earth are still: from the high host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, All is concentered in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. XC. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are LEAST alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt, And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Binding all things with beauty;--'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. XCI. Nor vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Upreared of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer! XCII. The sky is changed!--and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue; And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! XCIII. And this is in the night:--Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight-- A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,--and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XCIV. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters--war within themselves to wage. XCV. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand; For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings, as if he did understand That in such gaps as desolation worked, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked. XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye, With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,--if I rest. But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me,--could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe--into one word, And that one word were lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,-- And glowing into day: we may resume The march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if pondered fittingly. XCIX. Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in love; the snows above The very glaciers have his colours caught, And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,-- Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains; where the god Is a pervading life and light,--so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. CI. All things are here of HIM; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bowed waters meet him, and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. CII. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed and many coloured things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. CIII. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit: he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 'tis his nature to advance or die; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! CIV. 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, And hallowed it with loveliness: 'tis lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have reared a throne. CV. Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes Of names which unto you bequeathed a name; Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame: They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flame Of Heaven, again assailed, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. CVI. The one was fire and fickleness, a child Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various,--gay, grave, sage, or wild,-- Historian, bard, philosopher combined: He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents: But his own Breathed most in ridicule,--which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,-- Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony,--that master spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doomed him to the zealot's ready hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. CVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes,--for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all,--or hope and dread allayed By slumber on one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX. Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. CXI. Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices:--to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught,-- Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,-- Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul:--No matter,--it is taught. CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile,-- The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee,-- Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me,-- But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the falling: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem,-- That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV. My daughter! with thy name this song begun-- My daughter! with thy name this much shall end-- I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,-- A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. CXVI. To aid thy mind's development,--to watch Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-- This, it should seem, was not reserved for me Yet this was in my nature:--As it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. CXVII. Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation, and a broken claim: Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me: though to drain MY blood from out thy being were an aim, And an attainment,--all would be in vain,-- Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. CXVIII. The child of love,--though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, and thine no less. As yet such are around thee; but thy fire Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me! CANTO THE FOURTH. I. I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying glory smiles O'er the far times when many a subject land Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. III. In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone--but beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away-- The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. V. The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence: that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: VII. I saw or dreamed of such,--but let them go-- They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so; I could replace them if I would: still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go--for waking reason deems Such overweening phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. VIII. I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with--ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX. Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, My spirit shall resume it--if we may Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine My hopes of being remembered in my line With my land's language: if too fond and far These aspirations in their scope incline,-- If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar. X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honoured by the nations--let it be-- And light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me-- 'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted,--they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. XI. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renewed, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns-- An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt: Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. XIII. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? Are they not BRIDLED?--Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. XIV. In youth she was all glory,--a new Tyre,-- Her very byword sprung from victory, The 'Planter of the Lion,' which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; Though making many slaves, herself still free And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. XV. Statues of glass--all shivered--the long file Of her dead doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, Her voice their only ransom from afar: See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands--his idle scimitar Starts from its belt--he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations,--most of all, Albion! to thee: the Ocean Queen should not Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. XVIII. I loved her from my boyhood: she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water-columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, Had stamped her image in me, and e'en so, Although I found her thus, we did not part, Perchance e'en dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. XIX. I can repeople with the past--and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chastened down, enough; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; And of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. XX. But from their nature will the tannen grow Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree;--the mind may grow the same. XXI. Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolate bosoms: mute The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestowed In vain should such examples be; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear,--it is but for a day. XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, Ends:--Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, Return to whence they came--with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were formed to sink or climb. XXIII. But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever: it may be a sound-- A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring-- A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. XXIV. And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigned, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,-- The cold--the changed--perchance the dead--anew, The mourned, the loved, the lost--too many!--yet how few! XXV. But my soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; there to track Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which WAS the mightiest in its old command, And IS the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, The beautiful, the brave--the lords of earth and sea. XXVI. The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. XXVII. The moon is up, and yet it is not night-- Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be-- Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the day joins the past eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest! XXVIII. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order:--gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, XXIX. Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is grey. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua;--reared in air, Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover: here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride-- An honest pride--and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain, Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. XXXIII. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality, If from society we learn to live, 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive: XXXIV. Or, it may be, with demons, who impair The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude, There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seat's Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este, which for many an age made good Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood Of petty power impelled, of those who wore The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scattered the clouds away--and on that name attend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time, while thine Would rot in its oblivion--in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn-- Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: XXXVIII. THOU! formed to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty: HE! with a glory round his furrowed brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth--monotony in wire! XXXIX. Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aimed with their poisoned arrows--but to miss. Oh, victor unsurpassed in modern song! Each year brings forth its millions; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? Though all in one Condensed their scattered rays, they would not form a sun. XL. Great as thou art, yet paralleled by those Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose The Tuscan father's comedy divine; Then, not unequal to the Florentine, The Southern Scott, the minstrel who called forth A new creation with his magic line, And, like the Ariosto of the North, Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust The iron crown of laurel's mimicked leaves; Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, Know that the lightning sanctifies below Whate'er it strikes;--yon head is doubly sacred now. XLII. Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; XLIII. Then mightst thou more appal; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents poured Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde Of many-nationed spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, Victor or vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe. XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Came Megara before me, and behind AEgina lay, Piraeus on the right, And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; XLV. For time hath not rebuilt them, but upreared Barbaric dwellings on their shattered site, Which only make more mourned and more endeared The few last rays of their far-scattered light, And the crushed relics of their vanished might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. XLVI. That page is now before me, and on mine HIS country's ruin added to the mass Of perished states he mourned in their decline, And I in desolation: all that WAS Of then destruction IS; and now, alas! Rome--Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form, Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVII. Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand Was then our Guardian, and is still our guide; Parent of our religion! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. XLVIII. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. XLIX. There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness; there--for ever there-- Chained to the chariot of triumphal Art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. Away!--there need no words, nor terms precise, The paltry jargon of the marble mart, Where Pedantry gulls Folly--we have eyes: Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan Shepherd's prize. LI. Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise? Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War? And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn! LII. Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest! but the weight Of earth recoils upon us;--let it go! We can recall such visions, and create From what has been, or might be, things which grow, Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. LIII. I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: Let these describe the undescribable: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. LIV. In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is E'en in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos:--here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, The starry Galileo, with his woes; Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. LV. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation:--Italy! Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI. But where repose the all Etruscan three-- Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he Of the Hundred Tales of love--where did they lay Their bones, distinguished from our common clay In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country's marbles nought to say? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? LVII. Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages; and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled--not thine own. LVIII. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed His dust,--and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren tongue? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No;--even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigots' wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for WHOM? LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best son remind her more: Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps The immortal exile;--Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps. LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones? Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; There be more marvels yet--but not for mine; For I have been accustomed to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields Than Art in galleries: though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er, LXIII. Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reeled unheededly away! None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet. LXIV. The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel: Nature's law, In them suspended, recked not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en-- A little rill of scanty stream and bed-- A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red. LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect, and most clear: Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! LXVII. And on thy happy shore a temple still, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. LXVIII. Pass not unblest the genius of the place! If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With Nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX. The roar of waters!--from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald. How profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings through the vale:--Look back! Lo! where it comes like an eternity, As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,--a matchless cataract, LXXII. Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. LXXIII. Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which--had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIV. The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, For still they soared unutterably high: I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Athos, Olympus, AEtna, Atlas, made These hills seem things of lesser dignity, All, save the lone Soracte's height displayed, Not NOW in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he who will his recollections rake, And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVI. Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught My mind to meditate what then it learned, Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII. Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow, To comprehend, but never love thy verse, Although no deeper moralist rehearse Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art, Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce, Awakening without wounding the touched heart, Yet fare thee well--upon Soracte's ridge we part. LXXVIII. O Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day-- A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled city's pride: She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site;-- Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night? LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map; And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap Our hands, and cry, 'Eureka!' it is clear-- When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII. Alas, the lofty city! and alas The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page! But these shall be Her resurrection; all beside--decay. Alas for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! LXXXIII. O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel, Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia;--thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates--Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown-- LXXXIV. The dictatorial wreath,--couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee more than mortal? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? She who was named eternal, and arrayed Her warriors but to conquer--she who veiled Earth with her haughty shadow, and displayed Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed, Her rushing wings--Oh! she who was almighty hailed! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our own, The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell!--he Too swept off senates while he hewed the throne Down to a block--immortal rebel! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages! But beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny; His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. LXXXVI. The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crowned him, on the self-same day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. And showed not Fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue! yet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty, Thou who beheldest, mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity, An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest:--Mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat, Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, And thy limbs blacked with lightning--dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX. Thou dost;--but all thy foster-babes are dead-- The men of iron; and the world hath reared Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled In imitation of the things they feared, And fought and conquered, and the same course steered, At apish distance; but as yet none have, Nor could, the same supremacy have neared, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave, XC. The fool of false dominion--and a kind Of bastard Caesar, following him of old With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould, With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeemed The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold. Alcides with the distaff now he seemed At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he beamed. XCI. And came, and saw, and conquered. But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart which never seemed to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed; With but one weakest weakness--vanity: Coquettish in ambition, still he aimed At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he claimed? XCII. And would be all or nothing--nor could wait For the sure grave to level him; few years Had fixed him with the Caesars in his fate, On whom we tread: For THIS the conqueror rears The arch of triumph! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flowed, An universal deluge, which appears Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to reflow!--Renew thy rainbow, God! XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale; Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. XCIV. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. XCV. I speak not of men's creeds--they rest between Man and his Maker--but of things allowed, Averred, and known,--and daily, hourly seen-- The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed, And the intent of tyranny avowed, The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourished in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Because the deadly days which we have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips Life's tree, and dooms man's worst--his second fall. XCVIII. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm AGAINST the wind; Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts,--and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown: What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so locked, so hid?--A woman's grave. C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tombed in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's--or more--a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived--how loved--how died she? Was she not So honoured--and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? CI. Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, Profuse of joy; or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?--for such the affections are. CII. Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites--early death; yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. CIII. Perchance she died in age--surviving all, Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome--But whither would Conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know--Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride! CIV. I know not why--but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou Tomb! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind; CV. And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies foundered that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. CVI. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answer each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, And sailing pinions.--Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?--let me not number mine. CVII. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped, Deeming it midnight:--Temples, baths, or halls? Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped From her research hath been, that these are walls-- Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales: 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory--when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption--barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but ONE page,--'tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near, CIX. Admire, exult--despise--laugh, weep--for here There is such matter for all feeling:--Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, Ages and realms are crowded in this span, This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled, Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van Till the sun's rays with added flame were filled! Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? CX. Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base! What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus or Trajan's? No; 'tis that of Time: Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace, Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, CXI. Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars; they had contained A spirit which with these would find a home, The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned, The Roman globe, for after none sustained But yielded back his conquests:--he was more Than a mere Alexander, and unstained With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore. CXII. Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep Tarpeian--fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the traitor's leap Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep-- The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero! CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer failed; But long before had Freedom's face been veiled, And Anarchy assumed her attributes: Till every lawless soldier who assailed Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. CXIV. Then turn we to our latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame-- The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy-- Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be-- The forum's champion, and the people's chief-- Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief. CXV. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art Or wert,--a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green wild margin now no more erase Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies. CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love--the earliest oracle! CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart; And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports? could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart-- The dull satiety which all destroys-- And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? CXX. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert: whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. O Love! no habitant of earth thou art-- An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,-- A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see, The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquenched soul--parched--wearied--wrung--and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation;--where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreached Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again. CXXIII. Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize--wealthiest when most undone. CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp away-- Sick--sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first-- But all too late,--so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice--'tis the same-- Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst-- For all are meteors with a different name, And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. CXXV. Few--none--find what they love or could have loved: Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies--but to recur, ere long, Envenomed with irrevocable wrong; And Circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod. CXXVI. Our life is a false nature--'tis not in The harmony of things,--this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew-- Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see-- And worse, the woes we see not--which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly--'tis a base Abandonment of reason to resign Our right of thought--our last and only place Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chained and tortured--cabined, cribbed, confined, And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXVIII. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine As 'twere its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. CXXX. O Time! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled-- Time! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love,--sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer-- Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years--though few, yet full of fate: If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain--shall THEY not mourn? CXXXII. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long-- Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution--just, Had it but been from hands less near--in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII. It is not that I may not have incurred For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and had it been conferred With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound. But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; To thee I do devote it--THOU shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, Which if _I_ have not taken for the sake-- But let that pass--I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; But in this page a record will I seek. Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! CXXXV. That curse shall be forgiveness.--Have I not-- Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!-- Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? Have I not suffered things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. CXXXVI. From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy Have I not seen what human things could do? From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye, Learning to lie with silence, would SEEM true, And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. CXXXVII. But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire: Something unearthly, which they deem not of, Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. CXXXVIII. The seal is set.--Now welcome, thou dread Power Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear: Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. CXXXIX. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure.--Wherefore not? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms--on battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. CXL. I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand--his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low-- And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him: he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. CXLI. He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, THERE were his young barbarians all at play, THERE was their Dacian mother--he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday-- All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire, And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! CXLII. But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, My voice sounds much--and fall the stars' faint rays On the arena void--seats crushed, walls bowed, And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. CXLIII. A ruin--yet what ruin! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared? Alas! developed, opens the decay, When the colossal fabric's form is neared: It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away. CXLIV. But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, And the low night-breeze waves along the air, The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead: Heroes have trod this spot--'tis on their dust ye tread. CXLV. 'While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls--the World.' From our own land Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unaltered all; Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, The World, the same wide den--of thieves, or what ye will. CXLVI. Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime-- Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus--spared and blest by time; Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes--glorious dome! Shalt thou not last?--Time's scythe and tyrants' rods Shiver upon thee--sanctuary and home Of art and piety--Pantheon!--pride of Rome! CXLVII. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts-- To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close. CXLVIII. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight-- Two insulated phantoms of the brain: It is not so: I see them full and plain-- An old man, and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar:--but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? CXLIX. Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where ON the heart and FROM the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves-- What may the fruit be yet?--I know not--Cain was Eve's. CL. But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift:--it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river:--from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven's realm holds no such tide. CLI. The starry fable of the milky way Has not thy story's purity; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds:--Oh, holiest nurse! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. CLII. Turn to the mole which Hadrian reared on high, Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, Colossal copyist of deformity, Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils To build for giants, and for his vain earth, His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! CLIII. But lo! the dome--the vast and wondrous dome, To which Diana's marvel was a cell-- Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle-- Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyaena and the jackal in their shade; I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have surveyed Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed; CLIV. But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone--with nothing like to thee-- Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, Since Zion's desolation, when that he Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. CLV. Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. CLVI. Thou movest--but increasing with th' advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance; Vastness which grows--but grows to harmonise-- All musical in its immensities; Rich marbles--richer painting--shrines where flame The lamps of gold--and haughty dome which vies In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground--and this the clouds must claim. CLVII. Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break To separate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye--so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. CLVIII. Not by its fault--but thine: Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp--and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression; e'en so this Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. CLIX. Then pause and be enlightened; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, or the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; The fountain of sublimity displays Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain-- A father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending:--Vain The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench; the long envenomed chain Rivets the living links,--the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light-- The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot--the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity. CLXII. But in his delicate form--a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Longed for a deathless lover from above, And maddened in that vision--are expressed All that ideal beauty ever blessed The mind within its most unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest-- A ray of immortality--and stood Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god? CLXIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath arrayed With an eternal glory--which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust--nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more--these breathings are his last; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing:--if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed With forms which live and suffer--let that pass-- His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Thro' which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glowed, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allowed To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear,--but never more, Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: It is enough, in sooth, that ONCE we bore These fardels of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long, low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground. The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy. CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.--Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort--vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead! CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made: Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid, The love of millions! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed Our children should obey her child, and blessed Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed Like star to shepherd's eyes; 'twas but a meteor beamed. CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,-- CLXXII. These might have been her destiny; but no, Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, Good without effort, great without a foe; But now a bride and mother--and now THERE! How many ties did that stern moment tear! From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast Is linked the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppressed The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best. CLXXIII. Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from his foundation, and which spills The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. CLXXIV. And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley;--and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 'Arms and the Man,' whose reascending star Rose o'er an empire,--but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome;--and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight. CLXXV. But I forget.--My pilgrim's shrine is won, And he and I must part,--so let it be,-- His task and mine alike are nearly done; Yet once more let us look upon the sea: The midland ocean breaks on him and me, And from the Alban mount we now behold Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades: long years-- Long, though not very many--since have done Their work on both; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun: Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward--and it is here; That we can yet feel gladdened by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII. Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye Elements!--in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted--can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. CLXXVIII. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. CLXXIX. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. CLXXX. His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay. CLXXXI. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. CLXXXII. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-- Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. CLXXXIII. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here. CLXXXV. My task is done--my song hath ceased--my theme Has died into an echo; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit My midnight lamp--and what is writ, is writ-- Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been--and my visions flit Less palpably before me--and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. CLXXXVI. Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been-- A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell! Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop shell; Farewell! with HIM alone may rest the pain, If such there were--with YOU, the moral of his strain. Footnotes: {1} Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford. 
8861	----	THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON. A NEW, REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. POETRY, VOLUME 1. EDITED BY ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE, M.A. 1898 PREFACE TO THE POEMS. The text of the present issue of Lord Byron's Poetical Works is based on that of 'The Works of Lord Byron', in six volumes, 12mo, which was published by John Murray in 1831. That edition followed the text of the successive issues of plays and poems which appeared in the author's lifetime, and were subject to his own revision, or that of Gifford and other accredited readers. A more or less thorough collation of the printed volumes with the MSS. which were at Moore's disposal, yielded a number of variorum readings which have appeared in subsequent editions published by John Murray. Fresh collations of the text of individual poems with the original MSS. have been made from time to time, with the result that the text of the latest edition (one-vol. 8vo, 1891) includes some emendations, and has been supplemented by additional variants. Textual errors of more or less importance, which had crept into the numerous editions which succeeded the seventeen-volume edition of 1832, were in some instances corrected, but in others passed over. For the purposes of the present edition the printed text has been collated with all the MSS. which passed through Moore's hands, and, also, for the first time, with MSS. of the following plays and poems, viz. 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'; 'Childe Harold', Canto IV.; 'Don Juan', Cantos VI.-XVI.; 'Werner'; 'The Deformed Transformed'; 'Lara'; 'Parisina'; 'The Prophecy of Dante'; 'The Vision of Judgment'; 'The Age of Bronze'; 'The Island'. The only works of any importance which have been printed directly from the text of the first edition, without reference to the MSS., are the following, which appeared in 'The Liberal' (1822-23), viz.: 'Heaven and Earth', 'The Blues', and 'Morgante Maggiore'. A new and, it is believed, an improved punctuation has been adopted. In this respect Byron did not profess to prepare his MSS. for the press, and the punctuation, for which Gifford is mainly responsible, has been reconsidered with reference solely to the meaning and interpretation of the sentences as they occur. In the 'Hours of Idleness and Other Early Poems', the typography of the first four editions, as a rule, has been preserved. A uniform typography in accordance with modern use has been adopted for all poems of later date. Variants, being the readings of one or more MSS. or of successive editions, are printed in italics [as footnotes. text Ed] immediately below the text. They are marked by Roman numerals. Words and lines through which the author has drawn his pen in the MSS. or Revises are marked 'MS. erased'. Poems and plays are given, so far as possible, in chronological order. 'Childe Harold' and 'Don Juan', which were written and published in parts, are printed continuously; and minor poems, including the first four satires, have been arranged in groups according to the date of composition. Epigrams and 'jeux d'esprit' have been placed together, in chronological order, towards the end of the sixth volume. A Bibliography of the poems will immediately precede the Index at the close of the sixth volume. The edition contains at least thirty hitherto unpublished poems, including fifteen stanzas of the unfinished seventeenth canto of 'Don Juan', and a considerable fragment of the third part of 'The Deformed Transformed'. The eleven unpublished poems from MSS. preserved at Newstead, which appear in the first volume, are of slight if any literary value, but they reflect with singular clearness and sincerity the temper and aspirations of the tumultuous and moody stripling to whom "the numbers came," but who wisely abstained from printing them himself. Byron's notes, of which many are published for the first time, and editorial notes, enclosed in brackets, are printed immediately below the variorum readings. The editorial notes are designed solely to supply the reader with references to passages in other works illustrative of the text, or to interpret expressions and allusions which lapse of time may have rendered obscure. Much of the knowledge requisite for this purpose is to be found in the articles of the 'Dictionary of National Biography', to which the fullest acknowledgments are due; and much has been arrived at after long research, involving a minute examination of the literature, the magazines, and often the newspapers of the period. Inasmuch as the poems and plays have been before the public for more than three quarters of a century, it has not been thought necessary to burden the notes with the eulogies and apologies of the great poets and critics who were Byron's contemporaries, and regarded his writings, both for good and evil, for praise and blame, from a different standpoint from ours. Perhaps, even yet, the time has not come for a definite and positive appreciation of his genius. The tide of feeling and opinion must ebb and flow many times before his rank and station among the poets of all time will be finally adjudged. The splendour of his reputation, which dazzled his own countrymen, and, for the first time, attracted the attention of a contemporary European audience to an English writer, has faded, and belongs to history; but the poet's work remains, inviting a more intimate and a more extended scrutiny than it has hitherto received in this country. The reader who cares to make himself acquainted with the method of Byron's workmanship, to unravel his allusions, and to follow the tenour of his verse, will, it is hoped, find some assistance in these volumes. I beg to record my especial thanks to the Earl of Lovelace for the use of MSS. of his grandfather's poems, including unpublished fragments; for permission to reproduce portraits in his possession; and for valuable information and direction in the construction of some of the notes. My grateful acknowledgments are due to Dr. Garnett, C.B., Dr. A. H. Murray, Mr. R. E. Graves, and other officials of the British Museum, for invaluable assistance in preparing the notes, and in compiling a bibliography of the poems. I have also to thank Mr. Leslie Stephen and others for important hints and suggestions with regard to the interpretation of some obscure passages in 'Hints from Horace'. In correcting the proofs for the press, I have had the advantage of the skill and knowledge of my friend Mr. Frank E. Taylor, of Chertsey, to whom my thanks are due. On behalf of the Publisher, I beg to acknowledge with gratitude the kindness of the Lady Dorchester, the Earl Stanhope, Lord Glenesk and Sir Theodore Martin, K.C.B., for permission to examine MSS. in their possession; and of Mrs. Chaworth Musters, for permission to reproduce her miniature of Miss Chaworth, and for other favours. He desires also to acknowledge the generous assistance of Mr. and Miss Webb, of Newstead Abbey, in permitting the publication of MS. poems, and in making transcripts for the press. I need hardly add that, throughout the progress of the work, the advice and direct assistance of Mr. John Murray and Mr. R. E. Prothero have been always within my reach. They have my cordial thanks. ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE. [facsimile of title page:] POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS. Virginibus Puerisque Canto. (Hor. Lib, 3. 'Ode 1'.) The only Apology necessary to be adduced, in extenuation of any errors in the following collection, is, that the Author has not yet completed his nineteenth year. December 23,1806. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE TO 'HOURS OF IDLENESS AND OTHER EARLY POEMS'. There were four distinct issues of Byron's Juvenilia. The first collection, entitled 'Fugitive Pieces', was printed in quarto by S. and J. Ridge of Newark. Two of the poems, "The Tear" and the "Reply to Some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq.," were signed "BYRON;" but the volume itself, which is without a title-page, was anonymous. It numbers sixty-six pages, and consists of thirty-eight distinct pieces. The last piece, "Imitated from Catullus. To Anna," is dated November 16, 1806. The whole of this issue, with the exception of two or three copies, was destroyed. An imperfect copy, lacking pp. 17-20 and pp. 58-66, is preserved at Newstead. A perfect copy, which had been retained by the Rev. J. T. Becher, at whose instance the issue was suppressed, was preserved by his family (see 'Life', by Karl Elze, 1872, p. 450), and is now in the possession of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B. A facsimile reprint of this unique volume, limited to one hundred copies, was issued, for private circulation only, from the Chiswick Press in 1886. Of the thirty-eight 'Fugitive Pieces', two poems, viz. "To Caroline" and "To Mary," together with the last six stanzas of the lines, "To Miss E. P. [To Eliza]," have never been republished in any edition of Byron's Poetical Works. A second edition, small octavo, of 'Fugitive Pieces', entitled 'Poems on Various Occasions', was printed by S. and J. Ridge of Newark, and distributed in January, 1807. This volume was issued anonymously. It numbers 144 pages, and consists of a reproduction of thirty-six 'Fugitive Pieces', and of twelve hitherto unprinted poems--forty-eight in all. For references to the distribution of this issue--limited, says Moore, to one hundred copies--see letters to Mr. Pigot and the Earl of Clare, dated January 16, February 6, 1807, and undated letters of the same period to Mr. William Bankes and Mr. Falkner ('Life', pp. 41, 42). The annotated copy of 'Poems on Various Occasions', referred to in the present edition, is in the British Museum. Early in the summer (June--July) of 1807, a volume, small octavo, named 'Hours of Idleness'--a title henceforth associated with Byron's early poems--was printed and published by S. and J. Ridge of Newark, and was sold by the following London booksellers: Crosby and Co.; Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme; F. and C. Rivington; and J, Mawman. The full title is, 'Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems Original and Translated'. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. It numbers 187 pages, and consists of thirty-nine poems. Of these, nineteen belonged to the original 'Fugitive Pieces', eight had first appeared in 'Poems on Various Occasions', and twelve were published for the first time. The "Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of Virgil's Æneid" ('sic'), numbering sixteen lines, reappears as "The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus, A Paraphrase from the Æneid, Lib. 9," numbering 406 lines. The final collection, also in small octavo, bearing the title 'Poems Original and Translated', by George Gordon, Lord Byron, second edition, was printed and published in 1808 by S. and J. Ridge of Newark, and sold by the same London booksellers as 'Hours of Idleness'. It numbers 174 pages, and consists of seventeen of the original 'Fugitive Pieces', four of those first published in 'Poems on Various Occasions', a reprint of the twelve poems first published in 'Hours of Idleness', and five poems which now appeared for the first time--thirty-eight poems in all. Neither the title nor the contents of this so-called second edition corresponds exactly with the previous issue. Of the thirty-eight 'Fugitive Pieces' which constitute the suppressed quarto, only seventeen appear in all three subsequent issues. Of the twelve additions to 'Poems on Various Occasions', four were excluded from 'Hours of Idleness', and four more from 'Poems Original and Translated'. The collection of minor poems entitled 'Hours of Idleness', which has been included in every edition of Byron's Poetical Works issued by John Murray since 1831, consists of seventy pieces, being the aggregate of the poems published in the three issues, 'Poems on Various Occasions', 'Hours of Idleness', and 'Poems Original and Translated', together with five other poems of the same period derived from other sources. In the present issue a general heading, "Hours of Idleness, and other Early Poems," has been applied to the entire collection of Early Poems, 1802-1809. The quarto has been reprinted (excepting the lines "To Mary," which Byron himself deliberately suppressed) in its entirety, and in the original order. The successive additions to the 'Poems on Various Occasions', 'Hours of Idleness', and 'Poems Original and Translated', follow in order of publication. The remainder of the series, viz. poems first published in Moore's 'Life and Journals of Lord Byron' (1830); poems hitherto unpublished; poems first published in the 'Works of Lord Byron' (1832), and poems contributed to J. C. Hobhouse's 'Imitations and Translations' (1809), have been arranged in chronological order. (For an important contribution to the bibliography of the quarto of 1806, and of the other issues of Byron's Juvenilia, see papers by Mr. R. Edgcumbe, Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., and others, in the 'Athenaeum', 1885, vol. ii. pp. 731-733, 769; and 1886, vol. i. p. 101, etc. For a collation of the contents of the four first issues and of certain large-paper copies of 'Hours of Idleness', etc., see 'The Bibliography of the Poetical Works of Lord Byron', vol. vi. of the present edition.) [text of facsimile pages of two different editions mentioned above:] HOURS OF IDLENESS, A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED, BY GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, A MINOR. [Greek: Maet ar me mal ainee maete ti neichei.] HOMER. Iliad, 10. Virginibus puerisque Canto. HORACE. He whistled as he went for want of thought. DRYDEN. NEMARK: Printed and sold by S. and J. RIDGE; SOLD ALSO BY B CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER'S COURT; LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW; F. AND C. RIVINGTON, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD; AND J. MAWMAN, IN THE POULTRY; LONDON. 1807 POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED BY GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, [Greek: Maet ar me mal ainee maete ti neichei.] HOMER, Iliad, 10. He whistled as he went for want of thought. DRYDEN. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. The MS. ('MS. M.') of the first draft of Byron's "Satire" (see Letter to Pigot, October 26, 1807) is now in Mr. Murray's possession. It is written on folio sheets paged 6-25, 28-41, and numbers 360 lines. Mutilations on pages 12, 13, 34, 35 account for the absence of ten additional lines. After the publication of the January number of 'The Edinburgh Review' for 1808 (containing the critique on 'Hours of Idleness'), which was delayed till the end of February, Byron added a beginning and an ending to the original draft. The MSS. of these additions, which number ninety lines, are written on quarto sheets, and have been bound up with the folios. (Lines 1-16 are missing.) The poem, which with these and other additions had run up to 560 lines, was printed in book form (probably by Ridge of Newark), under the title of 'British Bards, A Satire'. "This Poem," writes Byron ['MSS. M.'], "was begun in October, 1807, in London, and at different intervals composed from that period till September, 1808, when it was completed at Newstead Abbey.--B., 1808." A date, 1808, is affixed to the last line. Only one copy is extant, that which was purchased, in 1867, from the executors of R.C. Dallas, by the Trustees of the British Museum. Even this copy has been mutilated. Pages 17, 18, which must have contained the first version of the attack on Jeffrey (see 'English Bards', p. 332, line 439, 'note' 2), have been torn out, and quarto proof-sheets in smaller type of lines 438-527, "Hail to immortal Jeffrey," etc., together with a quarto proof-sheet, in the same type as 'British Bards', containing lines 540-559, "Illustrious Holland," etc., have been inserted. Hobhouse's lines (first edition, lines 247-262), which are not in the original draft, are included in 'British Bards'. The insertion of the proofs increased the printed matter to 584 lines. After the completion of this revised version of 'British Bards', additions continued to be made. Marginal corrections and MS. fragments, bound up with 'British Bards', together with forty-four lines (lines 723-726, 819-858) which do not occur in MS. M., make up with the printed matter the 696 lines which were published in March, 1809, under the title of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The folio and quarto sheets in Mr. Murray's possession ('MS. M.') may be regarded as the MS. of 'British Bards; British Bards' (there are a few alterations, e.g. the substitution of lines 319-326, "Moravians, arise," etc., for the eight lines on Pratt, which are to be found in the folio MS., and are printed in 'British Bards'), with its accompanying MS. fragments, as the foundation of the text of the first edition of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. Between the first edition, published in March, and the second edition in October, 1809, the difference is even greater than between the first edition and 'British Bards'. The Preface was enlarged, and a postscript affixed to the text of the poem. Hobhouse's lines (first edition, 247-262) were omitted, and the following additional passages inserted, viz.: (i.) lines 1-96, "Still must I hear," etc.; (ii.) lines 129-142, "Thus saith the Preacher," etc.; (iii.) lines 363-417, "But if some new-born whim," etc.; (iv.) lines 638-706, "Or hail at once," etc.; (v.) lines 765-798, "When some brisk youth," etc.; (vi.) lines 859-880, "And here let Shee," etc.; (vii.) lines 949-960, "Yet what avails," etc.; (viii.) lines 973-980, "There, Clarke," etc.; (ix.) lines 1011-1070, "Then hapless Britain," etc. These additions number 370 lines, and, together with the 680 lines of the first edition (reduced from 696 by the omission of Hobhouse's contribution), make up the 1050 lines of the second and third editions, and the doubtful fourth edition of 1810. Of these additions, Nos. i., ii., iii., iv., vi., viii., ix. exist in MS., and are bound up with the folio MS. now in Mr. Murray's possession. The third edition, which is, generally, dated 1810, is a replica of the second edition. The first issue of the fourth edition, which appeared in 1810, is identical with the second and third editions. A second issue of the fourth edition, dated 1811, must have passed under Byron's own supervision. Lines 723, 724 are added, and lines 725, 726 are materially altered. The fourth edition of 1811 numbers 1052 lines. The suppressed fifth edition, numbering 1070 lines (the copy in the British Museum has the title-page of the fourth edition; a second copy, in Mr. Murray's possession, has no title-page), varies from the fourth edition of 1811 by the addition of lines 97-102 and 528-539, and by some twenty-nine emendations of the text. Eighteen of these emendations were made by Byron in a copy of the fourth edition which belonged to Leigh Hunt. On another copy, in Mr. Murray's possession, Byron made nine emendations, of which six are identical with those in the Hunt copy, and three appear for the first time. It was in the latter volume that he inscribed his after-thoughts, which are dated "B. 1816." For a complete collation of the five editions of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', and textual emendations in the two annotated volumes, and for a note on genuine and spurious copies of the first and other editions, see 'The Bibliography of the Poetical Works of Lord Byron', vol. vi. [Facsimile of title-page of first edition, including Byron's signature. To view this and other facsimiles, and the other illustrations mentioned in this text, see the html edition. text Ed.] ENGLISH BARDS, AND Scotch Reviewers. A SATIRE. I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. SHAKSPEARE. Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true, There are as mad, abandon'd Critics too. POPE. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. HOURS OF IDLENESS, AND OTHER EARLY POEMS. FUGITIVE PIECES. Preface to the Poems Bibliographical Note to "Hours of Idleness and Other Early Poems" Bibliographical Note to "English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers" On Leaving Newstead Abbey To E---- On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author, and very dear to Him To D---- To Caroline To Caroline [second poem] To Emma Fragments of School Exercises: From the "Prometheus Vinctus" of Æschylus Lines written in "Letters of an Italian Nun and an English Gentleman, by J.J. Rousseau: Founded on Facts" Answer to the Foregoing, Addressed to Miss---- On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School Epitaph on a Beloved Friend Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying A Fragment To Caroline [third poem] To Caroline [fourth poem] On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill, 1806 Thoughts Suggested by a College Examination To Mary, on Receiving Her Picture On the Death of Mr. Fox To a Lady who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided with his own, and appointed a Night in December to meet him in the Garden To a Beautiful Quaker To Lesbia! To Woman An Occasional Prologue, Delivered by the Author Previous to the Performance of "The Wheel of Fortune" at a Private Theatre To Eliza The Tear Reply to some Verses of J.M.B. Pigot, Esq., on the Cruelty of his Mistress Granta. A Medley To the Sighing Strephon The Cornelian To M---- Lines Addressed to a Young Lady. [As the Author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning] Translation from Catullus. 'Ad Lesbiam' Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullus, by Domitius Marsus Imitation of Tibullus. 'Sulpicia ad Cerinthum' Translation from Catullus. 'Lugete Veneres Cupidinesque' Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS. To M.S.G. Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoëns To M.S.G. [second poem] Translation from Horace. 'Justum et tenacem', etc. The First Kiss of Love Childish Recollections Answer to a Beautiful Poem, Written by Montgomery, Author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," etc., entitled "The Common Lot" Love's Last Adieu Lines Addressed to the Rev. J.T. Becher, on his advising the Author to mix more with Society Answer to some Elegant Verses sent by a Friend to the Author, complaining that one of his descriptions was rather too warmly drawn Elegy on Newstead Abbey HOURS OF IDLENESS. To George, Earl Delawarr Damætas To Marion Oscar of Alva Translation from Anacreon. Ode I From Anacreon. Ode 3 The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus. A Paraphrase from the 'Æneid', Lib. 9 Translation from the 'Medea' of Euripides [L. 627-660] Lachin y Gair To Romance The Death of Calmar and Orla To Edward Noel Long, Esq. To a Lady POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. When I Roved a Young Highlander To the Duke of Dorset To the Earl of Clare I would I were a Careless Child Lines Written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow EARLY POEMS FROM VARIOUS SOURCES. Fragment, Written Shortly after the Marriage of Miss Chaworth. First published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56 Remembrance. First published in 'Works of Lord Byron', 1832, vii. 152 To a Lady Who Presented the Author with the Velvet Band which bound her Tresses. 'Works', 1832, vii. 151 To a Knot of Ungenerous Critics. 'MS. Newstead' Soliloquy of a Bard in the Country. 'MS. Newstead' L'Amitié est L'Amour sans Ailes. 'Works', 1832, vii. 161 The Prayer of Nature. 'Letters and Journals', 1830, i. 106 Translation from Anacreon. Ode 5. 'MS. Newstead' [Ossian's Address to the Sun in "Carthon."] 'MS. Newstead' [Pignus Amoris.] 'MS. Newstead' [A Woman's Hair.] 'Works', 1832, vii. 151 Stanzas to Jessy. 'Monthly Literary Recreations', July, 1807 The Adieu. 'Works', 1832, vii. 195 To----. 'MS. Newstead' On the Eyes of Miss A----H----. 'MS. Newstead' To a Vain Lady. 'Works', 1832, vii. 199 To Anne. 'Works', 1832, vii. 201 Egotism. A Letter to J.T. Becher. 'MS. Newstead' To Anne. 'Works', 1832, vii. 202 To the Author of a Sonnet Beginning, "'Sad is my verse,' you say, 'and yet no tear.'" 'Works', 1832, vii. 202 On Finding a Fan. 'Works', 1832, 203 Farewell to the Muse. 'Works', 1832, vii. 203 To an Oak at Newstead. 'Works', 1832, vii. 206 On Revisiting Harrow. 'Letters and Journals', i. 102 To my Son. 'Letters and Journals', i. 104 Queries to Casuists. 'MS. Newstead' Song. Breeze of the Night. 'MS. Lovelace' To Harriet. 'MS. Newstead' There was a Time, I need not name. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 200 And wilt Thou weep when I am low? 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 202 Remind me not, Remind me not. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 197 To a Youthful Friend. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 185 Lines Inscribed upon a Cup Formed from a Skull. First published, 'Childe Harold', Cantos i., ii. (Seventh Edition), 1814 Well! Thou art Happy. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 192 Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 190 To a Lady, On Being asked my reason for quitting England in the Spring. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 195 Fill the Goblet Again. A Song. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 204 Stanzas to a Lady, on Leaving England. 'Imitations and Translations', 1809, p. 227 ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS HINTS FROM HORACE THE CURSE OF MINERVA THE WALTZ HOURS OF IDLENESS AND OTHER EARLY POEMS. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [i] Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1] I. Through thy battlements, Newstead, [2] the hollow winds whistle: [ii] Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way. 2. Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle, [iii] Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [3] The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 3. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell'd wreath; Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan [4] slumbers, Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death. 4. Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy; For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye: How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell. 5. On Marston, [5] with Rupert, [6] 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd, with their blood, the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, [iv] Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. [7] 6. Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! [v] Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 7. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, [vi] 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; [vii] Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget. [viii] 8. That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; [ix] He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own! 1803. [Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in _Hours of Idleness_.] [Footnote 2: The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II. On the dissolution of the monasteries it was granted (in 1540) by Henry VIII. to "Sir John Byron the Little, with the great beard." His portrait is still preserved at Newstead.] [Footnote 3: No record of any crusading ancestors in the Byron family can be found. Moore conjectures that the legend was suggested by some groups of heads on the old panel-work at Newstead, which appear to represent Christian soldiers and Saracens, and were, most probably, put up before the Abbey came into the possession of the family.] [Footnote 4: Horistan Castle, in _Derbyshire_, an ancient seat of the B--R--N family [4to]. (Horiston.--4to.)] [Footnote 5: The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated.] [Footnote 6: Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the Fleet, in the reign of Charles II.] [Footnote 7: Sir Nicholas Byron, the great-grandson of Sir John Byron the Little, distinguished himself in the Civil Wars. He is described by Clarendon (_Hist, of the Rebellion_, 1807, i. 216) as "a person of great affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge." He was Governor of Carlisle, and afterwards Governor of Chester. His nephew and heir-at-law, Sir John Byron, of Clayton, K.B. (1599-1652), was raised to the peerage as Baron Byron of Rochdale, after the Battle of Newbury, October 26, 1643. He held successively the posts of Lieutenant of the Tower, Governor of Chester, and, after the expulsion of the Royal Family from England, Governor to the Duke of York. He died childless, and was succeeded by his brother Richard, the second lord, from whom the poet was descended. Five younger brothers, as Richard's monument in the chancel of Hucknall Torkard Church records, "faithfully served King Charles the First in the Civil Wars, suffered much for their loyalty, and lost all their present fortunes." (See _Life of Lord Byron_, by Karl Elze: Appendix, Note (A), p. 436.)] [Footnote i: 'On Leaving N ... ST ... D.'--[4to] 'On Leaving Newstead.'--('P. on V. Occasions.')] [Footnote ii: 'Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay; And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way'. [4to]] [Footnote iii: 'Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle'. [4to]] [Footnote iv: 'For Charles the Martyr their country defending'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote v: 'Bids ye adieu!' [4to]] [Footnote vi: 'Though a tear dims.' [4to]] [Footnote vii: ''Tis nature, not fear, which commands his regret'. [4to]] [Footnote viii: 'In the grave he alone can his fathers forget'. [4to]] [Footnote ix: 'Your fame, and your memory, still will he cherish'. [4to]] TO E---[1] Let Folly smile, to view the names Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd; Yet Virtue will have greater claims To love, than rank with vice combin'd. And though unequal is _thy_ fate, Since title deck'd my higher birth; Yet envy not this gaudy state, _Thine_ is the pride of modest worth. Our _souls_ at least congenial meet, Nor can _thy_ lot _my_ rank disgrace; Our intercourse is not less sweet, Since worth of rank supplies the place. _November_, 1802. [Footnote 1: E---was, according to Moore, a boy of Byron's own age, the son of one of the tenants at Newstead.] ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, [1] COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM. 1. Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 2. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay, where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seiz'd her as his prey; Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 3. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate, Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the Muse her virtues would relate. 4. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers, Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay. 5. And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign! And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse! Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;-- I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 6. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place. [i] 1802. [Footnote 1: The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.--[4to] "My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition of a passion for--my first cousin, Margaret Parker (daughter and granddaughter of the two Admirals Parker), one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse; but it would be difficult for me to forget her--her dark eyes--her long eye-lashes--her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then about twelve--she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine, and induced consumption ... I knew nothing of her illness, being at Harrow and in the country till she was gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy--a very dull one."--_Byron Diary_, 1821; _Life_, p. 17. [Margaret Parker was the sister of Sir Peter Parker, whose death at Baltimore, in 1814, Byron celebrated in the "Elegiac Stanzas," which were first published in the poems attached to the seventh edition of _Childe Harold_.] [Footnote i: _Such sorrow brings me honour, not disgrace_. [4to]] TO D---[1] 1. In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp A friend, whom death alone could sever; Till envy, with malignant grasp, [i] Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 2. True, she has forc'd thee from my _breast_, Yet, in my _heart_, thou keep'st thy seat; [ii] There, there, thine image still must rest, Until that heart shall cease to beat. 3. And, when the grave restores her dead, When life again to dust is given, On _thy dear_ breast I'll lay my head-- Without _thee! where_ would be _my Heaven?_ February, 1803. [Footnote 1: George John, 5th Earl Delawarr (1791-1869). (See _note_ 2, p. 100; see also lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," pp. 126-128.)] [Footnote i: _But envy with malignant grasp, Has torn thee from my breast for ever. [4to]] [Footnote ii: _But in my heart_. [4to]] TO CAROLINE. [i] 1. Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay; And heard _unmov'd_ thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say? [ii] 2. Though keen the grief _thy_ tears exprest, [iii] When love and hope lay _both_ o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, _this_ bleeding breast Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as _thine own_. 3. But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When _thy_ sweet lips were join'd to mine; The tears that from _my_ eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from _thine_. 4. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, _Thy_ gushing tears had quench'd its flame, And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In _sighs alone_ it breath'd my name. 5. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, But _that_, will make us weep the more. 6. Again, thou best belov'd, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review, Our only _hope_ is, to _forget_! 1805. [Footnote i: _To_----. [4to]] [Footnote ii: _than words could say_. [4to]] [Footnote iii: _Though deep the grief_. [4to]] TO CAROLINE. [1] 1. You say you love, and yet your eye No symptom of that love conveys, You say you love, yet know not why, Your cheek no sign of love betrays. 2. Ah! did that breast with ardour glow, With me alone it joy could know, Or feel with me the listless woe, Which racks my heart when far from thee. 3. Whene'er we meet my blushes rise, And mantle through my purpled cheek, But yet no blush to mine replies, Nor e'en your eyes your love bespeak. 4. Your voice alone declares your flame, And though so sweet it breathes my name, Our passions still are not the same; Alas! you cannot love like me. 5. For e'en your lip seems steep'd in snow, And though so oft it meets my kiss, It burns with no responsive glow, Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss. 6. Ah! what are words to love like _mine_, Though uttered by a voice like thine, I still in murmurs must repine, And think that love can ne'er be _true_, 7. Which meets me with no joyous sign, Without a sigh which bids adieu; How different is my love from thine, How keen my grief when leaving you. 8. Your image fills my anxious breast, Till day declines adown the West, And when at night, I sink to rest, In dreams your fancied form I view. 9. 'Tis then your breast, no longer cold, With equal ardour seems to burn, While close your arms around me fold, Your lips my kiss with warmth return. 10. Ah! would these joyous moments last; Vain HOPE! the gay delusion's past, That voice!--ah! no, 'tis but the blast, Which echoes through the neighbouring grove. 11. But when _awake_, your lips I seek, And clasp enraptur'd all your charms, So chill's the pressure of your cheek, I fold a statue in my arms. 12. If thus, when to my heart embrac'd, No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd, You may be prudent, fair, and _chaste_, But ah! my girl, you _do not love_. [Footnote 1: These lines, which appear in the Quarto, were never republished.] TO EMMA. [1] 1. Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now, our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over. 2. Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more; Which tears me far from _one_ so dear, _Departing_ for a distant shore. 3. Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, And joy will mingle with our tears; When thinking on these ancient towers, The shelter of our infant years; 4. Where from this Gothic casement's height, We view'd the lake, the park, the dell, And still, though tears obstruct our sight, We lingering look a last farewell, 5. O'er fields through which we us'd to run, And spend the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done, Reposing on my breast you lay; 6. Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss, It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes: 7. See still the little painted _bark_, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The _elm_ I clamber'd for your sake. 8. These times are past, our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes, I must retrace alone; Without thee, what will they avail? 9. Who can conceive, who has not prov'd, The anguish of a last embrace? When, torn from all you fondly lov'd, You bid a long adieu to peace. 10. _This_ is the deepest of our woes, For _this_ these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, Oh, God! the fondest, _last_ adieu! 1805. [Footnote 1: To Maria--[4to]] FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES: FROM THE "PROMETHEUS VINCTUS" OF AESCHYLUS, [Greek: Maedam o panta nem_on, K.T.L_] [1] Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne Both Gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall, In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain, 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. ... How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When plac'd aloft in godlike state, The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smil'd, And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd; The Nymphs and Tritons danc'd around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd, [2] HARROW, December 1, 1804. [Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in the Quarto, nor in the three first Editions.] [Footnote 2: "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a translation of a chorus from the 'Prometheus' of Æschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our headmaster), but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poetry."--'Life', p. 20. The lines are not a translation but a loose adaptation or paraphrase of part of a chorus of the 'Prometheus Vinctus', I, 528, 'sq.'] LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN, BY J. J. ROUSSEAU; [1] FOUNDED ON FACTS." "Away, away,--your flattering arts May now betray some simpler hearts; And _you_ will _smile_ at their believing, And _they_ shall _weep_ at your deceiving." [Footnote 1: A second edition of this work, of which the title is, _Letters, etc., translated from the French of Jean Jacques Rousseau_, was published in London, in 1784. It is, probably, a literary forgery.] ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, [i] ADDRESSED TO MISS----. Dear simple girl, those flattering arts, (From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,)[ii] Exist but in imagination, Mere phantoms of thine own creation; [iii] For he who views that witching grace, That perfect form, that lovely face, With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, He never wishes to deceive thee: Once in thy polish'd mirror glance [iv] Thou'lt there descry that elegance Which from our sex demands such praises, But envy in the other raises.-- Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, [v] Believe me, only does his duty: Ah! fly not from the candid youth; It is not flattery,--'tis truth. [vi] July, 1804. [Footnote i: _Answer to the above._ [4to] ] [Footnote ii: _From which you'd._ [4to] ] [Footnote iii: _Mere phantoms of your own creation; For he who sees_. [4to]] [Footnote iv: _Once let you at your mirror glance You'll there descry that elegance,_ [4to]] [Footnote v: _Then he who tells you of your beauty._ [4to]] [Footnote vi: _It is not flattery, but truth_. [4to]] ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. [1] Where are those honours, IDA! once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a Barbarian in her Cæsar's place, So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, And seat _Pomposus_ where your _Probus_ sate. Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, [i] Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, (Such as were ne'er before enforc'd in schools.) [ii] Mistaking _pedantry_ for _learning's_ laws, He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause; With him the same dire fate, attending Rome, Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom: Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name, HARROW, July, 1805. [Footnote 1: In March, 1805, Dr. Drury, the Probus of the piece, retired from the Head-mastership of Harrow School, and was succeeded by Dr. Butler, the Pomposus. "Dr. Drury," said Byron, in one of his note-books, "was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had; and I look upon him still as a father." Out of affection to his late preceptor, Byron advocated the election of Mark Drury to the vacant post, and hence his dislike of the successful candidate. He was reconciled to Dr. Butler before departing for Greece, in 1809, and in his diary he says, "I treated him rebelliously, and have been sorry ever since." (See allusions in and notes to "Childish Recollections," pp. 84-106, and especially note I, p. 88, notes I and 2, p. 89, and note I, p. 91.)] ] [Footnote i: ----_but of a narrower soul_.--[4to]] [Footnote ii: _Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools._--[4to]] EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.[1] [Greek: Astaer prin men elampes eni tsuoisin hepsos.] [Plato's Epitaph (Epig. Græc., Jacobs, 1826, p. 309), quoted by Diog. Laertins.] Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! [i] What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image, what new friendship can efface? Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone. HARROW, 1803. [2] [Footnote i: _Oh Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier; What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death. Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course, Could sighs have checked his dart's relentless force; [iii] Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey, Thou still had'st liv'd to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight: Though low thy lot since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer, was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live, (Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive,) Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom, Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb; Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest, I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast; That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head, Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead; This life resign'd, without one parting sigh, Together in one bed of earth we'll lie! Together share the fate to mortals given, Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven._ HARROW, 1803.--[4to. _P. on V. Occasions._]] [Footnote 1: The heading which appears in the Quarto and _P. on V. Occasions_ was subsequently changed to "Epitaph on a Friend." The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'. The epigram which Bergk leaves under Plato's name was translated by Shelley ('Poems', 1895, iii. 361)-- "Thou wert the morning star Among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled; Now having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead." There is an echo of the Greek distich in Byron's exquisite line, "The Morning-Star of Memory." The words, "Southwell, March 17," are added, in a lady's hand, on p. 9 of the annotated copy of P. 'on' V. 'Occasions' in the British Museum. The conjecture that the "'beloved' friend," who is of humble origin, is identical with "E----" of the verses on p. 4, remains uncertain.] [Footnote ii: _have bath'd thy honoured bier._ [_P. on V. Occasions._] ] [Footnote iii: _Could tears retard,_ [_P. on V. Occasions._] _Could sighs avert._ [_P. on V. Occasions._] ] ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING. Animula! vagula, Blandula, Hospes, comesque corporis, Quæ nunc abibis in Loca-- Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos? TRANSLATION. Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite, Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 1806. A FRAGMENT. [1] When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns! No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; [i] My _epitaph_ shall be my name alone: [2] If _that_ with honour fail to crown my clay, [ii] Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay! _That_, only _that_, shall single out the spot; By that remember'd, or with that forgot. [iii] 1803. [Footnote 1: There is no heading in the Quarto.] [Footnote 2: In his will, drawn up in 1811, Byron gave directions that "no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb." June, 1819, he wrote to Murray: "Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance, 'Martini Luigi Implora pace.' Can anything be more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two words, and no more, put over me."--'Life', pp. 131, 398.] [Footnote: i. 'No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown.' [4to. P. on V. Occ.]] [Footnote: ii. 'If that with honour fails,' [4to]] [Footnote: iii. 'But that remember'd, or fore'er forgot'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] TO CAROLINE. [1] 1. Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay? The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 2. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, [i] I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this-- 3. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 4. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 5. Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 6. Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead. 1805. [Footnote 1: [To------.--[4to].]] [Footnote i: 'fall no curses'.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] TO CAROLINE. [1] 1. When I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 2. Yet still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring, Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear; 3. That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 4. Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, In the death which one day will deprive you of me. [i] 5. Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, [ii] No doubt can the mind of your lover invade; He worships each look with such faithful devotion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 6. But as death, my belov'd, soon or late shall o'ertake us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead, in Earth's bosom laid low. 7. Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow; [iii] Let us pass round the cup of Love's bliss in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 1805. [Footnote 1: [There is no heading in the Quarto.]] [Footnote i: _will deprive me of thee_.--[4to]] [Footnote ii: _No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd, To rivet the fetters of husband and wife; By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd, To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life_.--[4to]] [Footnote iii: _will unceasingly flow_.--[4to]] ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL, 1806. Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.[1] VIRGIL. 1. Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection Embitters the present, compar'd with the past; Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; [2] 2. Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; [3] How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, [i] Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd! 3. Again I revisit the hills where we sported, The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [4] The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught. 4. Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone [5] I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 5. I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, Where, as Zanga, [6] I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded, I fancied that Mossop [7] himself was outshone. 6. Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd; Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation, I regarded myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd. [ii] 7. Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you! Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; [iii] Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you: Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 8. To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, [iv] While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll! Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, More dear is the beam of the past to my soul! 9. But if, through the course of the years which await me, Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, "Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." [8] 1806. [Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.] [Footnote 2: "My school-friendships were with me _passions_ (for I was always violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be sure, some have been cut short by death) till now." 'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.] [Footnote 3: Byron was at first placed in the house of Mr. Henry Drury, but in 1803 was removed to that of Mr. Evans. "The reason why Lord Byron wishes for the change, arises from the repeated complaints of Mr. Henry Drury respecting his inattention to business, and his propensity to make others laugh and disregard their employment as much as himself." Dr. Joseph Drury to Mr. John Hanson.] [Footnote 4: "At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I lost but one battle out of seven." 'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 21.] [Footnote 5: A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's Tomb:" and here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.--'Life', p. 26.] [Footnote 6: For the display of his declamatory powers, on the speech-days, he selected always the most vehement passages; such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, and Lear's address to the storm.--'Life', p. 20, 'note'; and 'post', p. 103, 'var'. i.] [Footnote 7: Henry Mossop (1729-1773), a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of "Zanga" in Young's tragedy of 'The Revenge'.] [Footnote 8: Stanzas 8 and 9 first appeared in 'Hours of Idleness'.] [Footnote i: 'How welcome once more'. [4to]] [Footnote ii: 'I consider'd myself'. [4to]] [Footnote iii: 'As your memory beams through this agonized breast; Thus sad and deserted, I n'er can forget you, Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest. [4to] Your memory beams through this agonized breast.-- [P. on V. Occasions.'] [Footnote iv: 'I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness, Of tears as of reason for ever was drain'd; But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness, Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd'. 'Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection, Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead, In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection, The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.] THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, Magnus [1] his ample front sublime uprears: [i] Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God, While Sophs [2] and Freshmen tremble at his nod; As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, [ii] _His_ voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little vers'd in any art beside; 10 Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, [iii] Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. What! though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead, When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France: Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_, Yet well he recollects the _laws_ of _Sparta_; Can tell, what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made, While _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf_, _neglected_ laid; 20 Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame, Of _Avon's bard_, rememb'ring scarce the name. Such is the youth whose scientific pate Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; Or even, perhaps, the _declamation_ prize, If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes. But lo! no _common_ orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope: Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require, Th' ATHENIAN'S [3] glowing style, or TULLY'S fire. 30 A _manner_ clear or warm is useless, since [iv] We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_; Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,-- We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd: Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone, A proper mixture of the _squeak_ and _groan_: No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_ must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the _Dean_; Whilst every staring Graduate would prate, Against what--_he_ could never imitate. 40 The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup, Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_; Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word-- No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard: Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest: Who speaks the _fastest's_ sure to speak the _best_; Who utters most within the shortest space, May, safely, hope to win the _wordy race_. The Sons of _Science_ these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; 50 Where on Cam's sedgy banks, supine, they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live--unwept for die: Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls: In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise; Yet prizing _Bentley's, Brunck's_, or _Porson's_ [4] note, [v] More than the _verse on which the critic wrote_: Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale, [5] Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; 60 To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal. With eager haste they court the lord of power, [vi] (Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY [6] rules the hour;) To _him_, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, While distant mitres to their eyes are spread; [vii] But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place. _Such_ are the men who learning's treasures guard! _Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward_! 70 This _much_, at least, we may presume to say-- The premium can't exceed the _price_ they _pay_. [viii] 1806. [Footnote 1: No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing an unavoidable function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon myself; as that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality. [Dr. William Lort Mansel (1753-1820) was, in 1798, appointed Master of Trinity College, by Pitt. He obtained the bishopric of Bristol, through the influence of his pupil, Spencer Perceval, in 1808. He died in 1820.] [Footnote 2: Undergraduates of the second and third year.] [Footnote 3: Demosthenes.] [Footnote 4: The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify their preference. [Richard Porson (1759-1808). For Byron's description of him, see letter to Murray, of February 20, 1818. Byron says ('Diary', December 17, 18, 1813) that he wrote the 'Devil's Drive' in imitation of Porson's 'Devil's Walk'. This was a common misapprehension at the time. The 'Devil's Thoughts' was the joint composition of Coleridge and Southey, but it was generally attributed to Porson, who took no trouble to disclaim it. It was originally published in the 'Morning Post', Sept. 6, 1799, and Stuart, the editor, said that it raised the circulation of the paper for several days after. (See Coleridge's Poems (1893), pp. 147, 621.)] [Footnote 5: Lines 59-62 are not in the Quarto. They first appeared in 'Poems Original and Translated'] [Footnote 6: Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment. (Lord Henry Petty, M.P. for the University of Cambridge, was Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1805; but in 1807 he lost his seat. In 1809 he succeeded his brother as Marquis of Lansdowne. He died in 1863.)] [Footnote i: 'M--us--l.--'[4to]] [Footnote ii: 'Whilst all around.'--[4to]] [Footnote iii: 'Who with scarse sense to pen an English letter, Yet with precision scans an Attis metre.' [4to]] [Footnote iv: 'The manner of the speech is nothing, since', [4to. 'P, on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote v: 'Celebrated critics'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]] [Footnote vi: 'They court the tool of power'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote vii: 'While mitres, prebends'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote viii: The 'reward's' scarce equal to the 'price' they pay. [4to]] TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. [1] 1. This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give,) My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 2. Here, I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave; The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips, which made me 'Beauty's' slave. 3. Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. 4. Here, I behold its beauteous hue; But where's the beam so sweetly straying, [i.] Which gave a lustre to its blue, Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? 5. Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her who plac'd thee next my heart. 6. She plac'd it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast controul. 7. Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time,'twill cheer-- My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; In life's last conflict 'twill appear, And meet my fond, expiring gaze. [Footnote 1: This "Mary" is not to be confounded with the heiress of Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen. She was of humble station in life. Byron used to show a lock of her light golden hair, as well as her picture, among his friends. (See 'Life', p. 41, 'note'.)] [Footnote i.: 'But Where's the beam of soft desire? Which gave a lustre to its blue, Love, only love, could e'er inspire.--' [4to. 'P. on V, Occasions]] ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,[1] THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE "MORNING POST." "Our Nation's foes lament on _Fox's_ death, But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath: These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm, where Justice points its due." TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY [i] FOR INSERTION IN THE "MORNING CHRONICLE." Oh, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth; [ii] What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name [iii] Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame? When PITT expir'd in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits "war not with the dead:" His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; [iv] He sunk, an Atlas bending "'neath the weight" [v] Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state. When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd: He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, [vi] With him, our fast reviving hopes have died; Not one great people, only, raise his urn, All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, To give the palm where Justice points its due;" [vii] Yet, let not canker'd Calumny assail, [viii] Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil. FOX! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep; For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.--[ix] Fox! shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, Nor e'en to PITT, the patriot's 'palm' resign; Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar'd to ask. [x] (Southwell, Oct., 1806. [1]) [Footnote 1: The stanza on the death of Fox appeared in the _Morning Post_, September 26, 1806.] [Footnote 2: This MS. is preserved at Newstead.] [Footnote i: _The subjoined Reply._ [4to] ] [Footnote ii: _Would mangle, still, the dead, in spite of truth._ [4to] ] [Footnote iii: _Shall, therefore, dastard tongues assail the name Of him, whose virtues claim eternal fame?_ [4to] ] [Footnote iv: _And all his errors._--[4to] ] [Footnote v: _He died, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight Of cares oppressing our unhappy state. But lo! another Hercules appeared._ [4to] ] [Footnote vi: _He too is dead who still our England propp'd With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd._ [4to] ] [Footnote vii: _And give the palm._ [4to] ] [Footnote viii: _But let not canker'd Calumny assail And round.-- [4to] ] [Footnote ix: _And friends and foes._ [4to] ] [Footnote x: '--would dare to ask.' [410]] TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. [1] These locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it; Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, With groundless jealousy repine; With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Merely to make our love romantic? Why should you weep, like _Lydia Languish_, And fret with self-created anguish? Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights to sigh half frozen; In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, Only because the scene's a garden? For gardens seem, by one consent, (Since Shakespeare set the precedent; Since Juliet first declar'd her passion) To form the place of assignation. Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire; Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain; He surely, in commiseration, Had chang'd the place of declaration. In Italy, I've no objection, Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here our climate is so rigid, That love itself, is rather frigid: Think on our chilly situation, And curb this rage for imitation. Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you, Within your mansion let me greet you: [i.] 'There', we can love for hours together, Much better, in such snowy weather, Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves, That ever witness'd rural loves; 'Then', if my passion fail to please, [ii.] Next night I'll be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter, But curse my fate, for ever after. [2] [Footnote 1: These lines are addressed to the same Mary referred to in the lines beginning, "This faint resemblance of thy charms." ('Vide ante', p. 32.)] [Footnote 2: In the above little piece the author has been accused by some 'candid readers' of introducing the name of a lady [Julia Leacroft] from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in "the tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of 'December', in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We would advise these 'liberal' commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read 'Shakespeare'. Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, 'Carr's Stranger in France'.--"As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear 'that the indecorum was in the remark.'"--[Ed. 1803, cap. xvi, p. 171. Compare the note on verses addressed "To a Knot of Ungenerous Critics," p. 213.]] [Footnote i: 'Oh! let me in your chamber greet you.' [4to]] [Footnote ii: 'There if my passion' [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions]] TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. [1] Sweet girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; And though we ne'er may meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain; I would not say, "I love," but still, My senses struggle with my will: In vain to drive thee from my breast, My thoughts are more and more represt; In vain I check the rising sighs, Another to the last replies: Perhaps, this is not love, but yet, Our meeting I can ne'er forget. What, though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale it never feels: Deceit, the guilty lips impart, And hush the mandates of the heart; But soul's interpreters, the eyes, Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. As thus our glances oft convers'd, And all our bosoms felt rehears'd, No _spirit_, from within, reprov'd us, Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd_ us." Though, what they utter'd, I repress, Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess; For as on thee, my memory ponders, Perchance to me, thine also wanders. This, for myself, at least, I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through day; Awake, with it my fancy teems, In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; The vision charms the hours away, And bids me curse Aurora's ray For breaking slumbers of delight, Which make me wish for endless night. Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await; Tempted by love, by storms beset, Thine image, I can ne'er forget. Alas! again no more we meet, No more our former looks repeat; Then, let me breathe this parting prayer, The dictate of my bosom's care: "May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, That anguish never can o'ertake her; That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, But bliss be aye her heart's partaker! Oh! may the happy mortal, fated [i] To be, by dearest ties, related, For _her_, each hour, _new joys_ discover, [ii] And lose the husband in the lover! May that fair bosom never know What 'tis to feel the restless woe, Which stings the soul, with vain regret, Of him, who never can forget!" 1806. [Footnote 1: _Whom the author saw at Harrowgate_. Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 64 (British Museum).] [Footnote i: The Quarto inserts the following lines:-- _"No jealous passion shall invade, No envy that pure heart pervade;" For he that revels in such charms, Can never seek another's arms._] [Footnote ii: new joy _discover_. [4to]] TO LESBIA! [i] [1] 1. LESBIA! since far from you I've rang'd, [ii] Our souls with fond affection glow not; You say, 'tis I, not you, have chang'd, I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not. 2. Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; And Lesbia! we are not much older, [iii] Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 3. Sixteen was then our utmost age, Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least, I feel disposed to stray, love! 4. "Tis _I_ that am alone to blame, _I_, that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason. 5. I do not, love! suspect your truth, With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; Warm was the passion of my youth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 6. No, no, my flame was not pretended; For, oh! I lov'd you most sincerely; And though our dream at last is ended My bosom still esteems you dearly. 7. No more we meet in yonder bowers; Absence has made me prone to roving; [iv] But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours Have found monotony in loving. 8. Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, New beauties, still, are daily bright'ning, Your eye, for conquest beams prepar'd, [v] The forge of love's resistless lightning. 9. Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng, to sigh like me, love! More constant they may prove, indeed; Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love! 1806. [Footnote 1: "The lady's name was Julia Leacroft" ('Note by Miss E. Pigot'). The word "Julia" (?) is added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 52 (British Museum)] [Footnote i: 'To Julia'. [4to]] [Footnote ii: 'Julia since'. [4to]] [Footnote iii: 'And Julia'. [4to]] [Footnote iv: _Perhaps my soul's too pure for roving_. [4to]] [Footnote v: _Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd_. [4to]] TO WOMAN. Woman! experience might have told me [i] That all must love thee, who behold thee: Surely experience might have taught Thy firmest promises are nought; [ii] But, plac'd in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to _adore_ thee. Oh memory! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing; [iii] But how much curst by every lover When hope is fled, and passion's over. Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse, when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 'twill last for ay, When, lo! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand,' "Woman, thy vows are trac'd in sand." [1] [iv] [Footnote i: _Surely, experience_. [4to]] [Footnote ii: _A woman's promises are naught_. [4to]] [Footnote iii: Here follows, in the Quarto, an additional couplet:-- _Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating, "What oft we've done, we're still repeating_,"] [Footnote iv: _This Record will for ever stand That Woman's vows are writ in sand_. [4to]] [Footnote 1: The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb. (The last line is not "almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb," but an adaptation of part of a stanza from the 'Diana' of Jorge de Montemajor-- "Mirà, el Amor, lo que ordena; Que os viene a hazer creer Cosas dichas por muger, Y escriptas en el arena." Southey, in his 'Letters from Spain', 1797, pp. 87-91, gives a specimen of the 'Diana', and renders the lines in question thus-- "And Love beheld us from his secret stand, And mark'd his triumph, laughing, to behold me, To see me trust a writing traced in sand, To see me credit what a woman told me." Byron, who at this time had little or no knowledge of Spanish literature, seems to have been struck with Southey's paraphrase, and compressed the quatrain into an epigram.] AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. [1] Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence--though she find not fame. Still, not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, [i] _Others_ appear more conscious of defect: To-night no _vet'ran Roscii_ you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear; To-night you throng to witness the _début_ Of embryo Actors, to the Drama new: Here, then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try; Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_: Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise; But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For these, each _Hero_ all his power displays, [ii] Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze: Surely the last will some protection find? [iii] None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind: While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, [iv] The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. [v] Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail; Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_. [Footnote 1. "I enacted Penruddock, in 'The Wheel of Fortune', and Tristram Fickle, in the farce of 'The Weathercock', for three nights, in some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my composition."--'Diary; Life', p. 38. The prologue was written by him, between stages, on his way from Harrogate. On getting into the carriage at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, "Now, Pigot, I'll spin a prologue for our play;" and before they reached Mansfield he had completed his task,--interrupting only once his rhyming reverie, to ask the proper pronunciation of the French word 'début'; and, on being told it, exclaiming, "Aye, that will do for rhyme to ''new'.'"--'Life', p. 39. "The Prologue was spoken by G. Wylde, Esq."--Note by Miss E. PIGOT.] [Footnote i. _But not for her alone_.--[4to] [Footnote ii: _For them each Hero_.--[4to]] [Footnote iii: _Surely these last_.--[4to]] [Footnote iv: _Whilst Youth_.--[4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote v: _The sternest critic_.--[4to]] TO ELIZA. [i] 1. Eliza! [1] what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who, to woman, deny the soul's future existence; Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. [ii] 2. Had their Prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, [iii] He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven; Instead of his _Houris_, a flimsy pretence, [iv] With _woman alone_ he had peopled his Heaven. 3. Yet, still, to increase your calamities more, [v] Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! [vi]-- With _souls_ you'd dispense; but, this last, who could bear it? 4. His religion to please neither party is made; On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, [vii] what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil." 5. This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, [2] Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture; If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold, Of ST. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter. 6. 'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd, With wives who eternal confusion are spreading; "But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelists' Text) "We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding." 7. From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,) That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more, And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway, All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar. 8. Distraction and Discord would follow in course, Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it, The only expedient is general divorce, To prevent universal disturbance and riot. 9. But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd, Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever, Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd, We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you for ever. 10. Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes, Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you, Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes, The Garden of Eden would wither without you. Southwell, _October_ 9, 1806. [Footnote 1: The letters "E. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of _P. on V. Occasions_, p. 26 (_British Museum_). The initials stand for Miss Elizabeth Pigot.] [Footnote 2: Stanzas 5-10, which appear in the Quarto, were never reprinted.] [Footnote i: _To Miss E. P._ [4to] _To Miss_---. [_P. on V. Occasions._]] [Footnote ii: _Did they know but yourself they would bend with respect, And this doctrine must meet_---. [_MS. Newstead_.]] [Footnote iii: _But an atom of sense_. [4to]] [Footnote iv: _But instead of his_ Houris. [4to]] [Footnote v: _But still to increase_. [4to]] [Footnote vi: _He allots but one husband. [4to]] [Footnote vii: _But I can't---._ [4to]] THE TEAR. O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. [1] GRAY, 'Alcaic Fragment'. 1. When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move; When Truth, in a glance, should appear, The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a _Tear_. 2. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul-telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _Tear_. 3. Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a _Tear_. 4. The man, doom'd to sail With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a _Tear_. 5. The Soldier braves death For a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a _Tear_. 6. If, with high-bounding pride,[i] He return to his bride! Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid When, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the _Tear_. 7. Sweet scene of my youth! [2] Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year; Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a _Tear_. 8. Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, [3] My Mary, to Love once so dear, In the shade of her bow'r, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a _Tear_. 9. By another possest, May she live ever blest! Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a _Tear_. 10. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we _meet_, as we _part_, with a _Tear_. 11. When my soul wings her flight To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier; [ii] As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a _Tear_. 12. May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of Vanity rear; No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, All I ask, all I wish, is a _Tear_. October 26, 1806. [iii] [Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.] [Footnote 2: Harrow.] [Footnote 3: Miss Chaworth was married in 1805.] [Footnote i: _When with high-bounding pride, He returns_----. [4to]] [Footnote ii: _And my body shall sleep on its bier_. [4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.]] [Footnote iii: BYRON, October 26, 1806. [4to]] REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. [1] 1. Why, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, Yet, believe me, a _sigh_ [i] Will never obtain a _coquette_. 2. Would you teach her to love? For a time seem to rove; At first she may _frown_ in a _pet;_ But leave her awhile, She shortly will smile, And then you may _kiss_ your _coquette_. 3. For such are the airs Of these fanciful fairs, They think all our _homage_ a _debt_: Yet a partial neglect [ii] Soon takes an effect, And humbles the proudest _coquette_. 4. Dissemble your pain, And lengthen your chain, And seem her _hauteur_ to _regret;_ [iii] If again you shall sigh, She no more will deny, That _yours_ is the rosy _coquette_. 5. If still, from false pride, [iv] Your pangs she deride, This whimsical virgin forget; Some _other_ admire, Who will _melt_ with your _fire_, And laugh at the _little coquette_. 6. For _me_, I adore Some _twenty_ or more, And love them most dearly; but yet, Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all, Did they act like your blooming _coquette_. 7. No longer repine, Adopt this design, [v] And break through her slight-woven net! Away with despair, No longer forbear To fly from the captious _coquette_. 8. Then quit her, my friend! Your bosom defend, Ere quite with her snares you're beset: Lest your deep-wounded heart, When incens'd by the smart, Should lead you to _curse_ the _coquette_. October 27, 1806. [vi] [Footnote 1: The letters "C. B. F. J. B. M." are added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 14 (British Museum).] [Footnote i: _But believe me_. [4to]] [Footnote ii: _But a partial_. [4to]] [Footnote iii: _Nor seem_. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote iv: _But if from false pride._ [4to]] [Footnote v: _But form this design._ [4to]] [Footnote vi: BYRON, October 27, 1806. [4to] GRANTA. A MEDLEY. [Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataese_o.] [1] (Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.) 1. Oh! could LE SAGE'S [2] demon's gift Be realis'd at my desire, This night my trembling form he'd lift To place it on St. Mary's spire. [i] 2. Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls, Pedantic inmates full display; _Fellows_ who dream on _lawn_ or _stalls_, The price of venal votes to pay. [ii] 3. Then would I view each rival wight, PETTY and PALMERSTON survey; Who canvass there, with all their might, [iii] Against the next elective day. [3] 4. Lo! candidates and voters lie [iv] All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number! A race renown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. 5. Lord H---[4] indeed, may not demur; Fellows are sage, reflecting men: They know preferment can occur, But very seldom,--_now_ and _then_. 6. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal: Each hopes that _one_ may be his _lot_, And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. [v] 7. Now from the soporific scene [vi] I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, unheeded and unseen, [vii] The studious sons of Alma Mater. 8. There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes, Sits poring by the midnight lamp; Goes late to bed, yet early rises. [viii] 9. He surely well deserves to gain them, With all the honours of his college, [ix] Who, striving hardly to obtain them, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge: 10. Who sacrifices hours of rest, To scan precisely metres Attic; Or agitates his anxious breast, [x] In solving problems mathematic: 11. Who reads false quantities in Seale, [5] Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle; Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal; [xi] In _barbarous Latin_ [6] doom'd to wrangle: 12. Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage, The square of the hypothenuse. [7] 13. Still, harmless are these occupations, [xii] That hurt none but the hapless student, Compar'd with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent; 14. Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When Drunkenness and dice invite, [xiii] As every sense is steep'd in wine. 15. Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay: In humble attitude they sue, And for the sins of others pray: 16. Forgetting that their pride of spirit, Their exultation in their trial, [xiv] Detracts most largely from the merit Of all their boasted self-denial. 17. 'Tis morn:--from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meets the eye? A numerous crowd array'd in white, [8] Across the green in numbers fly. 18. Loud rings in air the chapel bell; 'Tis hush'd:--what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear. 19. To this is join'd the sacred song, The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain; Though _he_ who hears the _music_ long, [xv] Will _never_ wish to _hear again_. 20. Our choir would scarcely be excus'd, E'en as a band of raw beginners; All mercy, now, must be refus'd [xvi] To such a set of croaking sinners. 21. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended,-- In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 22. The luckless Israelites, when taken By some inhuman tyrant's order, Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, On Babylonian river's border. 23. Oh! had they sung in notes like these [xvii] Inspir'd by stratagem or fear, They might have set their hearts at ease, The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 24. But if I scribble longer now, [xviii] The deuce a soul will _stay to read_; My pen is blunt, my ink is low; 'Tis almost time to _stop_, _indeed_. 25. Therefore, farewell, old _Granta's_ spires! No more, like _Cleofas_, I fly; No more thy theme my Muse inspires: The reader's tir'd, and so am I. October 28, 1806. [Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'. "Fight with silver spears" ('i.e'. with bribes), "and them shall prevail in all things."] [Footnote 2: The 'Diable Boiteux' of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection. [Don Cleofas, clinging to the cloak of Asmodeus, is carried through the air to the summit of S. Salvador.] [Footnote 3: On the death of Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry Petty beat Lord Palmerston in the contest for the representation of the University of Cambridge in Parliament.] [Footnote 4: Probably Lord Henry Petty. See variant iii.] [Footnote 5: Scale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. ('An Analysis of the Greek Metres; for the use of students at the University of Cambridge'. By John Barlow Seale (1764), 8vo. A fifth edition was issued in 1807.)] [Footnote 6. The Latin of the schools is of the 'canine species', and not very intelligible.] [Footnote 7: The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle.] [Footnote 8: On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.] [Footnote i: 'And place it'. [4to]] [Footnote ii: 'The price of hireling'. [4to]] [Footnote iii: 'Who canvass now'. [4to]] [Footnote iv: 'One on his power and place depends, The other on--the Lord knows what! Each to some eloquence pretends, But neither will convince by that. The first, indeed, may not demur; Fellows are sage reflecting men, And know'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote v: 'And therefore smiles at his'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote vi: 'Now from Corruption's shameless scene'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote vii: 'And view unseen'. [4to]] [Footnote viii: 'and early rises'. [4to]] [Footnote ix: 'And all the' [4to]] [Footnote x: 'And agitates'. [4to]] [Footnote xi: 'And robs himself of many a meal'. [4to]] [Footnote xii: 'But harmless are these occupations Which'. [4to]] [Footnote xiii: 'When Drunkenness and dice unite. And every sense'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote xiv: 'And exultation'. [4to]] [Footnote xv: 'But he'. [4to]] [Footnote xvi: 'But mercy'. [4to]] [Footnote xvii: 'But had they sung'. [4to]] [Footnote xviii: 'But if I write much longer now'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. [1] 1. Your pardon, my friend, If my rhymes did offend, Your pardon, a thousand times o'er; From friendship I strove, Your pangs to remove, But, I swear, I will do so no more. 2. Since your _beautiful_ maid, Your flame has repaid, No more I your folly regret; She's now most divine, And I bow at the shrine, Of this quickly reformèd coquette. 3. Yet still, I must own, [i] I should never have known, From _your verses_, what else she deserv'd; Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate, As your fair was so dev'lish reserv'd. 4. Since the balm-breathing kiss [ii] Of this magical Miss, Can such wonderful transports produce; [iii] Since the _"world you forget, When your lips once have met,"_ My counsel will get but abuse. 5. You say, "When I rove," "I know nothing of love;" Tis true, I am given to range; If I rightly remember, _I've lov'd_ a good number; [iv] Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 6. I will not advance, [v] By the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair; Though a smile may delight, Yet a _frown_ will _affright,_ [vi] Or drive me to dreadful despair. 7. While my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shall reform, To mix in the Platonists' school; Of this I am sure, Was my Passion so pure, Thy _Mistress_ would think me a fool. [vii] 8 [viii] And if I should shun, Every _woman_ for _one,_ Whose _image_ must fill my whole breast; Whom I must _prefer,_ And _sigh_ but for _her,_ What an _insult_ 'twould be to the _rest!_ 9. Now Strephon, good-bye; I cannot deny, Your _passion_ appears most _absurd;_ Such _love_ as you plead, Is _pure_ love, indeed, For it _only_ consists in the _word_. [Footnote 1: The letters "J. M. B. P." are added, in a lady's hand, in the annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions', p. 17 (British Museum).] [Footnote i: 'But still'. [4to]] [Footnote ii: 'But since the chaste kiss.' [4to]] [Footnote iii: 'Such wonderful.' [4to]] [Footnote iv: 'I've kiss'd a good number. But-----' [4to]] [Footnote v: 'I ne'er will advance.' [4to]] [Footnote vi: 'Yet a frown won't affright.' [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote vii: 'My mistress must think me.' [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote viii: 'Though the kisses are sweet, Which voluptuously meet, Of kissing I ne'er was so fond, As to make me forget, Though our lips oft have met, That still there was something beyond.' [4to] THE CORNELIAN. [1] 1. No specious splendour of this stone Endears it to my memory ever; With lustre _only once_ it shone, And blushes modest as the giver. [i] 2. Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have, for my weakness, oft reprov'd me; Yet still the simple gift I prize, For I am sure, the giver lov'd me. 3. He offer'd it with downcast look, As _fearful_ that I might refuse it; I told him, when the gift I took, My _only fear_ should be, to lose it. 4. This pledge attentively I view'd, And _sparkling_ as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, And, ever since, _I've lov'd a tear._ 5. Still, to adorn his humble youth, Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he, who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden, for the field. 6. 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume; The flowers, which yield the most of both, In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 7. Had Fortune aided Nature's care, For once forgetting to be blind, _His_ would have been an ample share, If well proportioned to his mind. 8. But had the Goddess clearly seen, His form had fix'd her fickle breast; _Her_ countless hoards would _his_ have been, And none remain'd to give the rest. [Footnote 1: The cornelian was a present from his friend Edleston, a Cambridge chorister, afterwards a clerk in a mercantile house in London. Edleston died of consumption, May 11, 1811. (See letter from Byron to Miss Pigot, October 28, 1811.) Their acquaintance began by Byron saving him from drowning. (MS. note by the Rev. W. Harness.)] [Footnote i: 'But blushes modest'. [4to]] TO M----[i] 1. Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire, With bright, but mild affection shine: Though they might kindle less desire, Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 2. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, _Howe'er_ those orbs _may_ wildly beam, We must _admire,_ but still despair; That fatal glance forbids esteem. 3. When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone, She fear'd that, too divine for earth, The skies might claim thee for their own. 4. Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk, Within those once celestial eyes. 5. These might the boldest Sylph appall, When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all; But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 6. 'Tis said that Berenice's hair, In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit _thee_ there, _Thou_ wouldst so far outshine the seven. 7. For did those eyes as planets roll, Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now controul, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. [1] Friday, November 7, 1806 [Footnote 1: "Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do intreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return." Shakespeare.] [Footnote i: 'To A----'. [4to] ] LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.[1] [As the author was discharging his Pistols in a Garden, Two Ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a Bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.] [2] 1. Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, Wafting destruction o'er thy charms [i] And hurtling o'er [3] thy lovely head, Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 2. Surely some envious Demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career. 3. Yes! in that nearly fatal hour, The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside. 4. Yet, as perchance one trembling tear Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which _I_, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell;-- 5. Say, what dire penance can atone For such an outrage, done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, What punishment wilt thou decree? 6. Might I perform the Judge's part, The sentence I should scarce deplore; It only would restore a heart, Which but belong'd to _thee_ before. 7. The least atonement I can make Is to become no longer free; Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake, Thou shalt be _all in all_ to me. 8. But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject Such expiation of my guilt; Come then--some other mode elect? Let it be death--or what thou wilt. 9. Choose, then, relentless! and I swear Nought shall thy dread decree prevent; Yet hold--one little word forbear! Let it be aught but banishment. [Footnote 1: This title first appeared in "Contents" to 'P. on V. Occasions'.] [Footnote 2: The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beautiful lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson, who is also commemorated in the verses "To a Vain Lady" and "To Anne." She was the daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell, and married the Rev. Luke Jackson. She died on Christmas Day, 1821, and her monument may be seen in Hucknall Torkard Church.] [Footnote 3: This word is used by Gray in his poem to the Fatal Sisters:-- "Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air."] [Footnote i: 'near thy charms'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions'.]] TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. AD LESBIAM. Equal to Jove that youth must be-- _Greater_ than Jove he seems to me-- Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms; That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, That mouth, from whence such music flows, To him, alike, are always known, Reserv'd for him, and him alone. Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee; But, at the sight, my senses fly, I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, My limbs deny their slight support; Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head, My ears with tingling echoes ring, And Life itself is on the wing; My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary death. TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS, BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of Love, By Death's _unequal_[1] hand alike controul'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move! [Footnote: 1. The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease.] IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. SULPICIA AD CERINTHUM (LIB. QUART.). Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease [i] Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for Love and you again; But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate: By Death alone I can avoid your hate. [Footnote i: 'does this fell disease'. [4to. 'P. on V. Occasions.] TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. LUGETE VENERES CUPIDINESQUE (CARM. III.) [i] Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd: [ii] For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd: And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air, He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, [iii] Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn, [iv] From whence he never can return, His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. [Footnote i: _Luctus De Morte Passeris_. [4to. _P. on V. Occasions_.] ] [Footnote ii: _Which dearer_. [4to] ] [Footnote iii: _But chirrup'd_. [4to] ] [Footnote iv: _But now he's pass'd_. [4to] ] IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. [1] TO ELLEN. [i] Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed [ii] The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist?--ah! never--never. November 16, 1806. [Footnote 1: From a note in Byron's copy of Catullus (now in the possession of Mr. Murray), it is evident that these lines are based on Carm. xlviii., 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi'.] [Footnote i: 'To Anna'. [4to] ] [Footnote ii: 'E'en though the number'. [4to. 'Three first Editions'.]] * * * * * * * * POEMS ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS TO M. S. G. 1. Whene'er I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet, I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were--unhallow'd bliss. 2. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows! Yet, is the daring wish represt, For that,--would banish its repose. 3. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet, I conceal my love,--and why? I would not force a painful tear. 4. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 5. No! for thou never canst be mine, United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine, Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be. 6. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. 7. I will not ease my tortur'd heart, By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. 8. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to save,-- I bid thee now a last farewell. 9. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain, my soul would dare, All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 10. At least from guilt shall thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shall thou be to love. STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS. [1] 1. This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, A theme we never can despise. 2. Who blames it but the envious fool, The old and disappointed maid? Or pupil of the prudish school, In single sorrow doom'd to fade? 3. Then read, dear Girl! with feeling read, For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; To thee, in vain, I shall not plead In pity for the Poet's woes. 4. He was, in sooth, a genuine Bard; His was no faint, fictitious flame: Like his, may Love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same. [Footnote: 1. Lord Strangford's 'Poems from the Portuguese by Luis de Camoëns' and "Little's" Poems are mentioned by Moore as having been Byron's favourite study at this time ('Life', P--39).] TO M. S. G. [1] 1. When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive; Extend not your anger to sleep; For in visions alone your affection can live,-- I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 2. Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, What rapture celestial is mine! 3. They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of Heaven! 4. Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd, but to gaze upon bliss. 5. Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake, will be torture sufficient. [Footnote 1: "C. G. B. to E. P." 'MS. Newstead'.] TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. Justum et tenacem propositi virum. HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I. 1. The man of firm and noble soul No factious clamours can controul; No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow Can swerve him from his just intent: Gales the warring waves which plough, By Auster on the billows spent, To curb the Adriatic main, Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 2. Aye, and the red right arm of Jove, Hurtling his lightnings from above, With all his terrors there unfurl'd, He would, unmov'd, unaw'd, behold; The flames of an expiring world, Again in crashing chaos roll'd, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Might light his glorious funeral pile: Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. [Greek: Ha barbitos de chordais Er_ota mounon aechei. [1] ANACREON ['Ode' 1]. 1. Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, Those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove; [i] Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 2. Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, [ii] Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, [iii] Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love. 3. If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be dispos'd from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse, And try the effect, of the first kiss of love. 4. I hate you, ye cold compositions of art, Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove; I court the effusions that spring from the heart, Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love. [iv] 5. Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, [v] Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; [vi] What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love? 6. Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, [vii] From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove; Some portion of Paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love. 7. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past-- For years fleet away with the wings of the dove-- The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love. December 23, 1806. [Footnote 1: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.] [Footnote i: 'Moriah [A] those air dreams and types has o'er wove, ['MS. Newstead'.] 'Those tissues of fancy Moriah has wove, '['P. on V. Occasions'.] ] [Sub-Footnote A: Moriah is the "Goddess of Folly."] [Footnote ii: 'Ye rhymers, who sing as if seated on snow.--' ['P. on V. Occasions'.] ] [Footnote iii: 'With what blest inspiration.--' ['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.] ] [Footnote iv: 'Which glows with delight at'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote v: 'Your shepherds, your pipes'. ['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote vi: 'Arcadia yields but a legion of dreams'. ['MS'.] [Footnote vii: 'that man from his birth'. ['MS. P. on V. Occasions'.] CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. [1] "I cannot but remember such things were, And were most dear to me." 'Macbeth' [2] ["That were most precious to me." 'Macbeth', act iv, sc. 3.] When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains, [i] Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins; When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, And flies with every changing gale of spring; Not to the aching frame alone confin'd, Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind: What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, With Resignation wage relentless strife, While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 10 Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour, Remembrance sheds around her genial power, Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, When Love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven; Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene, Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm, The orb of day unveils his distant form, Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; 20 Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams, Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, To scenes far distant points his paler rays, Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, The past confounding with the present day. Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought; My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 30 Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view, To which I long have bade a last adieu! Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams; Some, who in marble prematurely sleep, Whose forms I now remember, but to weep; Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course Of early science, future fame the source; Who, still contending in the studious race, In quick rotation, fill the senior place! 40 These, with a thousand visions, now unite, To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. [3] IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, How joyous, once, I join'd thy youthful train! Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire, Again, I mingle with thy playful quire; Our tricks of mischief, [4] every childish game, Unchang'd by time or distance, seem the same; Through winding paths, along the glade I trace The social smile of every welcome face; 50 My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe, Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, Our feuds dissolv'd, but not my friendship past,-- I bless the former, and forgive the last. Hours of my youth! when, nurtur'd in my breast, To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,-- Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, When every artless bosom throbs with truth; Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, And check each impulse with prudential rein; 60 When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose, In love to friends, in open hate to foes; No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit; Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears: [ii] When, now, the Boy is ripen'd into Man, His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan; Instructs his Son from Candour's path to shrink, Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 70 Still to assent, and never to deny-- A patron's praise can well reward the lie: And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, Would lose his opening prospects for a word? Although, against that word, his heart rebel, And Truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. Away with themes like this! not mine the task, From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask; Let keener bards delight in Satire's sting, My Fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 80 Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe; But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retir'd, With this submission all her rage expired. From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save, She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave. Or, if my Muse a Pedant's portrait drew, POMPOSUS' [5] virtues are but known to few: 90 I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod. If since on Granta's failings, known to all Who share the converse of a college hall, She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again: Soon must her early song for ever cease, And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace. Here, first remember'd be the joyous band, Who hail'd me chief, [6] obedient to command; 100 Who join'd with me, in every boyish sport, Their first adviser, and their last resort; Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, [iii] Or all the sable glories of his gown; [iv] Who, thus, transplanted from his father's school, Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule-- Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, The dear preceptor of my early days, PROBUS, [7] the pride of science, and the boast-- To IDA now, alas! for ever lost! 110 With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, [v] And fear'd the Master, though we lov'd the Sage: Retir'd at last, his small yet peaceful seat From learning's labour is the blest retreat. POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair; POMPOSUS governs,--but, my Muse, forbear: Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot, [vi] His name and precepts be alike forgot; No more his mention shall my verse degrade,-- To him my tribute is already paid. [8] 120 High, through those elms with hoary branches crown'd [9] Fair IDA'S bower adorns the landscape round; There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys The vale where rural Nature claims her praise; To her awhile resigns her youthful train, Who move in joy, and dance along the plain; In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue, Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun, In rival bands, between the wickets run, 130 Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. But these with slower steps direct their way, Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray, While yonder few search out some green retreat, And arbours shade them from the summer heat: Others, again, a pert and lively crew, Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac'd in view, With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes; 140 Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray Tradition treasures for a future day: "'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought, And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought: Here have we fled before superior might, And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." While thus our souls with early passions swell, In lingering tones resounds the distant bell; Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 150 No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, But ruder records fill the dusky wall: There, deeply carv'd, behold! each Tyro's name Secures its owner's academic fame; Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son, The one long grav'd, the other just begun: These shall survive alike when Son and Sire, Beneath one common stroke of fate expire; [10] Perhaps, their last memorial these alone, Denied, in death, a monumental stone, 160 Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave. And, here, my name, and many an early friend's, Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race, Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe, Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law; And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour; 170 Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day, They pass the dreary Winter's eve away; "And, thus, our former rulers stemm'd the tide, And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side; Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled, Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail'd; Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell, And, here, he falter'd forth his last farewell; And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam, While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;" 180 While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, When names of these, like ours, alone survive: Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. Dear honest race! though now we meet no more, One last long look on what we were before-- Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu-- Drew tears from eyes unus'd to weep with you. Through splendid circles, Fashion's gaudy world, Where Folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 190 I plung'd to drown in noise my fond regret, And all I sought or hop'd was to forget: Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember'd face, Some old companion of my early race, Advanc'd to claim his friend with honest joy, My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy; The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I've known What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne;) 200 The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear, Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near: My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, The woods of IDA danc'd before my eyes; I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, I saw, and join'd again the joyous throng; Panting, again I trac'd her lofty grove, And Friendship's feelings triumph'd over Love. Yet, why should I alone with such delight Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 210 Is there no cause beyond the common claim, Endear'd to all in childhood's very name? Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam, And seek abroad, the love denied at home. Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee, A home, a world, a paradise to me. Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share The tender guidance of a Father's care; 220 Can Rank, or e'en a Guardian's name supply The love, which glistens in a Father's eye? For this, can Wealth, or Title's sound atone, Made, by a Parent's early loss, my own? What Brother springs a Brother's love to seek? What Sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek? For me, how dull the vacant moments rise, To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties! Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream, Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem; 230 While still the visions to my heart are prest, The voice of Love will murmur in my rest: I hear--I wake--and in the sound rejoice! I hear again,--but, ah! no Brother's voice. A Hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way; While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, I cannot call one single blossom mine: What then remains? in solitude to groan, To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone? 240 Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand, And none more dear, than IDA'S social band. Alonzo! [11] best and dearest of my friends, [vii] Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends: From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; The praise is his, who now that tribute pays. Oh! in the promise of thy early youth, If Hope anticipate the words of Truth! Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, To build his own, upon thy deathless fame: [viii] 250 Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list Of those with whom I lived supremely blest; Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore, Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more; Yet, when Confinement's lingering hour was done, Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one: Together we impell'd the flying ball, Together waited in our tutor's hall; Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, Or shar'd the produce of the river's spoil; 260 Or plunging from the green declining shore, Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore: [ix] In every element, unchang'd, the same, All, all that brothers should be, but the name. Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy! DAVUS, [12] the harbinger of childish joy; For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harmless pun; Yet, with a breast of such materials made, Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; 270 Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In Danger's path, though not untaught to feel. Still, I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: [13] High pois'd in air the massy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue: Whilst I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career-- Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; 280 Disarm'd, and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling Savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay? [x] Or all the labours of a grateful lay? Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed. LYCUS! [14] on me thy claims are justly great: Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate, To thee, alone, unrivall'd, would belong The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. [xi] 290 Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit: Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine, LYCUS! thy father's fame [15] will soon be thine. Where Learning nurtures the superior mind, What may we hope, from genius thus refin'd; When Time, at length, matures thy growing years, How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers! Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, With Honour's soul, united beam in thee. 300 Shall fair EURYALUS,[16] pass by unsung? From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung: What, though one sad dissension bade us part, That name is yet embalm'd within my heart, Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound, And palpitate, responsive to the sound; Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: We once were friends,--I'll think, we are so still. A form unmatch'd in Nature's partial mould, A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold: 310 Yet, not the Senate's thunder thou shall wield, Nor seek for glory, in the tented field: To minds of ruder texture, these be given-- Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit: The courtier's supple bow, and sneering smile, The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, Would make that breast, with indignation, burn, And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn. 320 Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate; Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate; The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;-- Ambition's slave, alone, would toil for more. [xii] Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous CLEON [17] stand; With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene, No vice degrades that purest soul serene. On the same day, our studious race begun, On the same day, our studious race was run; 330 Thus, side by side, we pass'd our first career, Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year: At last, concluded our scholastic life, We neither conquer'd in the classic strife: As Speakers, [18] each supports an equal name, [xiii] And crowds allow to both a partial fame: To soothe a youthful Rival's early pride, Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, Yet Candour's self compels me now to own, Justice awards it to my Friend alone. 340 Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear, Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear! Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, To trace the hours, which never can return; Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell, [xiv] And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell! Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twin'd; When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song, Or plac'd me higher in the studious throng; 350 Or when my first harangue receiv'd applause, [19] His sage instruction the primeval cause, What gratitude, to him, my soul possest, While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! [xv] For all my humble fame, to him alone, The praise is due, who made that fame my own. Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays, These young effusions of my early days, To him my Muse her noblest strain would give, The song might perish, but the theme might live. [xvi] 360 Yet, why for him the needless verse essay? His honour'd name requires no vain display: By every son of grateful IDA blest, It finds an echo in each youthful breast; A fame beyond the glories of the proud, Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme, Nor clos'd the progress of my youthful dream. How many a friend deserves the grateful strain! What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 370 Yet let me hush this echo of the past, This parting song, the dearest and the last; And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, To me a silent and a sweet employ, While, future hope and fear alike unknown, I think with pleasure on the past alone; Yes, to the past alone, my heart confine, And chase the phantom of what once was mine. IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, And proudly steer through Time's eventful tide: 380 Still may thy blooming Sons thy name revere, Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;-- That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, O'er their last scene of happiness below: Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, The feeble Veterans of some former throng, Whose friends, like Autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, Are swept for ever from this busy world; Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, While Care has yet withheld her venom'd tooth; [xvii] 390 Say, if Remembrance days like these endears, Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? Say, can Ambition's fever'd dream bestow So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? Can Treasures hoarded for some thankless Son, Can Royal Smiles, or Wreaths by slaughter won, Can Stars or Ermine, Man's maturer Toys, (For glittering baubles are not left to Boys,) Recall one scene so much belov'd to view, As those where Youth her garland twin'd for you? 400 Ah, no! amid the gloomy calm of age You turn with faltering hand life's varied page, Peruse the record of your days on earth, Unsullied only where it marks your birth; Still, lingering, pause above each chequer'd leaf, And blot with Tears the sable lines of Grief; Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu; But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, Trac'd by the rosy finger of the Morn; 410 When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, And Love, without his pinion, [20] smil'd on Youth. [Footnote 1: The words, "that schoolboy thing," etc. (see letter to H. Drury, Jan. 8, 1808), evidently apply, not as Moore intimates, to this period, but to the lines "On a Change of Masters," etc., July, 1805 (see letter to W. Bankes, March 6, 1807).] [Footnote 2: The motto was prefixed in 'Hours of Idleness'.] [Footnote 3: Lines 43-98 were added in 'Hours of Idleness'] [Footnote 4: Newton Hanson relates that on one occasion he accompanied his father to Harrow on Speech Day to see his brother Hargreaves Hanson and Byron. "On our arrival at Harrow, we set out in search of Hargreaves and Byron, but the latter was not at his tutor's. Three or four lads, hearing my father's inquiries, set off at full speed to find him. They soon discovered him, and, laughing most heartily, called out, 'Hallo, Byron! here's a gentleman wants you.' And what do you think? He had got on Drury's hat. I can still remember the arch cock of Byron's eye at the hat and then at my father, and the fun and merriment it caused him and all of us whilst, during the day, he was perambulating the highways and byeways of Ida with the hat on. 'Harrow Speech Day and the Governor's Hat' was one of the standing rallying-points for Lord Byron ever after." [Footnote 5: Dr. Butler, then Head-master of Harrow. Had Byron published another edition of these poems, it was his intention to replace these four lines by the four which follow:-- "'If once my muse a harsher portrait drew, Warm with her wrongs, and deemed the likeness true, By cooler judgment taught, her fault she owns,-- With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones'." ['MS. M.'] See also allusion in letter to Mr. Henry Drury, June 25, 1809. --Moore's 'Note'.] [Footnote 6: On the retirement of Dr. Drury, three candidates for the vacant chair presented themselves--Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. On the first movement to which this contest gave rise in the school, young Wildman was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while Byron held himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to have him as an ally, one of the Drury faction said to Wildman, "Byron, I know, will not join, because he does not choose to act second to any one, but, by giving up the leadership to him, you may at once secure him." This Wildman did, and Byron took the command.--'Life', p. 29.] [Footnote 7: Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at Harrow; the last twenty as head-master; an office he held with equal honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can only say-- 'Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi! Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hares.' [Byron's letters from Harrow contain the same high praise of Dr. Drury. In one, of November 2, 1804, he says, "There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness, and nothing of pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live." A week after, he adds, "I revere Dr. Drury. I dread offending him; not, however, through fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure." Dr. Drury has related the secret of the influence he obtained: the glance which told him that the lad was "a wild mountain colt," told him also that he could be "led with a silken string."]] [Footnote 8: This alludes to a character printed in a former private edition ['P. on V. Occasions'] for the perusal of some friends, which, with many other pieces, is withheld from the present volume. To draw the attention of the public to insignificance would be deservedly reprobated; and another reason, though not of equal consequence, may be given in the following couplet:-- "Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel? Who breaks a Butterfly upon a wheel?" 'Prologue to the Satires': POPE. ['Hours of Idleness', p. 154, 'note'] [(See the lines "On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School," 'ante', p. 16.) The following lines, attached to the Newstead MS. draft of "Childish Recollections," are aimed at Pomposus:-- "Just half a Pedagogue, and half a Fop, Not formed to grace the pulpit, but the Shop; The 'Counter', not the 'Desk', should be his place, Who deals out precepts, as if dealing Lace; Servile in mind, from Elevation proud, In argument, less sensible than loud, Through half the continent, the Coxcomb's been, And stuns you with the Wonders he has seen: ''How' in Pompeii's vault he found the page, Of some long lost, and long lamented Sage, And doubtless he the Letters would have trac'd, Had they not been by age and dust effac'd: This single specimen will serve to shew, The weighty lessons of this reverend Beau, Bombast in vain would want of Genius cloke, For feeble fires evaporate in smoke; A Boy, o'er Boys he holds a trembling reign, More fit than they to seek some School again."]] [Footnote 9: Lines 121-243 were added in 'Hours of Idleness'.] [Footnote 10: During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the school-room from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.--(Medwin's 'Conversations' (1824), p. 85.) Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life while at Harrow: "always cricketing, rebelling, 'rowing', and in all manner of mischiefs." One day he tore down the gratings from the window of the hall; and when asked by Dr. Butler his reason for the outrage, coolly answered, "because they darkened the room."--'Life', p. 29.] [Footnote 11: "Lord Clare." (Annotated copy of 'P. on V. Occasions' in the British Museum.) [Lines 243-264, as the note in Byron's handwriting explains, were originally intended to apply to Lord Clare. In 'Hours of Idleness' "Joannes" became "Alonzo," and the same lines were employed to celebrate the memory of his friend the Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards, brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died at Coimbra in 1811, in his twentieth year. Byron at one time gave him the preference over all other friends.]] [Footnote 12: The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of Christ Church, Oxford, who died December 8, 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged twenty-three.] [Footnote 13: The "factious strife" was brought on by the breaking up of school, and the dismissal of some volunteers from drill, both happening at the same hour. The butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head, and would have felled him to the ground, but for the interposition of Tattersall.--'Life', p. 25.] [Footnote 14: John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare (1792-1851), afterwards Governor of Bombay, of whom Byron said, in 1822, "I have always loved him better than any 'male' thing in the world." "I never," was his language in 1821, "hear the word ''Clare'' without a beating of the heart even 'now'; and I write it with the feelings of 1803-4-5, ad infinitum."] [Footnote 15: John Fitzgibbon, first Earl of Clare (1749-1802), became Attorney-General and Lord Chancellor of Ireland. In the latter years of the independent Irish Parliament, he took an active part in politics in opposition to Grattan and the national party, and was distinguished as a powerful, if bitter, speaker. He was made Earl of Clare in 1795.] [Footnote 16: George John, fifth Earl of Delawarr.-- "I am happy enough, and comfortable here," says Byron, in a letter from Harrow of Oct. 25, 1804. "My friends are not numerous, but select. Among the principal, I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very amiable, and my particular friend."-- "Nov. 2, 1804. Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, in a manner, connected; for one of my forefathers, in Charles I's time, married into their family." The allusion in the text to their subsequent quarrel, receives further light from a letter which the poet addressed to Lord Clare under date, February 6, 1807. (See, too, lines "To George, Earl Delawarr," p. 126.) The first Lord Byron was twice married. His first wife was Cecilie, widow of Sir Francis Bindlose, and daughter of Thomas, third Lord Delawarr. He died childless, and was succeeded by his brother Richard, the poet's ancestor. His younger brother, Sir Robert Byron, married Lucy, another daughter of the third Lord Delawarr.] [Footnote 17: Edward Noel Long, who was drowned by the foundering of a transport on the voyage to Lisbon with his regiment, in 1809. (See lines "To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," 'post', p. 184.)] [Footnote 18: This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.] [Footnote 19: "My qualities were much more oratorical than poetical, and Dr. Drury, my grand patron, had a great notion that I should turn out an orator from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my action. I remember that my first declamation astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first rehearsal." 'Byron Diary'. "I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with his composition. To my surprise, he suddenly diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the conclusion. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking, that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a knowledge of his temperament, am convinced that he was hurried on to expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had expressed." DR. DRURY, 'Life', p. 20.] [Footnote 20: "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. (See the lines so entitled, p. 220.)] [Footnote i: 'Hence! thou unvarying song, of varied loves, Which youth commends, maturer age reproves; Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote, By thousands echo'd to the self-same note! Tir'd of the dull, unceasing, copious strain, My soul is panting to be free again. Farewell! ye nymphs, propitious to my verse, Some other Damon, will your charms rehearse; Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss, Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss. Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, No more entrance my senses in delight; Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow, Alike are tasteless and unfeeling now. These to some happier lover, I resign; The memory of those joys alone is mine. Censure no more shall brand my humble name, The child of passion and the fool of fame. Weary of love, of life, devoured with spleen, I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen; World! I renounce thee! all my hope's o'ercast! One sigh I give thee, but that sigh's the last. Friends, foes, and females, now alike, adieu! Would I could add remembrance of you, too! Yet though the future, dark and cheerless gleams, The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams, Depicts with glowing pencil all those years, Ere yet, my cup, empoison'd, flow'd with tears, Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway, The past confounding with the present day. Alas! in vain I check the maddening thought; It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought: My soul to Fancy's', etc., etc., as at line 29.--] [Footnote ii: 'Cunning with age.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: 'Nor shrunk before.' ['Hours of Idleness'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown, Scarcely respecting his majestic gown; By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace, Adding new terror to his sneering face,' ['P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote v: 'With him for years I search'd the classic page, Culling the treasures of the letter'd sage,' ['P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote vi: 'Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot, Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot; No more his mention shall my pen degrade-- My tribute to his name's already paid.' ['P. on V. Occasions'.] Another variant for a new edition ran-- 'Another fills his magisterial chair; Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care; Oh! may like honours crown his future name: If such his virtues, such shall be his fame.' ['MS. M.'] [Footnote vii: 'Joannes! best and dearest of my friends.' ['P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote viii: 'Could aught inspire me with poetic fire, For thee, alone, I'd strike the hallow'd lyre; But, to some abler hand, the task I wave, Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave'.-- ['P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote ix: 'Our lusty limbs.' ['P. on V. Occasions.'] '--the buoyant waters bore.' ['Hours of Idleness.']] [Footnote x: 'Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize-- A life unworthy such a sacrifice. Oh! when my breast forgets the generous deed.' ['P. on V. Occasions'.] ] [Footnote xi: 'For ever to possess a friend in thee, Was bliss unhop'd, though not unsought by me; Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone, To ruder passions and to hate unknown; Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm; That face, an index of celestial worth, Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. Oft, when depress'd with sad, foreboding gloom, I sat reclin'd upon our favourite tomb, I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe; Or, when less mournful subjects form'd our themes, We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes, Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone. Whatever wish was mine, must be thine own. The next can boast to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness,--with Athenian wit; Tho' yet, in embryo, these perfections shine, Clarus! thy father's fame will soon be thine.'-- ['P. on V. Occasions'.] A remonstrance which Lord Clare addressed to him at school; was found among his papers (as were most of the notes of his early favourites), and on the back of it was an endorsement which is a fresh testimony of his affection:-- "This and another letter were written at Harrow, by my 'then' and, I hope, 'ever' beloved friend, Lord Clare, when we were both schoolboys; and sent to my study in consequence of some 'childish' misunderstanding,--the only one which ever arose between us. It was of short duration, and I retain this note solely for the purpose of submitting it to his perusal, that we may smile over the recollection of the insignificance of our first and last quarrel." See, also, Byron's account of his accidental meeting with Lord Clare in Italy in 1821, as recorded in 'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; in letters to Moore, March 1 and June 8, 1822; and Mme. Guiccioli's description of his emotion on seeing Clare ('My Recollections of Lord Byron', ed. 1869, p. 156).] [Footnote xii: 'Where is the restless fool, would wish for more?' ['P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote xiii: 'As speakers, each supports a rival name, Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame, Pomposus sits, unequal to decide, With youthful candour, we the palm divide.'-- ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote xiv: 'Yet in the retrospection finds relief, And revels in the luxury of grief.'-- ['P. on V. Occasions.']] [Footnote xv: 'When, yet a novice in the mimic art, I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart; When, as the Royal Slave, I trod the stage, To vent in Zanga, more than mortal rage; The praise of Probus, made me feel more proud, Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd. Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain To soothe the woes of which I thus complain! What can avail this fruitless loss of time, To measure sorrow, in a jingling rhyme! No social solace from a friend, is near, And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. I seek not joy in Woman's sparkling eye, The smiles of Beauty cannot check the sigh. Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream, Thy virtue, but a visionary theme; Thy years of vice, on years of folly roll, Till grinning death assigns the destin'd goal,' 'Where all are hastening to the dread abode, To meet the judgment of a righteous God; Mix'd in the concourse of a thoughtless throng, A mourner, midst of mirth, I glide along; A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting; But not that mental sting, which stabs within, The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin; The silent shaft, which goads the guilty wretch Extended on a rack's untiring stretch: Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies-- His mind the rack, from which he ne'er can rise, For me, whatever my folly, or my fear, One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here. No dread internal, haunts my hours of rest, No dreams of injured innocence infest; Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left. Slander's empoison'd breath, may blast my name, Envy delights to blight the buds of fame: Deceit may chill the current of my blood, And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood; Presaging horror, darken every sense, Even here will conscience be my best defence; My bosom feeds no "worm which ne'er can die:" Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile; No more with former bliss, my heart is glad; Hope yields to anguish and my soul is sad; From fond regret, no future joy can save; Remembrance slumbers only in the grave.' ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote xvi: 'The song might perish, but the theme must live.' ['Hours of Idleness.']] [Footnote xvii: '----his venom'd tooth.' ['Hours of Idleness'.]] ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THE WANDERER OF SWITZERLAND," ETC., ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." [1] 1. Montgomery! true, the common lot Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; Yet some shall never be forgot, Some shall exist beyond the grave. 2. "Unknown the region of his birth," The hero [2] rolls the tide of war; Yet not unknown his martial worth, Which glares a meteor from afar. 3. His joy or grief, his weal or woe, Perchance may 'scape the page of fame; Yet nations, now unborn, will know The record of his deathless name. 4. The Patriot's and the Poet's frame Must share the common tomb of all: Their glory will not sleep the same; 'That' will arise, though Empires fall. 5. The lustre of a Beauty's eye Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath. 6. Once more, the speaking eye revives, Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives: She died, but ne'er will die again. 7. The rolling seasons pass away, And Time, untiring, waves his wing; Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 8. All, all must sleep in grim repose, Collected in the silent tomb; The old, the young, with friends and foes, Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume. 9. The mouldering marble lasts its day, Yet falls at length an useless fane; To Ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, The wrecks of pillar'd Pride remain. 10. What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, From dark Oblivion meant to guard; A bright renown shall be enjoy'd, By those, whose virtues claim reward. 11. Then do not say the common lot Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few who ne'er will be forgot Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 1806. [Footnote 1: Montgomery (James), 1771-1854, poet and hymn-writer, published: 'Prison Amusements' (1797), 'The Ocean; a Poem' (1805), 'The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems' (1806), 'The West Indies, and other Poems' (1810), 'Songs of Sion' (1822), 'The Christian Psalmist' (1825), 'The Pelican Island, and other Poems' (1827), 'etc.' ('vide post'), 'English Bards', 'etc.', line 418, and 'note'.] [Footnote 2: No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.] LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. [Greek: Aeì d' aeí me pheugei.]--[Pseud.] ANACREON, [Greek: Eis chruson]. 1. The roses of Love glad the garden of life, Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, Or prunes them for ever, in Love's last adieu! 2. In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart, In vain do we vow for an age to be true; The chance of an hour may command us to part, Or Death disunite us, in Love's last adieu! 3. Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast, [i] Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew:" With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt, Nor taste we the poison, of Love's last adieu! 4. Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth, Love twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew; They flourish awhile, in the season of truth, Till chill'd by the winter of Love's last adieu! 5. Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way, Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? Yet why do I ask?--to distraction a prey, Thy reason has perish'd, with Love's last adieu! 6. Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind? From cities to caves of the forest he flew: There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind; The mountains reverberate Love's last adieu! 7. Now Hate rules a heart which in Love's easy chains, Once Passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins, He ponders, in frenzy, on Love's last adieu! 8. How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel! His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, And dreads not the anguish of Love's last adieu! 9. Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; No more, with Love's former devotion, we sue: He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast; The shroud of affection is Love's last adieu! 10. In this life of probation, for rapture divine, Astrea[1] declares that some penance is due; From him, who has worshipp'd at Love's gentle shrine, The atonement is ample, in Love's last adieu! 11. Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight, His cypress, the garland of Love's last adieu! [Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice.] [Footnote i: _Still, hope-beaming peace._ ['P. on V. Occasions.']] LINES. [i] ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, [1] ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY. 1. Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind; I cannot deny such a precept is wise; But retirement accords with the tone of my mind: I will not descend to a world I despise. 2. Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; When Infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth. 3. The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal'd, Still mantles unseen in its secret recess; At length, in a volume terrific, reveal'd, No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 4. Oh! thus, the desire, in my bosom, for fame [i] Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity's praise. Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 5. For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave! Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath, Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.[ii] 6. Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd? Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules? Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd? Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools? 7. I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love, In friendship I early was taught to believe; My passion the matrons of prudence reprove, I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 8. To me what is wealth?--it may pass in an hour, If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown: To me what is title?--the phantom of power; To me what is fashion?--I seek but renown. 9. Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul; I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then, why should I live in a hateful controul? Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth? 1806. [Footnote 1: The Rev. John Thomas Becher (1770-1848) was Vicar of Rumpton and Midsomer Norton, Notts., and made the acquaintance of Byron when he was living at Southwell. To him was submitted an early copy of the 'Quarto', and on his remonstrance at the tone of some of the verses, the whole edition (save one or two copies) was burnt. Becher assisted in the revision of 'P. on V. Occasions', published in 1807. He was in 1818 appointed Prebendary of Southwell, and, all his life, took an active interest and prominent part in the administration of the poor laws and the welfare of the poor. (See Byron's letters to him of February 26 and March 28, 1808.)] [Footnote i: 'To the Rev. J. T. Becher.' ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote ii: 'Oh! such the desire.' ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote iii: '--the gloom of the grave.' ['P. on V. Occasions'.]] ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. "But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician, Should condemn me for printing a second edition; If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse, May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?" Anstey's 'New Bath Guide', p. 169. Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend The verse, which blends the censor with the friend; Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause From me, the heedless and imprudent cause; [i] For this wild error, which pervades my strain, [ii] I sue for pardon,--must I sue in vain? The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart; Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? Precepts of prudence curb, but can't controul, The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, Limping Decorum lingers far behind; Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. The young, the old, have worn the chains of love; Let those, they ne'er confined, my lay reprove; Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing power, Their censures on the hapless victim shower. Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, Whose labour'd lines, in chilling numbers flow, To paint a pang the author ne'er can know! The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth;-- My Lyre, the Heart--my Muse, the simple Truth. Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:" Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint: The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe; She, whom a conscious grace shall thus refine, Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine. But, for the nymph whose premature desires Torment her bosom with unholy fires, No net to snare her willing heart is spread; She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. For me, I fain would please the chosen few, Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy The light effusions of a heedless boy. [iii] I seek not glory from the senseless crowd; Of fancied laurels, I shall ne'er be proud; Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, Their sneers or censures, I alike despise. November 26, 1806. [Footnote i: _the heedless and unworthy cause._ [_P. on V. Occasions._]] [Footnote ii: _For this sole error._ [_P. on V. Occasions._]] [Footnote iii: _The light effusions of an amorous boy._ [_P. on V. Occasions._]] ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. [1] "It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds." Ossian. [i] 1. NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S [2] pride! Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 2. Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall, Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 3. No mail-clad Serfs, [3] obedient to their Lord, In grim array, the crimson cross [4] demand; Or gay assemble round the festive board, Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. 4. Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time; Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime. 5. But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief; His feudal realm in other regions lay: In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 6. Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, The monk abjur'd a world, he ne'er could view; Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting, solace found, Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew. 7. A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Where Sherwood's outlaws, once, were wont to prowl; And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl. 8. Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew, The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew, Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. 9. Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend, Soon as the gloaming [5] spreads her waning shade;[ii] The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend, Or matin orisons to Mary [6] paid. 10. Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield; Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed: Religion's charter, their protecting shield, Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 11. One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls, And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; Another HENRY [7] the kind gift recalls, And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 12. Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer; He drives them exiles from their blest abode, To roam a dreary world, in deep despair-- No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. [8] 13. Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, High crested banners wave thy walls within. 14. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increas'd alarms. 15. An abbey once, a regal fortress [9] now, Encircled by insulting rebel powers; War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'ning brow, And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers. 16. Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repuls'd, by guile o'ercomes the brave; His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 17. Not unaveng'd the raging Baron yields; The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, And days of glory, yet, for him remain. 18. Still, in that hour, the warrior wish'd to strew Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 19. Trembling, she snatch'd him [10] from th' unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel; For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life, To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND [11] fell. 20. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven, Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 21. There many a pale and ruthless Robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 22. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd resign, perforce, their mortal mould: From ruffian fangs, escape not e'en the dead, Racked from repose, in search for buried gold. 23. Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. [iii] 24. At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er; Silence again resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. 25. Here, Desolation holds her dreary court: What satellites declare her dismal reign! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane. 26. Soon a new Morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of Anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies. 27. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath; Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones, Loathing [12] the offering of so dark a death. 28. The legal Ruler [13] now resumes the helm, He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. 29. The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells, Howling, resign their violated nest; [iv] Again, the Master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 30. Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return; Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale, And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 31. A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float, Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 32. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake; What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake; Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 33. Ah happy days! too happy to endure! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure; Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 34. From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed; Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another Chief impels the foaming steed, Another Crowd pursue the panting hart. 35. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line, Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 36. Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers; Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers; These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 37. Yet are his tears no emblem of regret: Cherish'd Affection only bids them flow; Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom, with impassion'd glow. 38. Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes, [14] Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great; Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of Fate. 39. Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine, And bless thy future, as thy former day. [v] [Footnote 1: As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author had, originally, no intention of inserting the following. It is now added at the particular request of some friends.] [Footnote 2: Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket.] [Footnote 3: This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, 'The Wild Huntsman', as synonymous with "vassal."] [Footnote 4: The red cross was the badge of the Crusaders.] [Footnote 5: As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony.] [Footnote 6: The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.--['Hours of Idleness'.]] [Footnote 7: At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.] [Footnote 8: During the lifetime of Lord Byron's predecessor in the title there was found in the lake a large brass eagle, in the body of which were concealed a number of ancient deeds and documents. This eagle is supposed to have been thrown into the lake by the retreating monks.--'Life', p. 2, note. It is now a lectern in Southwell Minster.] [Footnote 9: Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his parliament.] [Footnote 10: Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army. The former was general-in-chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II; the latter had a principal share in many actions. ['Vide ante', p. 3, 'note' 1.]] [Footnote 11: Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the Battle of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.] [Footnote 12: This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers: both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition; but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem.] [Footnote 13: Charles II.] [Footnote 14: An indication of Byron's feelings towards Newstead in his younger days will be found in his letter to his mother of March 6, 1809.] [Footnote i: 'Hours of Idleness.'] [Footnote ii: 'Soon as the twilight winds a waning shade.'-- ['P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote iii: '--of the laurel'd wreath.' ['P. on V. Occasions'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Howling, forsake--.' ['P. on V. Occasions']] [Footnote v: 'Fortune may smile upon a future line, And heaven restore an ever-cloudless day,' ['P. on V. Occasions.', 'Hours of Idleness.']] * * * * * * * * * HOURS OF IDLENESS TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. [i] 1. Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 2. But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion; The attachment of years, in a moment expires: Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 3. Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow: In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! But Winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 4. No more with Affection shall Memory blending, The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, And what would be Justice appears a disgrace. 5. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you--[ii] The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid; The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 6. I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, With me no corroding resentment shall live: My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. 7. You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence, If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 8. You knew,--but away with the vain retrospection! The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours. 9. For the present, we part,--I will hope not for ever; [1] For time and regret will restore you at last: To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, I ask no atonement, but days like the past. [Footnote 1: See Byron's Letter to Lord Clare of February 6, 1807, referred to in 'note' 2, p. 100.] [Footnote i: 'To----'. ['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated]] [Footnote ii. 'However, dear S----'. ['Hours of Idleness, Poems O. and Translated'.]] DAMÆTAS. [1] In law an infant, [2] and in years a boy, In mind a slave to every vicious joy; From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd, In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend; Vers'd in hypocrisy, while yet a child; Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild; Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool; Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school; Damætas ran through all the maze of sin, And found the goal, when others just begin: Ev'n still conflicting passions shake his soul, And bid him drain the dregs of Pleasure's bowl; But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, And what was once his bliss appears his bane. [Footnote 1: Moore appears to have regarded these lines as applying to Byron himself. It is, however, very unlikely that, with all his passion for painting himself in the darkest colours, he would have written himself down "a hypocrite." Damætas is, probably, a satirical sketch of a friend or acquaintance. (Compare the solemn denunciation of Lord Falkland in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 668-686.)]] [Footnote 2: In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.] TO MARION. [1] MARION! why that pensive brow? [i] What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air; Frowns become not one so fair. 'Tis not Love disturbs thy rest, Love's a stranger to thy breast: _He_, in dimpling smiles, appears, Or mourns in sweetly timid tears; Or bends the languid eyelid down, But _shuns_ the cold forbidding 'frown'. Then resume thy former fire, Some will _love_, and all admire! While that icy aspect chills us, Nought but cool Indiff'rence thrills us. Would'st thou wand'ring hearts beguile, Smile, at least, or _seem_ to _smile_; Eyes like _thine_ were never meant To hide their orbs in dark restraint; Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, Still in _truant_ beams they play. Thy lips--but here my _modest_ Muse Her impulse _chaste_ must needs refuse: She _blushes, curtsies, frowns,_--in short She Dreads lest the _Subject_ should transport me; And flying off, in search of _Reason_, Brings Prudence back in proper season. _All_ I shall, therefore, say (whate'er [ii] I think, is neither here nor there,) Is, that such _lips_, of looks endearing, Were form'd for _better things_ than _sneering_. Of soothing compliments divested, Advice at least's disinterested; Such is my artless song to thee, From all the flow of Flatt'ry free; Counsel like _mine_ is as a brother's, _My_ heart is given to some others; That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, It shares itself among a dozen. Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not This warning, though it may delight not; And, lest my precepts be displeasing, [iii] To those who think remonstrance teazing, At once I'll tell thee our opinion, Concerning Woman's soft Dominion: Howe'er we gaze, with admiration, On eyes of blue or lips carnation; Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, Howe'er those beauties may distract us; Still fickle, we are prone to rove, _These_ cannot fix our souls to love; It is not too _severe_ a stricture, To say they form a _pretty picture_; But would'st thou see the secret chain, Which binds us in your humble train, To hail you Queens of all Creation, Know, in a _word, 'tis Animation_. BYRON, _January_ 10, 1807. [Footnote 1: The MS. of this Poem is preserved at Newstead. "This was to Harriet Maltby, afterwards Mrs. Nichols, written upon her meeting Byron, and, 'being 'cold, silent', and 'reserved' to him,' by the advice of a Lady with whom she was staying; quite foreign to her 'usual' manner, which was gay, lively, and full of flirtation."--Note by Miss E. Pigot. (See p. 130, var. ii.)] [Footnote a: 'Harriet'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote b: 'All I shall therefore say of these', ('Thy pardon if my words displease'). ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote c: 'And lest my precepts be found fault, by Those who approved the frown of M--lt-by'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] OSCAR OF ALVA. [1] 1. How sweetly shines, through azure skies, The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, And hear the din of arms no more! 2. But often has yon rolling moon, On Alva's casques of silver play'd; And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd: 3. And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath, Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, She saw the gasping warrior low; [i] 4. While many an eye, which ne'er again [ii] Could mark the rising orb of day, Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, Beheld in death her fading ray. 5. Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love, They blest her dear propitious light; But, now, she glimmer'd from above, A sad, funereal torch of night. 6. Faded is Alva's noble race, And grey her towers are seen afar; No more her heroes urge the chase, Or roll the crimson tide of war. 7. But, who was last of Alva's clan? Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone. 8. And, when that gale is fierce and high, A sound is heard in yonder hall; It rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall. 9. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; But, there, no more his banners rise, No more his plumes of sable wave. 10. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, When Angus hail'd his eldest born; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 11. They feast upon the mountain deer, The Pibroch rais'd its piercing note, [2] To gladden more their Highland cheer, The strains in martial numbers float. 12. And they who heard the war-notes wild, Hop'd that, one day, the Pibroch's strain Should play before the Hero's child, While he should lead the Tartan train. 13. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 14. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva's dusky hills of wind, The boys in childhood chas'd the roe, And left their hounds in speed behind. 15. But ere their years of youth are o'er, They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wheel the bright claymore, And send the whistling arrow far. 16. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, Wildly it stream'd along the gale; But Allan's locks were bright and fair, And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 17. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd controul, And smooth his words had been from youth. 18. Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; 19. While Allan's soul belied his form, Unworthy with such charms to dwell: Keen as the lightning of the storm, On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 20. From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came; 21. And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, And Angus on his Oscar smil'd: It soothed the father's feudal pride Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 22. Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note, Hark! to the swelling nuptial song, In joyous strains the voices float, And, still, the choral peal prolong. 23. See how the Heroes' blood-red plumes Assembled wave in Alva's hall; Each youth his varied plaid assumes, Attending on their chieftain's call. 24. It is not war their aid demands, The Pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 25. But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 26. At length young Allan join'd the bride; "Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said: "Is he not here?" the Youth replied; "With me he rov'd not o'er the glade: 27. "Perchance, forgetful of the day, 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay: Yet, Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 28. "Oh, no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd, "Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind? Would aught to her impede his way? 29. "Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around! Allan, with these, through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 30. All is confusion--through the vale, The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, It rises on the murm'ring gale, Till night expands her dusky wings. 31. It breaks the stillness of the night, But echoes through her shades in vain; It sounds through morning's misty light, But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 32. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief For Oscar search'd each mountain cave; Then hope is lost; in boundless grief, His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave. 33. "Oscar! my son!--thou God of Heav'n, Restore the prop of sinking age! Or, if that hope no more is given, Yield his assassin to my rage. 34. "Yes, on some desert rocky shore My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more, With him his frantic Sire may die! 35. "Yet, he may live,--away, despair! Be calm, my soul! he yet may live; T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear! O God! my impious prayer forgive. 36. "What, if he live for me no more, I sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva's age is o'er: Alas! can pangs like these be just?" 37. Thus did the hapless Parent mourn, Till Time, who soothes severest woe, Had bade serenity return, And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 38. For, still, some latent hope surviv'd That Oscar might once more appear; His hope now droop'd and now revived, Till Time had told a tedious year. 39. Days roll'd along, the orb of light Again had run his destined race; No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, And sorrow left a fainter trace. 40. For youthful Allan still remain'd, And, now, his father's only joy: And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 41. She thought that Oscar low was laid, And Allan's face was wondrous fair; If Oscar liv'd, some other maid Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 42. And Angus said, if one year more In fruitless hope was pass'd away, His fondest scruples should be o'er, And he would name their nuptial day. 43. Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last Arriv'd the dearly destin'd morn: The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn! 44. Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note! Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float, And, still, the choral peal prolong. 45. Again the clan, in festive crowd, Throng through the gate of Alva's hall; The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, And all their former joy recall. 46. But who is he, whose darken'd brow Glooms in the midst of general mirth? Before his eyes' far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 47. Dark is the robe which wraps his form, And tall his plume of gory red; His voice is like the rising storm, But light and trackless is his tread. 48. 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd; With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, And all combine to hail the draught. 49. Sudden the stranger-chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 50. "Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done, Thou saw'st 'twas truly drunk by me; It hail'd the nuptials of thy son: Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 51. "While all around is mirth and joy, To bless thy Allan's happy lot, Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy? Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 52. "Alas!" the hapless Sire replied, The big tear starting as he spoke, "When Oscar left my hall, or died, This aged heart was almost broke. 53. "Thrice has the earth revolv'd her course Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death, or flight." 54. "'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; "Thy Oscar's fate, I fain would learn; Perhaps the Hero did not die. 55. "Perchance, if those, whom most he lov'd, Would call, thy Oscar might return; Perchance, the chief has only rov'd; For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn. [3] 56. "Fill high the bowl the table round, We will not claim the pledge by stealth; With wine let every cup be crown'd; Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 57. "With all my soul," old Angus said, And fill'd his goblet to the brim: "Here's to my boy! alive or dead, I ne'er shall find a son like him." 58. "Bravely, old man, this health has sped; But why does Allan trembling stand? Come, drink remembrance of the dead, And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 59. The crimson glow of Allan's face Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; The drops of death each other chace, Adown in agonizing dew. 60. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste; For thrice he caught the stranger's eye On his with deadly fury plac'd. 61. "And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here? If thus affection's strength prevails, What might we not expect from fear?" 62. Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl, "Would Oscar now could share our mirth!" Internal fear appall'd his soul; [i] He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 63. "'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!" Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form. "A murderer's voice!" the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. 64. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, The stranger's gone,--amidst the crew, A Form was seen, in tartan green, And tall the shade terrific grew. 65. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, His plume of sable stream'd on high; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 66. And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild On Angus bending low the knee; And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground, Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 67. The bolts loud roll from pole to pole, And thunders through the welkin ring, And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 68. Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd. Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, [iv] At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 69. "Away, away! let the leech essay To pour the light on Allan's eyes:" His sand is done,--his race is run; Oh! never more shall Allan rise! 70. But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, His locks are lifted by the gale; And Allan's barbèd arrow lay With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 71. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Or who, no mortal wight can tell; But no one doubts the form of flame, For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 72. Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand, Exulting demons wing'd his dart; While Envy wav'd her burning brand, And pour'd her venom round his heart. 73. Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow; Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide. 74. And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel: Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love, Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell. 75. Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, Which rises o'er a warrior dead? It glimmers through the twilight gloom; Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 76. Far, distant far, the noble grave Which held his clan's great ashes stood; And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 77. What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murd'rer's praise? 78. Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would break. 79. No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air: A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there. [Footnote 1: The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of "Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's 'Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer'. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of 'Macbeth'.--['Der Geisterseher', Schiller's 'Werke' (1819), x. 97, 'sq'.] [Footnote 2: It is evident that Byron here confused the 'pibroch', the air, with the 'bagpipe', the instrument.] [Footnote 3: Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion.] [Footnote i: 'She view'd the gasping'----. ['Hours of Idleness'.]] [Footnote ii: 'When many an eye which ne'er again Could view'----. ['Hours of Idleness'.]] [Footnote iii: 'Internal fears'----. ['Hours of Idleness'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Old Angus prest, the earth with his breast'. ['Hours of Idleness'.]] TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. [Greek: Thel_o legein Atpeidas, k.t.l.] [1] ODE 1. TO HIS LYRE. I wish to tune my quivering lyre, [i] To deeds of fame, and notes of fire; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanc'd to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus rov'd afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to Love alone. Fir'd with the hope of future fame, [ii] I seek some nobler Hero's name; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due: With glowing strings, the Epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds; All, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft Desire. Adieu, ye Chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of War's alarms! [iii] To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. [Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or 'Poems O. and T.'] [Footnote i: 'I sought to tune'----.--['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: 'The chords resumed a second strain, To Jove's great son I strike again. Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: 'The Trumpet's blast with these accords To sound the clash of hostile swords-- Be mine the softer, sweeter care To soothe the young and virgin Fair'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] FROM ANACREON. [Greek: Mesonuktiois poth h_opais, k.t.l.] [1] ODE 3. 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to roll [i] His Arctic charge around the Pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep: At this lone hour the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force; My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,-- "What stranger breaks my blest repose?" "Alas!" replies the wily child In faltering accents sweetly mild; "A hapless Infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home. Oh! shield me from the wintry blast! The nightly storm is pouring fast. No prowling robber lingers here; A wandering baby who can fear?" I heard his seeming artless tale, [ii] I heard his sighs upon the gale: My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe. I drew the bar, and by the light Young Love, the infant, met my sight; His bow across his shoulders flung, And thence his fatal quiver hung (Ah! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart). With care I tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast; His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; His shivering limbs the embers warm; And now reviving from the storm, Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, Than swift he seized his slender bow:-- "I fain would know, my gentle host," He cried, "if this its strength has lost; I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuse." With poison tipt, his arrow flies, Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies: Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:-- "My bow can still impel the shaft: 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" [Footnote 1: The motto does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or 'Poems O. and T.'] [Footnote i: The Newstead MS. inserts-- 'No Moon in silver robe was seen Nor e'en a trembling star between'.] [Footnote ii: 'Touched with the seeming artless tale Compassion's tears o'er doubt prevail; Methought I viewed him, cold and damp, I trimmed anew my dying lamp, Drew back the bar--and by the light A pinioned Infant met my sight; His bow across his shoulders slung, And hence a gilded quiver hung; With care I tend my weary guest, His shivering hands by mine are pressed: My hearth I load with embers warm To dry the dew drops of the storm: Drenched by the rain of yonder sky The strings are weak--but let us try.' --['MS. Newstead'.]] THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. [1] A PARAPHRASE FROM THE "ÆNEID," LIB. 9. Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; Well skill'd, in fight, the quivering lance to wield, Or pour his arrows thro' th' embattled field: From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, [i] And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. To watch the movements of the Daunian host, With him Euryalus sustains the post; No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, And beardless bloom yet grac'd the gallant boy; 10 Though few the seasons of his youthful life, As yet a novice in the martial strife, 'Twas his, with beauty, Valour's gifts to share-- A soul heroic, as his form was fair: These burn with one pure flame of generous love; In peace, in war, united still they move; Friendship and Glory form their joint reward; And, now, combin'd they hold their nightly guard. [ii] "What God," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire? Or, in itself a God, what great desire? 20 My lab'ring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, Abhors this station of inglorious rest; The love of fame with this can ill accord, Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. See'st thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? Then hear my thought:--In deep and sullen grief Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 30 Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine, (The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,) Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, Methinks, an easy path, perchance, were found; Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, And lead Æneas from Evander's halls." With equal ardour fir'd, and warlike joy, His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy:-- "These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 40 Am I by thee despis'd, and left afar, As one unfit to share the toils of war? Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught: Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, I track'd Æneas through the walks of fate: Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. Here is a soul with hope immortal burns, And _life_, ignoble _life_, for _Glory_ spurns. [iii] 50 Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath: The price of honour, is the sleep of death." Then Nisus:--"Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: [iv] Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. More dear thy worth, and valour than my own, I swear by him, who fills Olympus' throne! So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, And clasp again the comrade of my youth! But should I fall,--and he, who dares advance Through hostile legions, must abide by chance,-- 60 If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend, who ever lov'd thee, low, Live thou--such beauties I would fain preserve-- Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve; When humbled in the dust, let some one be, Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me; Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, Or wealth redeem, from foes, my captive corse; Or, if my destiny these last deny, If, in the spoiler's power, my ashes lie; 70 Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, To mark thy love, and signalise my doom. Why should thy doating wretched mother weep Her only boy, reclin'd in endless sleep? Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dar'd, Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shar'd; Who brav'd what woman never brav'd before, And left her native, for the Latian shore." "In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," Replied Euryalus; "it scorns controul; 80 Hence, let us haste!"--their brother guards arose, Rous'd by their call, nor court again repose; The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. Now, o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man; Save where the Dardan leaders, nightly, hold Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. On one great point the council are agreed, An instant message to their prince decreed; 90 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, And pois'd with easy arm his ancient shield; When Nisus and his friend their leave request, To offer something to their high behest. With anxious tremors, yet unaw'd by fear, [v] The faithful pair before the throne appear; Iulus greets them; at his kind command, The elder, first, address'd the hoary band. "With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) "Attend, nor judge, from youth, our humble plan. 100 Where yonder beacons half-expiring beam, Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, [vi] Nor heed that we a secret path have trac'd, Between the ocean and the portal plac'd; Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, Whose shade, securely, our design will cloak! If you, ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow, We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight, Seen o'er the glade, when not obscur'd by night: 110 Then shall Æneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn; And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead Shall mark the havoc of our Hero's tread; Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray; Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, The distant spires above the valleys gleam." Mature in years, for sober wisdom fam'd, Mov'd by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd,-- 120 "Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; When minds, like these, in striplings thus ye raise, Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise; In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, And, quivering, strain'd them to his agéd breast; With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd:-- 130 "What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize, Can we bestow, which you may not despise? Our Deities the first best boon have given-- Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, Doubtless await such young, exalted worth; Æneas and Ascanius shall combine To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." Iulus then:--"By all the powers above! By those Penates, who my country love! 140 By hoary Vesta's sacred Fane, I swear, My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! Restore my father, to my grateful sight, And all my sorrows, yield to one delight. Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own, Sav'd from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown; My sire secured them on that fatal day, Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine, Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 150 An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave: But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, When great Æneas wears Hesperia's crown, The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast, I pledge my word, irrevocably past: Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames, To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 160 And all the realms, which now the Latins sway, The labours of to-night shall well repay. But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, Henceforth, affection, sweetly thus begun, Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one; Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine, Without thy dear advice, no great design; Alike, through life, esteem'd, thou godlike boy, In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 170 To him Euryalus:--"No day shall shame The rising glories which from this I claim. Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart: My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain Her feeble age from dangers of the main; 180 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, [vii] A bright example of maternal love. Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave; From this alone no fond adieus I seek, No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek; By gloomy Night and thy right hand I vow, Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: [viii] Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, In thee her much-lov'd child may live again; 190 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress: So dear a hope must all my soul enflame, [ix] To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt; Faster than all, Iulus' eyes o'erflow! Such love was his, and such had been his woe. "All thou hast ask'd, receive," the Prince replied; "Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 200 To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, Creusa's [2] style but wanting to the dame; Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. Now, by my life!--my Sire's most sacred oath-- To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, [x] If thou should'st fall, on her shall be bestow'd." Thus spoke the weeping Prince, then forth to view A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 210 Lycaon's utmost skill had grac'd the steel, For friends to envy and for foes to feel: A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, [xi] Slain 'midst the forest in the hunter's toil, Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, [xii] And old Alethes' casque defends his brows; Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembl'd train, To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. [xiii] More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, Iulus holds amidst the chiefs his place: 220 His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail, Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? [xiv] The trench is pass'd, and favour'd by the night, Through sleeping foes, they wheel their wary flight. When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? Alas! some slumber, who shall wake no more! Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen, And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between: Bacchus and Mars, to rule the camp, combine; A mingled Chaos this of war and wine. 230 "Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare, With me the conquest and the labour share: Here lies our path; lest any hand arise, Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies; I'll carve our passage, through the heedless foe, And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow." His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast: Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king repos'd; Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had clos'd; 240 To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, His omens more than augur's skill evince; But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, Could not avert his own untimely fall. Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell; The charioteer along his courser's sides Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides; And, last, his Lord is number'd with the dead: Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 250 From the swol'n veins the blackening torrents pour; Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire; Half the long night in childish games was pass'd; [xv] Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last: Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd, And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. [xvi] In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, [xvii] His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; 260 'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; [xviii] In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams. Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, But falls on feeble crowds without a name; His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, Yet wakeful Rhæsus sees the threatening steel; His coward breast behind a jar he hides, And, vainly, in the weak defence confides; 270 Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, The reeking weapon bears alternate stains; Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray; There, unconfin'd, behold each grazing steed, Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: [xix] Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: 280 "Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd; Full foes enough, to-night, have breath'd their last: Soon will the Day those Eastern clouds adorn; Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." What silver arms, with various art emboss'd, What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd, They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize Attracts the younger Hero's wandering eyes; The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: 290 This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, Once by a line of former chieftains worn. Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears; Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, To seek the vale, where safer paths extend. Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse To Turnus' camp pursue their destin'd course: While the slow foot their tardy march delay, The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 300 Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, To Turnus with their master's promise sped: Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, When, on the left, a light reflection falls; The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright; Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms:-- "Stand, Stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms? From whence? to whom?"--He meets with no reply; Trusting the covert of the night, they fly: 310 The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene: Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead; But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, On every side they seek his absent friend. 320 "O God! my boy," he cries, "of me bereft, [xx] In what impending perils art thou left!" Listening he runs--above the waving trees, Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. Again he turns--of footsteps hears the noise-- The sound elates--the sight his hope destroys: The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, [xxi] While lengthening shades his weary way confound; 330 Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. [xxii] What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share? What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey? His life a votive ransom nobly give, Or die with him, for whom he wish'd to live? Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye:-- 340 "Goddess serene, transcending every star! [xxiii] Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar! By night Heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove; If e'er myself, or Sire, have sought to grace Thine altars, with the produce of the chase, Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 350 The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: He sobs, he dies,--the troop in wild amaze, Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze; While pale they stare, thro' Tagus' temples riven, A second shaft, with equal force is driven: Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes; Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. [xxiv] Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. "Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 360 Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. Nisus, no more the blackening shade conceals, Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; Aghast, confus'd, his fears to madness rise, And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies; "Me, me,--your vengeance hurl on me alone; Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own; Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven! attest! He could not--durst not--lo! the guile confest! 370 All, all was mine,--his early fate suspend; He only lov'd, too well, his hapless friend: Spare, spare, ye Chiefs! from him your rage remove; His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gor'd; Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: As some young rose whose blossom scents the air, Languid in death, expires beneath the share; 380 Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, Declining gently, falls a fading flower; Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide; [xxv] Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow; 390 In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies, Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. [xxvi] Thus Nisus all his fond affection prov'd-- Dying, revenged the fate of him he lov'd; Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, [xxvii] And death was heavenly, in his friend's embrace! 400 Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim, Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! [xxviii] Ages on ages shall your fate admire, No future day shall see your names expire, While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! And vanquished millions hail their Empress, Rome! [Footnote 1: Lines 1-18 were first published in 'P. on V. Occasions', under the title of "Fragment of a Translation from the 9th Book of Virgil's 'Æneid'."] [Footnote 2: The mother of Iulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken.] [Footnote i: 'Him Ida sent, a hunter, now no more, To combat foes, upon a foreign shore; Near him, the loveliest of the Trojan band, Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand; Few are the seasons of his youthful life, As yet a novice in the martial strife: The Gods to him unwonted gifts impart, A female's beatify, with a hero's heart. ['P. on V. Occasions.'] From Ida torn he left his native grove, Through distant climes, and trackless seas to rove.' ['Hours of Idleness.']] [Footnote ii: 'And now combin'd, the massy gate they guard'. ['P. on V. Occasions'.] --they hold the nightly guard'. ['Hours of Idleness'.]] [Footnote iii: And Love, and Life alike the glory spurned. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iv: Then Nisus, "Ah, my friend--why thus suspect Thy youthful breast admits of no defect." ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote v: Trembling with diffidence not awed by fear. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote vi: The vain Rutulians lost in slumber dream. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote vii: 'Hither she came------. ['Hours of Idleness.']] [Footnote viii: 'Her falling tears------. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ix: 'With this assurance Fate's attempts are vain; Fearless I dare the foes of yonder plain. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote x: 'That all the gifts which once to thee were vowed. ['MS. Newstead'.] [Footnote xi: 'A tawny skin the furious lion's spoil. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xii: 'Mnestheus presented, and the Warrior's mask Alethes gave a doubly temper'd casque. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xiii: 'To glad their journey, follow them in vain. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xiv: 'Dispersed and scattered on the sighing gale. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xv: 'By Bacchus' potent draught weigh'd down at last Half the long night in childish games was past. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xvi: '--disportive play'd. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xvii: By hunger prest, the keeper lull'd to sleep In slaughter thus a Lyon's fangs may steep. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xviii: Through teeming herds unchecked, unawed, he roams. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xix: Heedless of danger on the herbage feed. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xx: ----'of thee bereft In what dire perils is my brother left.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxi: Then his lov'd boy the ruffian band surround Entangled in the tufted Forest ground. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxii: 'At length a captive to the hostile crew'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxiii: 'The Goddess bright transcending every star'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxiv: 'No object meets them but the earth and skies. He burns for vengeance, rising in his wrath-- Then you, accursed, thy life shall pay for both; Then from the sheath his flaming brand he drew, And on the raging boy defenceless flew. Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, Forth forth he rushed and all his love reveals; Pale and confused his fear to madness grows, And thus in accents mild he greets his Foes. "On me, on me, direct your impious steel, Let me and me alone your vengeance feel-- Let not a stripling's blood by Chiefs be spilt, Be mine the Death, as mine was all the guilt. By Heaven and Hell, the powers of Earth and Air. Yon guiltless stripling neither could nor dare: Spare him, oh! spare by all the Gods above, A hapless boy whose only crime was Love." He prayed in vain; the fierce assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; Drooping to earth inclines his lovely head, O'er his fair curls, the purpling stream is spread. As some sweet lily, by the ploughshare broke Languid in Death, sinks down beneath the stroke; Or, as some poppy, bending with the shower, Gently declining falls a waning flower'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxv: 'Revenge his object'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxvi: 'The assassin's soul'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxvii: 'Then on his breast he sought his wonted place, And Death was lovely in his Friend's embrace'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xxviii: 'Yours are the fairest wreaths of endless Fame.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] TRANSLATION FROM THE "MEDEA" OF EURIPIDES [Ll. 627-660]. [Greek: Erotes hyper men agan, K.T.L.[1]] 1. When fierce conflicting passions urge The breast, where love is wont to glow, What mind can stem the stormy surge Which rolls the tide of human woe? The hope of praise, the dread of shame, Can rouse the tortur'd breast no more; The wild desire, the guilty flame, Absorbs each wish it felt before. 2. But if affection gently thrills The soul, by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills In love can soothe the aching breast: If thus thou comest in disguise, [i] Fair Venus! from thy native heaven, What heart, unfeeling, would despise The sweetest boon the Gods have given? 3. But, never from thy golden bow, May I beneath the shaft expire! Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, Awakes an all-consuming fire: Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears! With others wage internal war; Repentance! source of future tears, From me be ever distant far! 4. May no distracting thoughts destroy The holy calm of sacred love! May all the hours be winged with joy, Which hover faithful hearts above! Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine May I with some fond lover sigh! Whose heart may mingle pure with mine, With me to live, with me to die! 5. My native soil! belov'd before, Now dearer, as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, A hapless banish'd wretch to roam! This very day, this very hour, May I resign this fleeting breath! Nor quit my silent humble bower; A doom, to me, far worse than death. 6. Have I not heard the exile's sigh, And seen the exile's silent tear, Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, A pensive, weary wanderer here? Ah! hapless dame! [2] no sire bewails, No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 7. Perish the fiend! whose iron heart To fair affection's truth unknown, Bids her he fondly lov'd depart, Unpitied, helpless, and alone; Who ne'er unlocks with silver key, [3] The milder treasures of his soul; May such a friend be far from me, And Ocean's storms between us roll! [Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or 'Poems O. and T'.] [Footnote 2: Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus, from which this is taken, here addresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of the translation.] [Footnote 3: The original is [Greek: katharan anoixanta klaeda phren_on,] literally "disclosing the bright key of the mind."] [Footnote i: 'If thus thou com'st in gentle guise'. ['Hours of Idleness'.]] LACHIN Y GAIR. [1] 1. Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove: Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war: Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 2. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander'd: My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; [2] On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story, Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 3. "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale! Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car: Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers; They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 4. "Ill starr'd, [3] though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, [4] Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy, in death's earthy slumber, You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; [5] The Pibroch [6] resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 5. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse, ere I tread you again: Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain: England! thy beauties are tame and domestic, To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar: Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. [7] [Footnote 1: 'Lachin y Gair', or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 'Loch na Garr', towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas. [Prefixed to the poem in 'Hours of Idleness' and 'Poems O. and T.'] [Footnote 2: This word is erroneously pronounced 'plad'; the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.] [Footnote 3: I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James I. of Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.] [Footnote 4: Whether any perished in the Battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, "pars pro toto."] [Footnote 5: A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Braemar.] [Footnote 6: The Bagpipe.--'Hours of Idleness'. (See note, p. 133.)] [Footnote 7: The love of mountains to the last made Byron "Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, And Loch na Garr with Ida looked o'er Troy." 'The Island' (1823), Canto II. stanza xii.] TO ROMANCE. 1. Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious Queen of childish joys, Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys; At length, in spells no longer bound, I break the fetters of my youth; No more I tread thy mystic round, But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 2. And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems, [i] Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Fancy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue; When Virgins seem no longer vain, And even Woman's smiles are true. 3. And must we own thee, but a name, And from thy hall of clouds descend? Nor find a Sylph in every dame, A Pylades [1] in every friend? But leave, at once, thy realms of air [ii] To mingling bands of fairy elves; Confess that woman's false as fair, And friends have feeling for--themselves? 4. With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway; Repentant, now thy reign is o'er; No more thy precepts I obey, No more on fancied pinions soar; Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye, And think that eye to truth was dear; To trust a passing wanton's sigh, And melt beneath a wanton's tear! 5. Romance! disgusted with deceit, Far from thy motley court I fly, Where Affectation holds her seat, And sickly Sensibility; Whose silly tears can never flow For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe, To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 6. Now join with sable Sympathy, With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir, To mourn a Swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne. 7. Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears [iii] On all occasions swiftly flow; Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, With fancied flames and phrenzy glow Say, will you mourn my absent name, Apostate from your gentle train? An infant Bard, at least, may claim From you a sympathetic strain. 8. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu! The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie: [iv] Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether. [Footnote 1: It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.] [Footnote i: 'Where every girl--.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: 'But quit at once thy realms of air Thy mingling--.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: 'Auspicious bards--.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Where you are doomed in death to lie.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. [1] AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN". [2] Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. [ii] Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. [iii] The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?" "Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream of Lubar."--"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar."--"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I give his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. [i] He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength. Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven." [v] "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the Hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!" They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven:--the bards raised the song. "What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm. [3] [Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.] [Footnote 2: It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the present volume [see pp. 151-168].] [Footnote 3: I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's 'Ossian' might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults--particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.--The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. [Malcolm Laing (1762-1818) published, in 1802, a 'History of Scotland, etc.', with a dissertation "on the supposed authenticity of Ossian's Poems," and, in 1805, a work entitled 'The Poems of Ossian, etc., containing the Poetical Works of James Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme, with Notes and Illustrations'.] [Footnote i: 'Erin's sons--'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: 'The horn of Fingal--'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: '--the fires gleam--'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iv: 'He trembles in his blood. He rolls convulsive.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote v: '--the mountain of Morven.' ['MS. Newstead'.]] TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. [i] [1] "Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."--HORACE. Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, [ii] While all around in slumber lie, The joyous days, which ours have been Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm, While clouds the darken'd noon deform, Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, I hail the sky's celestial bow, Which spreads the sign of future peace, And bids the war of tempests cease. Ah! though the present brings but pain, I think those days may come again; Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii] To check my bosom's fondest thought, And interrupt the golden dream, I crush the fiend with malice fraught, And, still, indulge my wonted theme. Although we ne'er again can trace, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions, as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold controul, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv] Still, still, despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days, O'er which Remembrance yet delays, [v] Still may I rove untutor'd, wild, And even in age, at heart a child. [vi] Though, now, on airy visions borne, To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii] And all my former joys are tame: But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii] We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse, Attun'd to love her languid lyre; But, now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix] E----is a wife, and C----a mother, And Carolina sighs alone, And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall-- In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--[x] For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the Sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a _sun_, These last should be confin'd to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, [xi] Whose Sun displays a general _summer_! Thus faint is every former flame, And Passion's self is now a name; [xii] [xiii] As, when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improv'd their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with Passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Describ'd in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er Which every bard has trod before? [xiv] Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retrac'd her path of light, And chas'd away the gloom profound, I trust, that we, my gentle Friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend, Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And, then, with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn, Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. [Footnote 1: The MS. of these verses is at Newstead. Long was with Byron at Harrow, and was the only one of his intimate friends who went up at the same time as he did to Cambridge, where both were noted for feats of swimming and diving. Long entered the Guards, and served in the expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed being run down in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father," says Byron, "wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised--but I had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to make him the more regretted."--'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 32. See also memorandum ('Life', p. 31, col. ii.).] [Footnote i: 'To E. N. L. Esq.' ['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ] [Footnote ii: 'Dear L----.' ['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ] [Footnote iii: 'Some daring envious.' ['MS. Newstead.'] ] [Footnote iv: 'its young romantic flow.' ['MS. Newstead.'] ] [Footnote v: 'O'er which my fancy'--. ['MS. Newstead.'] ] [Footnote vi: 'Still may my breast to boyhood cleave, With every early passion heave; Still may I rove untutored, wild, But never cease to seem a child.'-- ['MS. Newstead.'] ] [Footnote vii: 'Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.' ['MS. Newstead.'] ] [Footnote viii: 'And caves their sullen war'--. ['MS. Newstead.'] ] [Footnote ix: '--thank Heaven are flown'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote x: 'In truth dear L----'. ['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.] ] [Footnote xi: 'The glances really don't become her'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xii: 'No more I linger on its name'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xiii: 'And passion's self is but a name'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote xiv: 'And what's much worse than this I find Have left their deepen'd tracks behind Yet as yon'------. ['MS. Newstead'.]] TO A LADY. [i] 1. Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, [1] As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not, then, been mine, For, then, my peace had not been broken. 2. To thee, these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 3. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But, now, thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another. [1] 4. Perhaps, his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my Rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him. 5. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. 6. Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid! 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 7. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matrons' fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures-- 8. If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:-- This cheek, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 9. Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet, For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,-- For then it beat but to adore thee. 10. But, now, I seek for other joys-- To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my Bosom's sadness. 11. Yet, even in these, a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavour; And fiends might pity what I feel-- To know that thou art lost for ever. [Footnote 1: These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters. Byron wrote in 1822, "Our meetings were stolen ones. ... A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. The ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would have been different." Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 81.] [Footnote i: _To------._ ['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.']] * * * * * * * * * POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i] 1. When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1] To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; [2] Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, [3] 'twas centred in you? 2. Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,-- What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But, still, I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd, I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 3. I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted [4] the billows of Dee's [5] rushing tide, And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 4. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; As the last of my race, I must wither alone, And delight but in days, I have witness'd before: Ah! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot; More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew: Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot, Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 5. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; [6] When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 6. Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow; But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before, Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no! Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred! Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu! No home in the forest shall shelter my head,-- Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you? [Footnote 1: Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal of snow" is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.] [Footnote 2: This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.] [Footnote 3: Byron, in early youth, was "unco' wastefu'" of Marys. There was his distant cousin, Mary Duff (afterwards Mrs. Robert Cockburn), who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" at Aberdeen. Her "brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes--her very dress," were long years after "a perfect image" in his memory (_Life_, p. 9). Secondly, there was the Mary of these stanzas, "with long-flowing ringlets of gold," the "Highland Mary" of local tradition. She was (writes the Rev. J. Michie, of The Manse, Dinnet) the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse of Ballatrich on Deeside, where Byron used to spend his summer holidays (1796-98). She was of gentle birth, and through her mother, the daughter of Captain Macdonald of Rineton, traced her descent to the Lord of the Isles. "She died at Aberdeen, March 2, 1867, aged eighty-five years." A third Mary (see "Lines to Mary," etc., p. 32) flits through the early poems, evanescent but unspiritual. Last of all, there was Mary Anne Chaworth, of Annesley (see "A Fragment," etc., p. 210; "The Adieu," st. 6, p. 239, etc.), whose marriage, in 1805, "threw him out again--alone on a wide, wide sea" (Life, p. 85).] [Footnote 4: "Breasting the lofty surge" (Shakespeare).] [Footnote 5: The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.] [Footnote 6: Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.] [Footnote i: _Song_. [_Poems O. and T._]] TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. [i] [1] Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, [ii] Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend, Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Bade _thee_ obey, and gave _me_ to command; [2] Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower The gift of riches, and the pride of power; E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 10 Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul [iii] To shun fair science, or evade controul; Though passive tutors, [3] fearful to dispraise The titled child, whose future breath may raise, View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,-- And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-- 20 When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait On one by birth predestin'd to be great; That books were only meant for drudging fools, That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" Believe them not,--they point the path to shame, And seek to blast the honours of thy name: Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 30 Ask thine own heart--'twill bid thee, boy, forbear! For _well_ I know that virtue lingers there. Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind A soul, if well matur'd, to bless mankind; Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child; Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; 40 Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame, I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names that grace no page beside; Then share with titled crowds the common lot-- In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot; While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 50 The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll, That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, In records destin'd never to be read. Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, Exalted more among the good and wise; 60 A glorious and a long career pursue, As first in Rank, the first in Talent too: Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun; Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. Turn to the annals of a former day; Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display; One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth. [4] Another view! not less renown'd for Wit; Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 70 Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine; In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng, The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. [5] Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name, Not heir to titles only, but to Fame. The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, To me, this little scene of joys and woes; Each knell of Time now warns me to resign Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine: 80 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, And gild their pinions, as the moments flew; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell; Alas! they love not long, who love so well. To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep, Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 90 Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part [iv] Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; The coming morrow from thy youthful mind Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere, Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, May one day claim our suffrage for the state, We hence may meet, and pass each other by With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 100 For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe-- With thee no more again I hope to trace The recollection of our early race; No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice; Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought, If these,--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,-- Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain, 110 The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 1805. [Footnote 1: In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this second edition, I found the above lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my departure from H[arrow]. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighbouring country: however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revision. [The foregoing note was prefixed to the poem in 'Poems O. and T'. George John Frederick, 4th Duke of Dorset, born 1793, was killed by a fall from his horse when hunting, in 1815, while on a visit to his step-father the Earl of Whitworth, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. (See Byron's letter to Moore, Feb. 22, 1815).]] [Footnote 2: At every public school the junior boys are completely subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.] [Footnote 3: Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant. I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of preceptors.] [Footnote 4: "Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of 'Gorboduc', which was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. This tragedy, and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the 'Mirrour for Magistraytes', compose the poetical history of Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain."--'Specimens of the British Poets', by Thomas Campbell, London, 1819, ii. 134, 'sq'.] [Footnote 5: Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song ["'To all you Ladies now at Land'"]. His character has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. 'Vide' Anderson's 'British Poets', 1793, vi. 107, 108.] [Footnote i: 'To the Duke of D-----'. ['Poems O. and T.']] [Footnote ii: 'D-r-t'-----. ['Poems O. and T.']] [Footnote iii: Yet D-r-t-----. ['Poems O. and T.'] [Footnote iv: 'D--r--t farewell.' ['Poems O. and T.']] TO THE EARL OF CLARE. [i] Tu semper amoris Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago. VAL. FLAC. 'Argonaut', iv. 36. 1. Friend of my youth! when young we rov'd, Like striplings, mutually belov'd, With Friendship's purest glow; The bliss, which wing'd those rosy hours, Was such as Pleasure seldom showers On mortals here below. 2. The recollection seems, alone, Dearer than all the joys I've known, When distant far from you: Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, To trace those days and hours again, And sigh again, adieu! 3. My pensive mem'ry lingers o'er, Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, Those scenes regretted ever; The measure of our youth is full, Life's evening dream is dark and dull, And we may meet--ah! never! 4. As when one parent spring supplies Two streams, which from one fountain rise, Together join'd in vain; How soon, diverging from their source, Each, murmuring, seeks another course, Till mingled in the Main! 5. Our vital streams of weal or woe, Though near, alas! distinctly flow, Nor mingle as before: Now swift or slow, now black or clear, Till Death's unfathom'd gulph appear, And both shall quit the shore. 6. Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, Now flow in different channels: Disdaining humbler rural sports, 'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in Fashion's annals; 7. 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Or vent my reveries in rhyme, Without the aid of Reason; For Sense and Reason (critics know it) Have quitted every amorous Poet, Nor left a thought to seize on. 8. Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard! Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard That he, who sang before all; He who the lore of love expanded, By dire Reviewers should be branded, As void of wit and moral. [1] 9. And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favourite of the Nine! Repine not at thy lot. Thy soothing lays may still be read, When Persecution's arm is dead, And critics are forgot. 10. Still I must yield those worthies merit Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes, and those who write them: And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vext, I really will not fight them. [2] 11. Perhaps they would do quite as well To break the rudely sounding shell Of such a young beginner: He who offends at pert nineteen, Ere thirty may become, I ween, A very harden'd sinner. 12. Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii] And, sure, apologies are due: Accept, then, my concession. In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy's flight [iii] I soar along from left to right; My Muse admires digression. 13. I think I said 'twould be your fate To add one star to royal state;-- May regal smiles attend you! And should a noble Monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. 14. Yet since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round, From snares may Saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you! 15. Not for a moment may you stray From Truth's secure, unerring way! May no delights decoy! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy! 16. Oh! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow; Be still as you were wont to be, Spotless as you've been known to me,-- Be still as you are now. [3] 17. And though some trifling share of praise, To cheer my last declining days, To me were doubly dear; Whilst blessing your beloved name, I'd _waive_ at once a _Poet's_ fame, To _prove_ a _Prophet_ here. 1807. [Footnote 1: These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the 'Edinburgh Review', of July, 1807, on "'Epistles, Odes, and other Poems', by Thomas Little, Esq.")] [Footnote 2: A bard [Moore] ('Horresco referens') defied his reviewer [Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our Periodical Censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? [Cf. 'English Bards', l. 466, 'note'.]] [Footnote 3: "Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him from others, during absence and distance." 'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; 'Life', p. 540.] [Footnote i: 'To the Earl of-----'. ['Poems O. and T.']] [Footnote ii: 'Now----I must'. ['Poems O. and T.']] [Footnote iii: 'In truth dear----in fancy's flight'. ['Poems O. and T.']] I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. [i] 1 I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon [1] pride, Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 2. Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around: Place me among the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this--again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. 3. Few are my years, and yet I feel The World was ne'er design'd for me: Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss: Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? 4. I lov'd--but those I lov'd are gone; Had friends--my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone, When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions, o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart--the heart--is lonely still. 5. How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist'rous Joy is but a name. 6. And Woman, lovely Woman! thou, My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh would I resign, This busy scene of splendid Woe, To make that calm contentment mine, Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. 7. Fain would I fly the haunts of men [2]-- I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given, Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven, To flee away, and be at rest. [3] [Footnote 1: Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English.] [Footnote 2: Shyness was a family characteristic of the Byrons. The poet continued in later years to have a horror of being observed by unaccustomed eyes, and in the country would, if possible, avoid meeting strangers on the road.] [Footnote 3: "And I said, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and be at rest." (Psalm iv. 6.) This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.] [Footnote i: 'Stanzas'. ['Poems O. and T.']] LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. [1] [i] Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine: How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, "Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!" When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,-- If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,-- To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell; With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die-- And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplor'd by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside. September 2, 1807. [Footnote 1: On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822, Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he wrote, May 26, "a spot in the church'yard', near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the 'church'." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the entrance.] [Footnote i: 'Lines written beneath an Elm In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill September 2, 1807'. ['Poems O. and T.']] FRAGMENT. WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. [1] First published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56 1. Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren, Where my thoughtless Childhood stray'd, How the northern Tempests, warring, Howl above thy tufted Shade! 2. Now no more, the Hours beguiling, Former favourite Haunts I see; Now no more my Mary smiling, Makes ye seem a Heaven to Me. 1805. [Footnote 1: Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August, 1805. The stanzas were first published in Moore's _Letters and Journals of Lord Byron_, 1830, i. 56. (See, too, _The Dream_, st. ii. 1. 9.) The original MS. (which is in the possession of Mrs. Chaworth Musters) formerly belonged to Miss E. B. Pigot, according to whom they "were written by Lord Byron in 1804." "We were reading Burns' _Farewell to Ayrshire_-- Scenes of woe and Scenes of pleasure Scenes that former thoughts renew Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure Now a sad and last adieu, etc. when he said, 'I like that metre; let me try it,' and taking up a pencil, wrote those on the other side in an instant. I read them to Moore, and at his particular request I copied them for him."-E. B. Pigot, 1859. On the fly-leaf of the same volume (_Poetry of Robert Burns_, vol. iv. Third Edition, 1802), containing the _Farewell to Ayrshire_, Byron wrote in pencil the two stanzas "Oh! little lock of golden hue," in 1806 (_vide post_, p. 233). It may be noted that the verses quoted, though included until recently among his poems, were not written by Burns, but by Richard Gall, who died in 1801, aged 25.] REMEMBRANCE. 'Tis done!--I saw it in my dreams: No more with Hope the future beams; My days of happiness are few: Chill'd by Misfortune's wintry blast, My dawn of Life is overcast; Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! Would I could add Remembrance too! 1806. [First published, 1832.] TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES. 1. This Band, which bound thy yellow hair Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love; It claims my warmest, dearest care, Like relics left of saints above. 2. Oh! I will wear it next my heart; 'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee: From me again 'twill ne'er depart, But mingle in the grave with me. 3. The dew I gather from thy lip Is not so dear to me as this; _That_ I but for a moment sip, And banquet on a transient bliss: [i] 4. _This_ will recall each youthful scene, E'en when our lives are on the wane; The leaves of Love will still be green When Memory bids them bud again. 1806. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote i: _on a transient kiss._ ['MS. Newstead'.] TO A KNOT OF UNGENEROUS CRITICS. [1] Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew! My strains were never meant for you; Remorseless Rancour still reveal, And damn the verse you cannot feel. Invoke those kindred passions' aid, Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade; Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth, Trampling regardless on the Truth: Truth's Records you consult in vain, She will not blast her native strain; She will assist her votary's cause, His will at least be her applause, Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn; To Fiction's motley altar turn, Who joyful in the fond address Her favoured worshippers will bless: And lo! she holds a magic glass, Where Images reflected pass, Bent on your knees the Boon receive-- This will assist you to deceive-- The glittering gift was made for you, Now hold it up to public view; Lest evil unforeseen betide, A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide, (Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh, Prepared the danger to defy,) "There is the Maid's perverted name, And there the Poet's guilty Flame, Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire, Threatening--but ere it spreads, retire. Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear! The Comet rolls its Influence here; 'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive, These dazzling Meteors but deceive-- Approach and touch--Nay do not turn It blazes there, but will not burn."-- At once the shivering Mirror flies, Teeming no more with varnished Lies; The baffled friends of Fiction start, Too late desiring to depart-- Truth poising high Ithuriel's spear Bids every Fiend unmask'd appear, The vizard tears from every face, And dooms them to a dire disgrace. For e'er they compass their escape, Each takes perforce a native shape-- The Leader of the wrathful Band, Behold a portly Female stand! She raves, impelled by private pique, This mean unjust revenge to seek; From vice to save this virtuous Age, Thus does she vent indecent rage! What child has she of promise fair, Who claims a fostering Mother's care? Whose Innocence requires defence, Or forms at least a smooth pretence, Thus to disturb a harmless Boy, His humble hope, and peace annoy? She need not fear the amorous rhyme, Love will not tempt her future time, For her his wings have ceased to spread, No more he flutters round her head; Her day's Meridian now is past, The clouds of Age her Sun o'ercast; To her the strain was never sent, For feeling Souls alone 'twas meant-- The verse she seized, unask'd, unbade, And damn'd, ere yet the whole was read! Yes! for one single erring verse, Pronounced an unrelenting Curse; Yes! at a first and transient view, Condemned a heart she never knew.-- Can such a verdict then decide, Which springs from disappointed pride? Without a wondrous share of Wit, To judge is such a Matron fit? The rest of the censorious throng Who to this zealous Band belong, To her a general homage pay, And right or wrong her wish obey: Why should I point my pen of steel To break "such flies upon the wheel?" With minds to Truth and Sense unknown, Who dare not call their words their own. Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless Crew! Your Leader's grand design pursue: Secure behind her ample shield, Yours is the harvest of the field.-- My path with thorns you cannot strew, Nay more, my warmest thanks are due; When such as you revile my Name, Bright beams the rising Sun of Fame, Chasing the shades of envious night, Outshining every critic Light.-- Such, such as you will serve to show Each radiant tint with higher glow. Vain is the feeble cheerless toil, Your efforts on yourselves recoil; Then Glory still for me you raise, Yours is the Censure, mine the Praise. BYRON, December 1, 1806. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed. There can be little doubt that these verses were called forth by the criticisms passed on the "Fugitive Pieces" by certain ladies of Southwell, concerning whom, Byron wrote to Mr. Pigot (Jan. 13, 1807), on sending him an early copy of the 'Poems', "That 'unlucky' poem to my poor Mary has been the cause of some animadversion from 'ladies in years'. I have not printed it in this collection in consequence of my being pronounced a most 'profligate sinner', in short a ''young Moore''" 'Life', p. 41.] SOLILOQUY OF A BARD IN THE COUNTRY. [1] 'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still, Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill. In vain he calls each Muse in order down, Like other females, these will sometimes frown; He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke: Ah what avails it thus to waste my time, To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme? What worth is some few partial readers' praise. If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise? Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite; Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write; Where none but girls and striplings dare admire, And Critics rise in every country Squire-- But yet this last my candid Muse admits, When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits; When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse, Matrons may sure their characters asperse; And if a little parson joins the train, And echos back his Patron's voice again-- Though not delighted, yet I must forgive, Parsons as well as other folks must live:-- From rage he rails not, rather say from dread, He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread; And this we know is in his Patron's giving, For Parsons cannot eat without a 'Living'. The Matron knows I love the Sex too well, Even unprovoked aggression to repel. What though from private pique her anger grew, And bade her blast a heart she never knew? What though, she said, for one light heedless line, That Wilmot's [2] verse was far more pure than mine! In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly, When 'dames' accuse 'tis bootless to deny; Her's be the harvest of the martial field, I can't attack, where Beauty forms the shield. But when a pert Physician loudly cries, Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies, A walking register of daily news, Train'd to invent, and skilful to abuse-- For arts like these at bounteous tables fed, When S----condemns a book he never read. Declaring with a coxcomb's native air, The 'moral's' shocking, though the 'rhymes' are fair. Ah! must he rise unpunish'd from the feast, Nor lash'd by vengeance into truth at least? Such lenity were more than Man's indeed! Those who condemn, should surely deign to read. Yet must I spare--nor thus my pen degrade, I quite forgot that scandal was his trade. For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails, For those who fear his physic, like his _tales_. Why should his harmless censure seem offence? Still let him eat, although at my expense, And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown, Who dare not call their very thoughts their own, And share with these applause, a godlike bribe, In short, do anything, except _prescribe_:-- For though in garb of Galen he appears, His practice is not equal to his years. Without improvement since he first began, A young Physician, though an ancient Man-- Now let me cease--Physician, Parson, Dame, Still urge your task, and if you can, defame. The humble offerings of my Muse destroy, And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy. What though some silly girls have lov'd the strain, And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again; What though some feeling, or some partial few, Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too, Have deign'd to praise the firstlings of my Muse-- If _you_ your sanction to the theme refuse, If _you_ your great protection still withdraw, Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law! Soon must I fall an unresisting foe, A hapless victim yielding to the blow.-- Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed, Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd; [3] From Dryden, Milbourne [4] tears the palm away, And thus I fall, though meaner far than they. As in the field of combat, side by side, A Fabius and some noble Roman died. Dec. 1806. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] [Footnote 2: John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680). His 'Poems' were published in the year of his death.] [Footnote 3: Robert Lloyd (1733-1764). The following lines occur in the first of two odes to 'Obscurity and Oblivion'--parodies of the odes of Gray and Mason:-- "Heard ye the din of modern rhymers bray? It was cool M----n and warm G----y, Involv'd in tenfold smoke."] [Footnote 4: The Rev. Luke Milbourne (died 1720) published, in 1698, his 'Notes on Dryden's Virgil', containing a venomous attack on Dryden. They are alluded to in 'The Dunciad', and also by Dr. Johnson, who wrote ('Life of Dryden'), "His outrages seem to be the ebullitions of a mind agitated by stronger resentment than bad poetry can excite."] L'AMITIÉ, EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. [1] 1. Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat,-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 2 Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, What moments have been mine! Now half obscured by clouds of tears, Now bright in rays divine; Howe'er my future doom be cast, My soul, enraptured with the past, To one idea fondly clings; Friendship! that thought is all thine own, Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 3 Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Their branches on the gale, Unheeded heaves a simple grave, Which tells the common tale; Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, Till the dull knell of childish play From yonder studious mansion rings; But here, whene'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove, "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 4 Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine, My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, But these are now decay'd; For thine are pinions like the wind, No trace of thee remains behind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings. Away, away! delusive power, Thou shall not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 5 Seat of my youth! [2] thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire,-- In mind again a boy. Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear associate seems to say, "Friendship is Love without his wings!' 6. My Lycus! [3] wherefore dost thou weep? Thy falling tears restrain; Affection for a time may sleep, But, oh, 'twill wake again. Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wished interview, how sweet! From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence my friend, can only tell, "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 7. In one, and one alone deceiv'd, Did I my error mourn? No--from oppressive bonds reliev'd, I left the wretch to scorn. I turn'd to those my childhood knew, With feelings warm, with bosoms true, Twin'd with my heart's according strings; And till those vital chords shall break, For none but these my breast shall wake Friendship, the power deprived of wings! 8 Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, My memory and my hope; Your worth a lasting love insures, Unfetter'd in its scope; From smooth deceit and terror sprung, With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, Let Adulation wait on kings; With joy elate, by snares beset, We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget, "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 9 Fictions and dreams inspire the bard, Who rolls the epic song; Friendship and truth be my reward-- To me no bays belong; If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Me the enchantress ever flies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; Simple and young, I dare not feign; Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, "Friendship is Love without his wings!" December 29, 1806. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.] [Footnote 2: Harrow.] [Footnote 3: Lord Clare had written to Byron, "I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most of your friends, and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me. In one part you say, 'There is little or no doubt a few years or months will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together.' Indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt, at least I hope, you are wrong yourself." 'Life', p. 25.] THE PRAYER OF NATURE. [1] 1 Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 2 Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin. 3 No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Oh, point to me the path of truth! Thy dread Omnipotence I own; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 4 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let Superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile. 5 Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne. 6 Shall man condemn his race to Hell, Unless they bend in pompous form? Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm? 7 Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire? 8 Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, Their great Creator's purpose know? 9 Shall those, who live for self alone, [i] Whose years float on in daily crime-- Shall they, by Faith, for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? 10 Father! no prophet's laws I seek,-- _Thy_ laws in Nature's works appear;-- I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I _pray_, for thou wilt hear! 11 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Through trackless realms of aether's space; Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: 12 Thou, who in wisdom plac'd me here, Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me thy wide defence. 13 To Thee, my God, to thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide, By thy command I rise or fall, In thy protection I confide. 14. If, when this dust to dust's restor'd, My soul shall float on airy wing, How shall thy glorious Name ador'd Inspire her feeble voice to sing! 15 But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the Grave's eternal bed, While Life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 16 To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again [ii] This erring life may fly at last. December 29, 1806. [Footnote 1: These stanzas were first published in Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 106.] [Footnote i: Shalt these who live for self alone, Whose years fleet on in daily crime-- Shall these by Faith for guilt atone, Exist beyond the bounds of Time? ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: My hope, my God, in thee again This erring life will fly at last. ['MS. Newstead']] TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. [1] [Greek: Eis rodon.] ODE 5 Mingle with the genial bowl The Rose, the 'flow'ret' of the Soul, The Rose and Grape together quaff'd, How doubly sweet will be the draught! With Roses crown our jovial brows, While every cheek with Laughter glows; While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite, To wing our moments with Delight. Rose by far the fairest birth, Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth-- Rose whose sweetest perfume given, Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven. Rose whom the Deities above, From Jove to Hebe, dearly love, When Cytherea's blooming Boy, Flies lightly through the dance of Joy, With him the Graces then combine, And rosy wreaths their locks entwine. Then will I sing divinely crown'd, With dusky leaves my temples bound-- Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure, I'll wake a wildly thrilling measure. There will my gentle Girl and I, Along the mazes sportive fly, Will bend before thy potent throne-- Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own. 1805. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed,] OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN "CARTHON." [1] Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire, Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire, Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze, Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays? Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine! Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline; Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave; But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source-- Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course? Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay, Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away. A certain space to yonder Moon is given, She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven. Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows, But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows! When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies, When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies, Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform, Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm. To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain, Nor cans't thou glad his agèd eyes again, Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream, Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam-- But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend; Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end, No more yon azure vault with rays adorn, Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn. Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength! Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length, As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud-- The Northern tempest howls along at last, And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast. Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers, Fair didst thou shine upon my earlier hours! I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn, My breast by no tumultuous Passion torn-- Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before; Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies, To thy bright canopy the mourner flies: Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest, And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest; Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul, Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul. Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge, To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge: Swift as your wings my happier days have past, Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast; To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been, Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen. 1805. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed. (See 'Ossian's Poems', London, 1819, pp. xvii. 119.)] PIGNUS AMORIS. [1] 1 As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven, 'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last; The dearest boon that Life has given, To me is--visions of the past. 2. For these this toy of blushing hue I prize with zeal before unknown, It tells me of a Friend I knew, Who loved me for myself alone. 3. It tells me what how few can say Though all the social tie commend; Recorded in my heart 'twill lay, [2] It tells me mine was once a Friend. 4. Through many a weary day gone by, With time the gift is dearer grown; And still I view in Memory's eye That teardrop sparkle through my own. 5. And heartless Age perhaps will smile, Or wonder whence those feelings sprung; Yet let not sterner souls revile, For Both were open, Both were young. 6. And Youth is sure the only time, When Pleasure blends no base alloy; When Life is blest without a crime, And Innocence resides with Joy. 7 Let those reprove my feeble Soul, Who laugh to scorn Affection's name; While these impose a harsh controul, All will forgive who feel the same. 8 Then still I wear my simple toy, With pious care from wreck I'll save it; And this will form a dear employ For dear I was to him who gave it. ? 1806. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] [Footnote 2: For the irregular use of "lay" for "lie," compare "The Adieu" (st. 10, 1. 4, p. 241), and the much-disputed line, "And dashest him to earth--there let him lay" ('Childe Harold', canto iv. st. 180).] A WOMAN'S HAIR. [1] Oh! little lock of golden hue In gently waving ringlet curl'd, By the dear head on which you grew, I would not lose you for _a world_. Not though a thousand more adorn The polished brow where once you shone, Like rays which guild a cloudless sky [i] Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 1806. [Footnote 1: These lines are preserved in MS. at Newstead, with the following memorandum in Miss Pigot's handwriting: "Copied from the fly-leaf in a vol. of my Burns' books, which is written in pencil by himself." They have hitherto been printed as stanzas 5 and 6 of the lines "To a Lady," etc., p. 212.] [Footnote i: _a cloudless morn_. ['Ed'. 1832.] STANZAS TO JESSY. [1] 1 There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreath'd with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both, or none. 2 There is a Form on which these eyes Have fondly gazed with such delight-- By day, that Form their joy supplies, And Dreams restore it, through the night. 3 There is a Voice whose tones inspire Such softened feelings in my breast, [i]-- I would not hear a Seraph Choir, Unless that voice could join the rest. 4 There is a Face whose Blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek, But pallid at our fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. 5 There is a Lip, which mine has prest, But none had ever prest before; It vowed to make me sweetly blest, That mine alone should press it more. [ii] 6 There is a Bosom all my own, Has pillow'd oft this aching head, A Mouth which smiles on me alone, An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed. 7 There are two Hearts whose movements thrill, In unison so closely sweet, That Pulse to Pulse responsive still They Both must heave, or cease to beat. 8 There are two Souls, whose equal flow In gentle stream so calmly run, That when they part--they part?--ah no! They cannot part--those Souls are One. [GEORGE GORDON, LORD] BYRON. [Footnote 1: "Stanzas to Jessy" have often been printed, but were never acknowledged by Byron, or included in any authorized edition of his works. They are, however, unquestionably genuine. They appeared first in 'Monthly Literary Recreations' (July, 1807), a magazine published by B. Crosby & Co., Stationers' Court. Crosby was London agent for Ridge, the Newark bookseller, and, with Longman and others, "sold" the recently issued 'Hours of Idleness'. The same number of 'Monthly Literary Recreations' (for July, 1807) contains Byron's review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' (2 vols., 1807), and a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of Idleness'. The lines are headed "Stanzas to Jessy," and are signed "George Gordon, Lord Byron." They were republished in 1824, by Knight and Lacy, in vol. v. of the three supplementary volumes of the 'Works', and again in the same year by John Bumpus and A. Griffin, in their 'Miscellaneous Poems', etc. A note which is prefixed to these issues, "The following stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few months before their separation," and three variants in the text, make it unlikely that the pirating editors were acquainted with the text of the magazine. The MS. ('British Museum', Eg. MSS. No. 2332) is signed "George Gordon, Lord Byron," but the words "George Gordon, Lord" are in another hand, and were probably added by Crosby. The following letter (together with a wrapper addressed, "Mr. Crosby, Stationers' Court," and sealed in red wax with Byron's arms and coronet) is attached to the poem:-- July 21, 1807. SIR, I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas for Literary Recreations. The insertion I leave to the option of the Editors. They have never appeared before. I should wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy. Etc., etc., BYRON. P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."] [Footnote i: 'Such thrills of Rapture'. [Knight and Lacy, 1824, v. 56.] [Footnote ii: 'And mine, mine only'. [Knight and Lacy, v. 56.]] THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. 1. Adieu, thou Hill! [1] where early joy Spread roses o'er my brow; Where Science seeks each loitering boy With knowledge to endow. Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, Partners of former bliss or woes; No more through Ida's paths we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell Unconscious of the day. 2. Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, [i] Ye spires of Granta's vale, Where Learning robed in sable reigns. And Melancholy pale. Ye comrades of the jovial hour, Ye tenants of the classic bower, On Cama's verdant margin plac'd, Adieu! while memory still is mine, For offerings on Oblivion's shrine, These scenes must be effac'd. 3 Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth From you, ye regions of the North, With sons of Pride to roam? Why did I quit my Highland cave, Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, To seek a Sotheron home? 4 Hall of my Sires! a long farewell-- Yet why to thee adieu? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall, Forgets its wonted simple note-- But yet the Lyre retains the strings, And sometimes, on Æolian wings, In dying strains may float. 5. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, [2] While yet I linger here, Adieu! you are not now forgot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet! [3] along whose rippling surge My youthful limbs were wont to urge, At noontide heat, their pliant course; Plunging with ardour from the shore, Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, Deprived of active force. 6. And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; Yet Mary, [4] all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, To me in smiles display'd; Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade. 7. And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above Description's power of words! Still near my breast thy gift [5] I wear [ii] Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, Of Love the pure, the sacred gem: Our souls were equal, and our lot In that dear moment quite forgot; Let Pride alone condemn! 8. All, all is dark and cheerless now! No smile of Love's deceit Can warm my veins with wonted glow, Can bid Life's pulses beat: Not e'en the hope of future fame Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Mine is a short inglorious race,-- To humble in the dust my face, And mingle with the dead. 9. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; On him who gains thy praise, Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, Consumed in Glory's blaze; But me she beckons from the earth, My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, My life a short and vulgar dream: Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud, My fate is Lethe's stream. 10. When I repose beneath the sod, Unheeded in the clay, Where once my playful footsteps trod, Where now my head must lay, [6] The meed of Pity will be shed In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown. 11. Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; To Him address thy trembling prayer: He, who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Although His meanest care. 12. Father of Light! to Thee I call; My soul is dark within: Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert the death of sin. Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die. [iii] 1807. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote 1: Harrow. ] [Footnote 2: Mrs. Pigot's Cottage.] [Footnote 3: The river Grete, at Southwell.] [Footnote 4: Mary Chaworth.] [Footnote 5: Compare the verses on "The Cornelian," p. 66, and "Pignus Amoris," p. 231.] [Footnote 6: See note to "Pignus Amoris," st. 3, l. 3, p. 232.] [Footnote i: '--ye regal Towers'. ['MS. Newstead'.] ] [Footnote ii: 'The gift I wear'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: 'And since I must forbear to live, Instruct me how to die.' ['MS. Newstead'] TO----[1] 1. Oh! well I know your subtle Sex, Frail daughters of the wanton Eve,-- While jealous pangs our Souls perplex, No passion prompts you to relieve. 2 From Love, or Pity ne'er you fall, By _you_, no mutual Flame is felt, "Tis Vanity, which rules you all, Desire alone which makes you melt. 3 I will not say no _souls_ are yours, Aye, ye have Souls, and dark ones too, Souls to contrive those smiling lures, To snare our simple hearts for you. 4 Yet shall you never bind me fast, Long to adore such brittle toys, I'll rove along, from first to last, And change whene'er my fancy cloys. 5 Oh! I should be a _baby_ fool, To sigh the dupe of female art-- Woman! perhaps thou hast a _Soul_, But where have _Demons_ hid thy _Heart_? January, 1807. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] ON THE EYES OF MISS A----H----[1] Anne's Eye is liken'd to the _Sun_, From it such Beams of Beauty fall; And _this_ can be denied by none, For like the _Sun_, it shines on _All_. Then do not admiration smother, Or say these glances don't become her; To _you_, or _I_, or _any other_ Her _Sun_, displays perpetual Summer. [2] January 14, 1807. [Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson. From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] [Footnote 2: Compare, for the same simile, the lines "To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," p. 187, 'ante'.] TO A VAIN LADY. [1] 1 Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears; Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears? 2 Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said Of those who spoke but to beguile. 3 Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh, If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly, Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 4 Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, If thou canst venture to believe. 5 While now amongst thy female peers Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers Duplicity in vain would veil? 6 These tales in secret silence hush, Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? 7. Will not the laughing boy despise Her who relates each fond conceit-- Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit? 8. For she who takes a soft delight These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write, While vanity prevents concealing. 9. Cease, if you prize your Beauty's reign! No jealousy bids me reprove: One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love. January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote 1: To A Young Lady (Miss Anne Houson) whose vanity induced her to repeat the compliments paid her by some young men of her acquaintance.--'MS. Newstead_'.] TO ANNE. [1] 1. Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous: I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you; But Woman is made to command and deceive us-- I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 2. I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, Yet thought that a day's separation was long; When we met, I determined again to suspect you-- Your smile soon convinced me _suspicion_ was wrong. 3. I swore, in a transport of young indignation, With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you--my _anger_ became _admiration_; And now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you. 4. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention! Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;-- At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you! January 16, 1807. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote 1: Miss Anne Houson.] EGOTISM. A LETTER TO J. T. BECHER. [1] [Greek: Heauton bur_on aeidei.] 1. If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow, (Though much _I_ hope she will _postpone_ it,) I've held a share _Joy_ and _Sorrow_, Enough for _Ten_; and _here_ I _own_ it. 2. I've lived, as many others live, And yet, I think, with more enjoyment; For could I through my days again live, I'd pass them in the 'same' employment. 3. That 'is' to say, with 'some exception', For though I will not make confession, I've seen too much of man's deception Ever again to trust profession. 4. Some sage 'Mammas' with gesture haughty, Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner-- But 'Daughters' say, "although he's naughty, You must not check a 'Young Beginner'!" 5. I've loved, and many damsels know it-- But whom I don't intend to mention, As 'certain stanzas' also show it, 'Some' say 'deserving Reprehension'. 6. Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery, (Unless Report does much belie them,) Have lately made a sharp Enquiry, And much it 'grieves' me to 'deny' them. 7. Two whom I lov'd had 'eyes' of 'Blue', To which I hope you've no objection; The 'Rest' had eyes of 'darker Hue'-- Each Nymph, of course, was 'all perfection'. 8. But here I'll close my 'chaste' Description, Nor say the deeds of animosity; For 'silence' is the best prescription, To 'physic' idle curiosity. 9. Of 'Friends' I've known a 'goodly Hundred'-- For finding 'one' in each acquaintance, By 'some deceived', by others plunder'd, 'Friendship', to me, was not 'Repentance'. 10. At 'School' I thought like other 'Children'; Instead of 'Brains', a fine Ingredient, 'Romance', my 'youthful Head bewildering', To 'Sense' had made me disobedient. 11. A victim, 'nearly' from affection, To certain 'very precious scheming', The still remaining recollection Has 'cured' my 'boyish soul' of 'Dreaming'. 12. By Heaven! I rather would forswear The Earth, and all the joys reserved me, Than dare again the 'specious Snare', From which 'my Fate' and 'Heaven preserved' me. 13. Still I possess some Friends who love me-- In each a much esteemed and true one; The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me To quit their Friendship, for a new one. 14. But Becher! you're a 'reverend pastor', Now take it in consideration, Whether for penance I should fast, or Pray for my 'sins' in expiation. 15. I own myself the child of 'Folly', But not so wicked as they make me-- I soon must die of melancholy, If 'Female' smiles should e'er forsake me. 16. 'Philosophers' have 'never doubted', That 'Ladies' Lips' were made for 'kisses!' For 'Love!' I could not live without it, For such a 'cursed' place as 'This is'. 17. Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven! If you don't warrant my salvation, I must resign all 'Hopes' of 'Heaven'! For, 'Faith', I can't withstand Temptation. P.S.--These were written between one and two, after 'midnight'. I have not 'corrected', or 'revised'. Yours, BYRON. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] TO ANNE. [1] 1 Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,-- To bear me from Love and from Beauty for ever. 2. Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown, Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 3. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwin'd, The rage of the tempest united must weather; My love and my life were by nature design'd To flourish alike, or to perish together. 4. Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu: Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His Soul, his Existence, are centred in you. 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'" 1. Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why we should weep I can't find out, Unless for _thee_ we weep in pity. 2. Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it: For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 3. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May _once_ be read--but never after: Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. 4. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain-- If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.] ON FINDING A FAN. [1] 1. In one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same. 2. As when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their blaze in night. 3. Thus has it been with Passion's fires-- As many a boy and girl remembers-- While every hope of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 4. The _first_, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The _last_, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return. 5. Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) Its former warmth around another. 1807. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote 1: Of Miss A. H. (MS. Newstead).] FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. [i.] 1. Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 2. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 3. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return,--alas, never! 4. When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, [ii] What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 5. Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. 6. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? [iii] Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? 7. Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! 8. Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-- 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. 9. And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Since early affection and love is o'ercast: Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 10. Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; [iv] If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet-- The present--which seals our eternal Adieu. 1807. [First published, 1832.] [Footnote 1: 'Adieu to the Muse'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote ii: 'When cold is the form'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iii: --'whom I lived but to love'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Since we never can meet'. ['MS. Newstead'.]] TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. [1] 1. Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 2. Such, such was my hope, when in Infancy's years, On the land of my Fathers I rear'd thee with pride; They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,-- Thy decay, not the _weeds_ that surround thee can hide. 3. I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my Sire; Till Manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 4. Oh! hardy thou wert--even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal: But thou wert not fated affection to share-- For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel? 5. Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. 6. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are Life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. 7. Oh! yet, if Maturity's years may be thine, Though _I_ shall lie low in the cavern of Death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, [i] Uninjured by Time, or the rude Winter's breath. 8. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy Lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The Chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 9. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot; Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 10. And here, will they say, when in Life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of Time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [First published 1832.] ["Copied for Mr. Moore, Jan. 24, 1828."--Note by Miss Pigot.] [Footnote 1: There is no heading to the original MS., but on the blank leaf at the end of the poem is written, "To an oak in the garden of Newstead Abbey, planted by the author in the 9th year of [his] age; this tree at his last visit was in a state of decay, though perhaps not irrecoverable." On arriving at Newstead, in 1798, Byron, then in his eleventh year, planted an oak, and cherished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the oak choked up by weeds and almost destroyed;--hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman took possession, he said to a servant, "Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place." "I hope not, sir, "replied the man, "for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." _Life_, p. 50, note.] [Footnote i: _For ages may shine_. [_MS. Newstead_]] ON REVISITING HARROW. [1] 1. Here once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record simply trac'd; Few were her words,--but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defac'd. 2. Deeply she cut--but not eras'd-- The characters were still so plain, That Friendship once return'd, and gaz'd,-- Till Memory hail'd the words again. 3. Repentance plac'd them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more, That Friendship thought it still the same. 4. Thus might the Record now have been; But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever. September, 1807. [First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 102.] [Footnote 1: "Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imaginary injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas." Moore's 'Life, etc.', i. 102.]] TO MY SON. [1] 1. Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue Bright as thy mother's in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! 2. And thou canst lisp a father's name-- Ah, William, were thine own the same,-- No self-reproach--but, let me cease-- My care for thee shall purchase peace; Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my Boy! 3. Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And thou hast known a stranger's breast; Derision sneers upon thy birth, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Yet shall not these one hope destroy,-- A Father's heart is thine, my Boy! 4. Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Must I fond Nature's claims disown? Ah, no--though moralists reprove, I hail thee, dearest child of Love, Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy-- A Father guards thy birth, my Boy! 5. Oh,'twill be sweet in thee to trace, Ere Age has wrinkled o'er my face, Ere half my glass of life is run, At once a brother and a son; And all my wane of years employ In justice done to thee, my Boy! 6. Although so young thy heedless sire, Youth will not damp parental fire; And, wert thou still less dear to me, While Helen's form revives in thee, The breast, which beat to former joy, Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy! 1807. [First published in Moore's 'Life and Letters, etc.', 1830, i. 104.] [Footnote 1: For a reminiscence of what was, possibly, an actual event, see 'Don Juan', canto xvi. st. 61. He told Lady Byron that he had two natural children, whom he should provide for.] QUERIES TO CASUISTS. [1] The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning, And always are prating about and about it, But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning, Say, what would Existence itself be without it? They argue the point with much furious Invective, Though perhaps 'twere no difficult task to confute it; But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective, Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it? BYRON. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. (watermark 1805) at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] SONG.[1] 1. Breeze of the night in gentler sighs More softly murmur o'er the pillow; For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes, And Peace must never shun her pillow. 2. Or breathe those sweet Æolian strains Stolen from celestial spheres above, To charm her ear while some remains, And soothe her soul to dreams of love. 3. But Breeze of night again forbear, In softest murmurs only sigh: Let not a Zephyr's pinion dare To lift those auburn locks on high. 4. Chill is thy Breath, thou breeze of night! Oh! ruffle not those lids of Snow; For only Morning's cheering light May wake the beam that lurks below. 5. Blest be that lip and azure eye! Sweet Fanny, hallowed be thy Sleep! Those lips shall never vent a sigh, Those eyes may never wake to weep. February 23rd, 1808. [Footnote 1: From the MS. in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.] TO HARRIET. [1] 1. Harriet! to see such Circumspection, [2] In Ladies I have no objection Concerning what they read; An ancient Maid's a sage adviser, Like _her_, you will be much the wiser, In word, as well as Deed. 2. But Harriet, I don't wish to flatter, And really think 't would make the matter More perfect if not quite, If other Ladies when they preach, Would certain Damsels also teach More cautiously to write. [Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.] [Footnote 2: See the poem "To Marion," and 'note', p. 129. It would seem that J. T. Becher addressed some flattering lines to Byron with reference to a poem concerning Harriet Maltby, possibly the lines "To Marion." The following note was attached by Miss Pigot to these stanzas, which must have been written on another occasion:-- "I saw Lord B. was _flattered_ by John Becher's lines, as he read 'Apollo', etc., with a peculiar smile and emphasis; so out of _fun_, to vex him a little, I said, '_Apollo!_ He _should_ have said _Apollyon_.' 'Elizabeth! for Heaven's sake don't say so again! I don't mind _you_ telling me so; but if any one _else_ got hold _of the word_, I should never hear the end of it.' So I laughed at him, and dropt it, for he was _red_ with agitation."] THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. [i] [1] 1. There was a time, I need not name, Since it will ne'er forgotten be, When all our feelings were the same As still my soul hath been to thee. 2. And from that hour when first thy tongue Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine, 3. None, none hath sunk so deep as this-- To think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss, But transient in thy breast alone. 4. And yet my heart some solace knew, When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true, Remembrance of the days that were. 5. Yes! my adored, yet most unkind! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find Remembrance of that love remain. [ii] 6. Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me, Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be, Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. June 10, 1808. [First published, 1809] [Footnote 1: This copy of verses, with eight others, originally appeared in a volume published in 1809 by J. C. Hobhouse, under the title of _Imitations and Translations, From the Ancient and Modern Classics, Together with Original Poems never before published_. The MS. is in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.] [Footnote i: _Stanzas to the Same_. [_Imit. and Transl._, p. 200.]] [Footnote ii: _The memory of that love again._ [MS. L.]] AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? [i] 1. And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so-- I would not give that bosom pain. 2. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 3. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine: And for a while my sorrows cease, To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 4. Oh lady! blessèd be that tear-- It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear [ii] To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 5. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft as thine; But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. 6. [iii] Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so-- I would not give that bosom pain. [1] Aug. 12, 1808. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote 1: It was in one of Byron's fits of melancholy that the following verses were addressed to him by his friend John Cam Hobhouse:-- EPISTLE TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE. Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame Inspires, and animates to deeds of fame; Who feel the noble wish before you die To raise the finger of each passer-by: Hail! may a future age admiring view A Falkland or a Clarendon in you. But as your blood with dangerous passion boils, Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils: Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart, And Wisdom's Ægis turn on Beauty's dart. * * * * * But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair, And you and Newstead must not want an heir, Lose not your pains, and scour the country round, To find a treasure that can ne'er be found! No! take the first the town or court affords, Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords; By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall On one, though wicked, not the worst of all: * * * * * One though perhaps as any Maxwell free, Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee; Not very ugly, and not very old, A little pert indeed, but not a scold; One that, in short, may help to lead a life Not farther much from comfort than from strife; And when she dies, and disappoints your fears, Shall leave some joys for your declining years. But, as your early youth some time allows, Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse, Some hours of freedom may remain as yet, For one who laughs alike at love and debt: Then, why in haste? put off the evil day, And snatch at youthful comforts while you may! Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego That single souls, and such alone, can know: Ah! why too early careless life resign, Your morning slumber, and your evening wine; Your loved companion, and his easy talk; Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk? What! can no more your scenes paternal please, Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease? The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down, Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own? What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers, The high o'erhanging arch and trembling towers! Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife, An ever fond, or ever angry wife! Shall these no more confess a manly sway, But changeful woman's changing whims obey? Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls, Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls; Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground, Change round to square, and square convert to round; Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom, And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room; Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre, Where gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare; And quite transform, in every point complete, Your Gothic abbey to a country seat. Forget the fair one, and your fate delay; If not avert, at least defer the day, When you beneath the female yoke shall bend, And lose your _wit_, your _temper_, and your _friend_. [A] Trin. Coll. Camb., 1808.] [Sub-Footnote A: In his mother's copy of Hobhouse's volume, Byron has written with a pencil, "_I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly_. 1811. B."] [Footnote i: Stanzas. [MS. L.] To the Same. [Imit. and Transl., p 202.]] [Footnote ii: For one whose life is torment here, And only in the dust may sleep. [MS. L.]] [Footnote iii: The MS. inserts-- Lady I will not tell my tale For it would rend thy melting heart; 'Twere pity sorrow should prevail O'er one so gentle as thou art. [MS. L.]] REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. [i] 1. Remind me not, remind me not, Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, When all my soul was given to thee; Hours that may never be forgot, Till Time unnerves our vital powers, And thou and I shall cease to be. 2. Can I forget--canst thou forget, When playing with thy golden hair, How quick thy fluttering heart did move? Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet, With eyes so languid, breast so fair, And lips, though silent, breathing love. 3. When thus reclining on my breast, Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire, And still we near and nearer prest, And still our glowing lips would meet, As if in kisses to expire. 4. And then those pensive eyes would close, And bid their lids each other seek, Veiling the azure orbs below; While their long lashes' darken'd gloss Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 5. I dreamt last night our love return'd, And, sooth to say, that very dream Was sweeter in its phantasy, Than if for other hearts I burn'd, For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam In Rapture's wild reality. 6. Then tell me not, remind me not, [ii] Of hours which, though for ever gone, Can still a pleasing dream restore, [iii] Till thou and I shall be forgot, And senseless, as the mouldering stone Which tells that we shall be no more. Aug. 13, 1808. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote i: _A Love Song. To----. [Imit. and Transl., p. 197.] [Footnote ii: _Remind me not, remind me not_. [MS. L.] ] [Footnote iii: _Must still_. [MS. L.] ] TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. [i] 1. Few years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And Childhood's gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. [ii] 2. But now, like me, too well thou know'st [iii] What trifles oft the heart recall; And those who once have loved the most Too soon forget they lov'd at all. [iv] 3. And such the change the heart displays, So frail is early friendship's reign, [v] A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, Will view thy mind estrang'd again. [vi] 4. If so, it never shall be mine To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, Which made thee fickle as thou art. 5. As rolls the Ocean's changing tide, So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide Where stormy passions ever glow? 6. It boots not that, together bred, Our childish days were days of joy: My spring of life has quickly fled; Thou, too, hast ceas'd to be a boy. 7. And when we bid adieu to youth, Slaves to the specious World's controul, We sigh a long farewell to truth; That World corrupts the noblest soul. 8. Ah, joyous season! when the mind [1] Dares all things boldly but to lie; When Thought ere spoke is unconfin'd, And sparkles in the placid eye. 9. Not so in Man's maturer years, When Man himself is but a tool; When Interest sways our hopes and fears, And all must love and hate by rule. 10. With fools in kindred vice the same, [vii] We learn at length our faults to blend; And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend. 11. Such is the common lot of man: Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, Nor be what all in turn must be? 12. No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been; Man and the World so much I hate, I care not when I quit the scene. 13. But thou, with spirit frail and light, Wilt shine awhile, and pass away; As glow-worms sparkle through the night, But dare not stand the test of day. 14. Alas! whenever Folly calls Where parasites and princes meet, (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet,) 15. Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add One insect to the fluttering crowd; And still thy trifling heart is glad To join the vain and court the proud. 16. There dost thou glide from fair to fair, Still simpering on with eager haste, As flies along the gay parterre, That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 17. But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along from dame to dame, An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? 18. What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd, Will deign to own a kindred care? Who will debase his manly mind, For friendship every fool may share? 19. In time forbear; amidst the throng No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along; Be something, any thing, but--mean. August 20th, 1808. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote 1: Stanzas 8-9 are not in the _MS_.] [Footnote i: 'To Sir W. D., on his using the expression, "Soyes constant en amitie."' [MS. L.] ] [Footnote ii: 'Twere well my friend if still with thee Through every scene of joy and woe, That thought could ever cherish'd be As warm as it was wont to glow. [MS. L] ] [Footnote iii: _And yet like me._ [MS. L.] ] [Footnote iv: _Forget they ever._ [MS. L. _Imit. and Transl_., p. 185.] ] [Footnote v: _So short._ [MS. L.] ] [Footnote vi: _...a day Will send my friendship back again._ [MS. L.] [Footnote vii: _Each fool whose vices are the same Whose faults with ours may blend._ [_MS. L._]] LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. [1] 1. Start not--nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull. 2. I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee: I died: let earth my bones resign; Fill up--thou canst not injure me; The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 3. Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 4. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, In aid of others' let me shine; And when, alas! our brains are gone, What nobler substitute than wine? 5. Quaff while thou canst: another race, When thou and thine, like me, are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead. 6. Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808. [First published in the seventh edition of 'Childe Harold'.] [Footnote 1: Byron gave Medwin the following account of this cup:--"The gardener in digging [discovered] a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was dis-monasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshell."--Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 87.] WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. [i] [1] 1. Well! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do. 2. Thy husband's blest--and 'twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: [ii] But let them pass--Oh! how my heart Would hate him if he loved thee not! 3. When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smil'd, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 4. I kiss'd it,--and repress'd my sighs Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother's eyes, And they were all to love and me. 5. [iii] Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. 6. I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side, My heart in all,--save hope,--the same. 7. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime-- We met,--and not a nerve was shook. 8. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. 9. Away! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart be still, or break. November, 1808. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote 1: These lines were written after dining at Annesley with Mr. and Mrs. Chaworth Musters. Their daughter, born 1806, and now Mrs. Hamond, of Westacre, Norfolk, is still (January, 1898) living.] [Footnote i: _To Mrs.----_[erased]. [_MS. L._] _To-----_. [_Imit. and Transl_. Hobhouse, 1809.] ] [Footnote ii: _Some pang to see my rival's lot._ [_MS. L._] ] [Footnote iii: MS. L. inserts-- _Poor little pledge of mutual love, I would not hurt a hair of thee, Although thy birth should chance to prove Thy parents' bliss--my misery._] INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. [1] When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe And storied urns record who rest below: When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth-- Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven. Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a Friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,--and here he lies. [i] Newstead Abbey, October 30, 1808. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote 1: This monument is placed in the garden of Newstead. A prose inscription precedes the verses:-- "Near this spot Are deposited the Remains of one Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery If inscribed over human ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a Dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend Hodgson:--"Boatswain is dead!--he expired in a state of madness on the 18th after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray." In the will which the poet executed in 1811, he desired to be buried in the vault with his dog, and Joe Murray was to have the honour of making one of the party. When the poet was on his travels, a gentleman, to whom Murray showed the tomb, said, "Well, old boy, you will take your place here some twenty years hence." "I don't know that, sir," replied Joe; "if I was sure his lordship would come here I should like it well enough, but I should not like to lie alone with the dog."--'Life', pp. 73, 131.] [Footnote i: _I knew but one unchang'd--and here he lies.-- [_Imit. and Transl_., p. 191.] ] TO A LADY, [1] ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. [i] 1. When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, A moment linger'd near the gate, Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, And bade him curse his future fate. 2. But, wandering on through distant climes, He learnt to bear his load of grief; Just gave a sigh to other times, And found in busier scenes relief. 3. Thus, Lady! will it be with me, [ii] And I must view thy charms no more; For, while I linger near to thee, I sigh for all I knew before. 4. In flight I shall be surely wise, Escaping from temptation's snare: I cannot view my Paradise Without the wish of dwelling there. [iii] [2] December 2, 1808. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote 1: Byron had written to his mother on November 2, 1808, announcing his intention of sailing for India in the following March. See 'Childe Harold', canto i. st. 3. See also Letter to Hodgson, Nov. 27, 1808.] [Footnote 2: In an unpublished letter of Byron to----, dated within a few days of his final departure from Italy to Greece, in 1823, he writes: "Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years when an occasion offered to me, January, 1814. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. 'For,' said she, 'if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, 'et cela fera un éclat''."] [Footnote i: 'The Farewell To a Lady.' ['Imit. and Transl.'] [Footnote ii: 'Thus Mary!' (Mrs. Musters). ['MS'.] [Footnote iii: 'Without a wish to enter there.' ['Imit. and Transl'., p. 196.] ] FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. [i] A SONG. 1. Fill the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. 2. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have lov'd!--who has not?--but what heart can declare That Pleasure existed while Passion was there? 3. In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that Affection can never take wing, I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 4. The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change; Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? 5. Yet if blest to the utmost that Love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous!--who's not?--thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 6. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 7. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenc'd over Mirth, Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 8. Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote i: 'Song'. ['Imit. and Transl'., p. 204.] STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. [i] 1. Tis done--and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone, Because I cannot love but one. 2. But could I be what I have been, And could I see what I have seen-- Could I repose upon the breast Which once my warmest wishes blest-- I should not seek another zone, Because I cannot love but one. 3. 'Tis long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, Never to think of it again: For though I fly from Albion, I still can only love but one. 4. As some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And ev'n in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one. 5. And I will cross the whitening foam, And I will seek a foreign home; Till I forget a false fair face, I ne'er shall find a resting-place; My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one. 6. The poorest, veriest wretch on earth Still finds some hospitable hearth, Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow May smile in joy or soothe in woe; But friend or leman I have none, [ii] Because I cannot love but one. 7. I go--but wheresoe'er I flee There's not an eye will weep for me; There's not a kind congenial heart, Where I can claim the meanest part; Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 8. To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, Would whelm some softer hearts with woe-- But mine, alas! has stood the blow; Yet still beats on as it begun, And never truly loves but one. 9. And who that dear lov'd one may be, Is not for vulgar eyes to see; And why that early love was cross'd, Thou know'st the best, I feel the most; But few that dwell beneath the sun Have loved so long, and loved but one. 10. I've tried another's fetters too, With charms perchance as fair to view; And I would fain have loved as well, But some unconquerable spell Forbade my bleeding breast to own A kindred care for aught but one. 11. 'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, And bless thee in my last adieu; Yet wish I not those eyes to weep For him that wanders o'er the deep; His home, his hope, his youth are gone, [iii] Yet still he loves, and loves but one. [iv] 1809. [First published, 1809.] [Footnote i: 'To Mrs. Musters.' ['MS.'] 'To----on Leaving England.' ['Imit. and Transl.', p. 227.] [Footnote ii: 'But friend or lover I have none'. ['Imit. and Transl'., p. 229.]] [Footnote iii: 'Though wheresoever my bark may run, I love but thee, I love but one.' ['Imit. and Transl.', p. 230.] 'The land recedes his Bark is gone, Yet still he loves and laves but one.' [MS.] [Footnote iv: 'Yet far away he loves but one.' [MS.] ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS; A SATIRE. BY LORD BYRON. "I had rather be a kitten, and cry, mew! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." SHAKESPEARE. "Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true, There are as mad, abandon'd Critics, too." POPE. PREFACE [1] All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain" I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none 'personally', who did not commence on the offensive. An Author's works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the Authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if 'possible', to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this Edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingenious friend of mine, [2] who has now in the press a volume of Poetry. In the present Edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner,--a determination not to publish with my name any production, which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With [3] regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of opinion in the Public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the Author that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered; as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.--As to the' Edinburgh Reviewers', it would indeed require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in merely "bruising one of the heads of the serpent" though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. [Footnote 1: The Preface, as it is here printed, was prefixed to the Second, Third, and Fourth Editions of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The preface to the First Edition began with the words, "With regard to the real talents," etc. The text of the poem follows that of the suppressed Fifth Edition, which passed under Byron's own supervision, and was to have been issued in 1812. From that Edition the Preface was altogether excluded. In an annotated copy of the Fourth Edition, of 1811, underneath the note, "This preface was written for the Second Edition, and printed with it. The noble author had left this country previous to the publication of that Edition, and is not yet returned," Byron wrote, in 1816, "He is, and gone again."--MS. Notes from this volume, which is now in Mr. Murray's possession, are marked--B., 1816.] [Footnote 2: John Cam Hobhouse.] [Footnote 3: Preface to the First Edition.] INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. The article upon 'Hours of Idleness' "which Lord Brougham ... after denying it for thirty years, confessed that he had written" ('Notes from a Diary', by Sir M. E. Grant Duff, 1897, ii. 189), was published in the 'Edinburgh Review' of January, 1808. 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' did not appear till March, 1809. The article gave the opportunity for the publication of the satire, but only in part provoked its composition. Years later, Byron had not forgotten its effect on his mind. On April 26, 1821, he wrote to Shelley: "I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem: it was rage and resistance and redress: but not despondency nor despair." And on the same date to Murray: "I know by experience that a savage review is hemlock to a sucking author; and the one on me (which produced the 'English Bards', etc.) knocked me down, but I got up again," etc. It must, however, be remembered that Byron had his weapons ready for an attack before he used them in defence. In a letter to Miss Pigot, dated October 26, 1807, he says that "he has written one poem of 380 lines to be published in a few weeks with notes. The poem ... is a Satire." It was entitled 'British Bards', and finally numbered 520 lines. With a view to publication, or for his own convenience, it was put up in type and printed in quarto sheets. A single copy, which he kept for corrections and additions, was preserved by Dallas, and is now in the British Museum. After the review appeared, he enlarged and recast the 'British Bards', and in March, 1809, the Satire was published anonymously. Byron was at no pains to conceal the authorship of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', and, before starting on his Pilgrimage, he had prepared a second and enlarged edition, which came out in October, 1809, with his name prefixed. Two more editions were called for in his absence, and on his return he revised and printed a fifth, when he suddenly resolved to suppress the work. On his homeward voyage he expressed, in a letter to Dallas, June 28, 1811, his regret at having written the Satire. A year later he became intimate, among others, with Lord and Lady Holland, whom he had assailed on the supposition that they were the instigators of the article in the 'Edinburgh Review', and on being told by Rogers that they wished the Satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders to his publisher, Cawthorn, to burn the whole impression. A few copies escaped the flames. One of two copies retained by Dallas, which afterwards belonged to Murray, and is now in his grandson's possession, was the foundation of the text of 1831, and of all subsequent issues. Another copy which belonged to Dallas is retained in the British Museum. Towards the close of the last century there had been an outburst of satirical poems, written in the style of the 'Dunciad' and its offspring the 'Rosciad', Of these, Gifford's 'Baviad' and 'Maviad' (1794-5), and T. J. Mathias' 'Pursuits of Literature' (1794-7), were the direct progenitors of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', The 'Rolliad' (1794), the 'Children of Apollo' (circ. 1794), Canning's 'New Morality' (1798), and Wolcot's coarse but virile lampoons, must also be reckoned among Byron's earlier models. The ministry of "All the Talents" gave rise to a fresh batch of political 'jeux d'ésprits', and in 1807, when Byron was still at Cambridge, the air was full of these ephemera. To name only a few, 'All the Talents', by Polypus (Eaton Stannard Barrett), was answered by 'All the Blocks, an antidote to All the Talents', by Flagellum (W. H. Ireland); 'Elijah's Mantle, a tribute to the memory of the R. H. William Pitt', by James Sayer, the caricaturist, provoked 'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on ... Elijah's Mantle'. 'The Simpliciad, A Satirico-Didactic Poem', and Lady Anne Hamilton's 'Epics of the Ton', are also of the same period. One and all have perished, but Byron read them, and in a greater or less degree they supplied the impulse to write in the fashion of the day. 'British Bards' would have lived, but, unquestionably, the spur of the article, a year's delay, and, above all, the advice and criticism of his friend Hodgson, who was at work on his 'Gentle Alterative for the Reviewers', 1809 (for further details, see vol. i., 'Letters', Letter 102, 'note' 1), produced the brilliant success of the enlarged satire. 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' was recognized at once as a work of genius. It has intercepted the popularity of its great predecessors, who are often quoted, but seldom read. It is still a popular poem, and appeals with fresh delight to readers who know the names of many of the "bards" only because Byron mentions them, and count others whom he ridicules among the greatest poets of the century. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. [1] Still [2] must I hear?--shall hoarse [3] FITZGERALD bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my _Muse?_ Prepare for rhyme--I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. [i] Oh! Nature's noblest gift--my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! 10 The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose; Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride, The Lover's solace, and the Author's pride. What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemned at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! [ii] Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 20 Our task complete, like Hamet's [4] shall be free; Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me: Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, No Eastern vision, no distempered dream [5] Inspires--our path, though full of thorns, is plain; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, Obey'd by all who nought beside obey; [iii] When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime; [iv] 30 When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; [v] E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law. Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. [vi] 40 Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame, The cry is up, and scribblers are my game: Speed, Pegasus!--ye strains of great and small, Ode! Epic! Elegy!--have at you all! I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time I poured along the town a flood of rhyme, A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame; I printed--older children do the same. 50 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't. Not that a Title's sounding charm can save [vii] Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This LAMB [6] must own, since his patrician name Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame. [7] No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, [8] Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same road, but make my own review: 60 Not seek great JEFFREY'S, yet like him will be Self-constituted Judge of Poesy. A man must serve his time to every trade Save Censure--Critics all are ready made. Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, [9] got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault; A turn for punning--call it Attic salt; To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 70 Fear not to lie,'twill seem a _sharper_ hit; [viii] Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest, And stand a Critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment? no--as soon Seek roses in December--ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff, Believe a woman or an epitaph, Or any other thing that's false, before You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore; 80 Or yield one single thought to be misled By JEFFREY'S heart, or LAMB'S Boeotian head. [10] To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste; To these, when Authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law; While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare; [11] While such are Critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 90 Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our Bards and Censors are so much alike. Then should you ask me, [12] why I venture o'er The path which POPE and GIFFORD [13] trod before; If not yet sickened, you can still proceed; Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read. "But hold!" exclaims a friend,--"here's some neglect: This--that--and t'other line seem incorrect." What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got, And careless Dryden--"Aye, but Pye has not:"-- 100 Indeed!--'tis granted, faith!--but what care I? Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE. [14] Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days [15] Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourished side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew. Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE'S pure strain Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; 110 A polished nation's praise aspired to claim, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. Then CONGREVE'S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY'S melt; [16] For Nature then an English audience felt-- But why these names, or greater still, retrace, When all to feebler Bards resign their place? Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, When taste and reason with those times are past. 120 Now look around, and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works that please the age; This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of Bards can be complained of now. [ix] The loaded Press beneath her labour groans, [x] And Printers' devils shake their weary bones; While SOUTHEY'S Epics cram the creaking shelves, [xi] And LITTLE'S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves. [17] Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19] In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air! Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii] Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal, And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140 Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20] Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; And Tales of Terror [21] jostle on the road; Immeasurable measures move along; For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150 To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels [22]--may they be the last!-- On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's [23] brood Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight. [xiv] The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170 And think'st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? [24] No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade, Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! [25] And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! 180 Such be their meed, such still the just reward [xv] Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "good night to Marmion." [26] These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow; While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot, Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT. The time has been, when yet the Muse was young, When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung, 190 An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name: The work of each immortal Bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. [27] Empires have mouldered from the face of earth, Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Not so with us, though minor Bards, content, [xvi] On one great work a life of labour spent: 200 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise! To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England and the boast of France! Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch, Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche; Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 210 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, [28] Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son; Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome, For ever reign--the rival of Tom Thumb! [29] Since startled Metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race! Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 220 Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, [30] and Prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! [31] cease thy varied song! A bard may chaunt too often and too long: As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 230 If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, [32] The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: "God help thee," SOUTHEY, [33] and thy readers too. Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, [34] That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" [35] 240 Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;" A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day [36] 250 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the "idiot in his glory" Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here, [37] To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, [38] 260 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass: So well the subject suits his noble mind, [xvii] He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. [xviii] Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! [39] Monk, or Bard, Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard! [xix] Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; 270 Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age; All hail, M.P.! [40] from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small grey men,"--"wild yagers," and what not, To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT: Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: 280 Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed? 'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 290 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more." [xx] For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, [41] And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, [xxi] 300 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, By dressing Camoëns [42] in a suit of lace? Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste; Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore, Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE. Behold--Ye Tarts!--one moment spare the text! [xxii]-- HAYLEY'S last work, and worst--until his next; 310 Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, [43] His style in youth or age is still the same, For ever feeble and for ever tame. Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine! At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine. Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear That luckless Music never triumph'd there. [44] Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward [45] On dull devotion--Lo! the Sabbath Bard, 320 Sepulchral GRAHAME, [46] pours his notes sublime In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme; Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, [xxiii] And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings" [xxiv] A thousand visions of a thousand things, And shows, still whimpering thro' threescore of years, [xxv] The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 330 And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! [47] Thou first, great oracle of tender souls? Whether them sing'st with equal ease, and grief, [xxvi] The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; Whether thy muse most lamentably tells What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, [xxvii] Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend In every chime that jingled from Ostend; Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap, If to thy bells thou would'st but add a cap! [xxviii] 340 Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest, All love thy strain, but children like it best. 'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE'S moral song, To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years: But in her teens thy whining powers are vain; She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE'S purer strain. Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine [xxix] The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350 "Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [48] Such as none heard before, or will again! Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. Nor this alone--but, pausing on the road, The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode, [xxx] [49] And gravely tells--attend, each beauteous Miss!-- When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 360 Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell, Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!--at least they sell. But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe: If 'chance some bard, though once by dunces feared, Now, prone in dust, can only be revered; If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, [xxxi] Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst, Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan; The first of poets was, alas! but man. 370 Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CURLL; [50] Let all the scandals of a former age Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page; Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, Clothe envy in a garb of honest zeal; Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, And do from hate what MALLET [51] did for hire. Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme; [52] 380 Thronged with the rest around his living head, Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, A meet reward had crowned thy glorious gains, And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. [53] Another Epic! Who inflicts again More books of blank upon the sons of men? Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast, Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, And sends his goods to market--all alive! Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! 390 Fresh fish from Hippocrene! [54] who'll buy? who'll buy? The precious bargain's cheap--in faith, not I. Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, [xxxii] Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat; If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain. In him an author's luckless lot behold! Condemned to make the books which once he sold. Oh, AMOS COTTLE!--Phoebus! what a name To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!-- 400 Oh, AMOS COTTLE! for a moment think What meagre profits spring from pen and ink! When thus devoted to poetic dreams, Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied! Had COTTLE [55] still adorned the counter's side, Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, Been taught to make the paper which he soils, Ploughed, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 410 As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond! heaves Dull MAURICE [56] all his granite weight of leaves: Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! The petrifactions of a plodding brain, That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale, Lo! sad Alcæus wanders down the vale; Though fair they rose, and might have bloomed at last, 420 His hopes have perished by the northern blast: Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales, His blossoms wither as the blast prevails! O'er his lost works let _classic_ SHEFFIELD weep; May no rude hand disturb their early sleep! [57] Yet say! why should the Bard, at once, resign [xxxiii] His claim to favour from the sacred Nine? For ever startled by the mingled howl Of Northern Wolves, that still in darkness prowl; A coward Brood, which mangle as they prey, 430 By hellish instinct, all that cross their way; Aged or young, the living or the dead," [xxxiv] No mercy find-these harpies must be fed. Why do the injured unresisting yield The calm possession of their native field? Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, Nor hunt the blood-hounds back to Arthur's Seat? [58] Health to immortal JEFFREY! once, in name, England could boast a judge almost the same; [59] In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 440 Some think that Satan has resigned his trust, And given the Spirit to the world again, To sentence Letters, as he sentenced men. With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, With voice as willing to decree the rack; Bred in the Courts betimes, though all that law As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw,-- Since well instructed in the patriot school To rail at party, though a party tool-- Who knows? if chance his patrons should restore 450 Back to the sway they forfeited before, His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, And raise this Daniel to the Judgment-Seat. [60] Let JEFFREY'S shade indulge the pious hope, And greeting thus, present him with a rope: "Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind! Skilled to condemn as to traduce mankind, This cord receive! for thee reserved with care, To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." Health to great JEFFREY! Heaven preserve his life, 460 To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, And guard it sacred in its future wars, Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars! Can none remember that eventful day, [xxxv] [61] That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray, When LITTLE'S leadless pistol met his eye, [62] And Bow-street Myrmidons stood laughing by? Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock, Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; Dark rolled the sympathetic waves of Forth, 470 Low groaned the startled whirlwinds of the north; TWEED ruffled half his waves to form a tear, The other half pursued his calm career; [63] ARTHUR'S steep summit nodded to its base, The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. The Tolbooth felt--for marble sometimes can, On such occasions, feel as much as man-- The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, If JEFFREY died, except within her arms: [64] Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 480 The sixteenth story, where himself was born, His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, And pale Edina shuddered at the sound: Strewed were the streets around with milk-white reams, Flowed all the Canongate with inky streams; This of his candour seemed the sable dew, That of his valour showed the bloodless hue; And all with justice deemed the two combined The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. But Caledonia's goddess hovered o'er 490 The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore; From either pistol snatched the vengeful lead, And straight restored it to her favourite's head; That head, with greater than magnetic power, Caught it, as Danäe caught the golden shower, And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. "My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again, Resign the pistol and resume the pen; O'er politics and poesy preside, 500 Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide! For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, So long shall last thine unmolested reign, Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. First in the oat-fed phalanx [65] shall be seen The travelled Thane, Athenian Aberdeen. [66] HERBERT shall wield THOR'S hammer, [67] and sometimes 510 In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes. Smug SYDNEY [68] too thy bitter page shall seek, And classic HALLAM, [69] much renowned for Greek; SCOTT may perchance his name and influence lend, And paltry PILLANS [70] shall traduce his friend; While gay Thalia's luckless votary, LAMB, [xxxvi] [71] Damned like the Devil--Devil-like will damn. Known be thy name! unbounded be thy sway! Thy HOLLAND'S banquets shall each toil repay! While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 520 To HOLLAND'S hirelings and to Learning's foes. Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review Spread its light wings of Saffron and of Blue, Beware lest blundering BROUGHAM [72] destroy the sale, Turn Beef to Bannocks, Cauliflowers to Kail." Thus having said, the kilted Goddess kist Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist. [73] Then prosper, JEFFREY! pertest of the train [74] Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain! Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 530 In double portion swells thy glorious lot; For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, And showers their odours on thy candid sheets, Whose Hue and Fragrance to thy work adhere-- This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear. [75] Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamoured grown, Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone, And, too unjust to other Pictish men, Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen! Illustrious HOLLAND! hard would be his lot, 540 His hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot! [76] HOLLAND, with HENRY PETTY [77] at his back, The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof [xxxvii] Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest HALLAM [78] lay aside his fork, Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, [xxxviii] 550 Declare his landlord can at least translate! [79] Dunedin! view thy children with delight, They write for food--and feed because they write: [xxxix] And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, My lady skims the cream of each critique; Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, Reforms each error, and refines the whole. [80] Now to the Drama turn--Oh! motley sight! 560 What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite: Puns, and a Prince within a barrel pent, [xl] [81] And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. [82] Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'er. [83] And full-grown actors are endured once more; Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, While British critics suffer scenes like these; While REYNOLDS vents his "'dammes!'" "poohs!" and "zounds!" [xli] [84] And common-place and common sense confounds? While KENNEY'S [85] "World"--ah! where is KENNEY'S wit? [xlii]-- 570 Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless Pit; And BEAUMONT'S pilfered Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words? [xliii] Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living Bard of merit?--none? Awake, GEORGE COLMAN! [86] CUMBERLAND, awake![87] Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake! Oh! SHERIDAN! if aught can move thy pen, 580 Let Comedy assume her throne again; [xliv] Abjure the mummery of German schools; Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; [88] Give, as thy last memorial to the age, One classic drama, and reform the stage. Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, Where GARRICK trod, and SIDDONS lives to tread? [xlv] [89] On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask, And HOOK conceal his heroes in a cask? [90] Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 590 From CHERRY, [91] SKEFFINGTON, [92] and Mother GOOSE? [xlvi] [93] While SHAKESPEARE, OTWAY, MASSINGER, forgot, On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim The rival candidates for Attic fame! In grim array though LEWIS' spectres rise, Still SKEFFINGTON and GOOSE divide the prize. And sure 'great' Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays Renowned alike; whose genius ne'er confines 600 Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; [xlvii] [94] Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on. While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene, Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, 610 Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame? Well may the nobles of our present race Watch each distortion of a NALDI'S face; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, And worship CATALANI's pantaloons, [95] Since their own Drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. [96] Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 620 To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down: Let wedded strumpets languish o'er DESHAYES, And bless the promise which his form displays; While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks Of hoary Marquises, and stripling Dukes: Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil; Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe; Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 630 Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng! Whet [97] not your scythe, Suppressors of our Vice! Reforming Saints! too delicately nice! By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave; And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. Or hail at once the patron and the pile Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! [98] Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 640 Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, Behold the new Petronius [99] of the day, [xlviii] Our arbiter of pleasure and of play! There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, The song from Italy, the step from France, The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and Lords combine: Each to his humour--Comus all allows; 650 Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made; In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, Nor think of Poverty, except "en masque," [100] When for the night some lately titled ass Appears the beggar which his grandsire was, The curtain dropped, the gay Burletta o'er, The audience take their turn upon the floor: Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 660 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap; The first in lengthened line majestic swim, The last display the free unfettered limb! Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair With art the charms which Nature could not spare; These after husbands wing their eager flight, Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. Oh! blest retreats of infamy and ease, Where, all forgotten but the power to please, Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 670 Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught: There the blithe youngster, just returned from Spain, Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; The jovial Caster's set, and seven's the Nick, Or--done!--a thousand on the coming trick! If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, And all your hope or wish is to expire, Here's POWELL'S [101] pistol ready for your life, And, kinder still, two PAGETS for your wife: [xlix] Fit consummation of an earthly race 680 Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, While none but menials o'er the bed of death, Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath; Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, To live like CLODIUS, [102] and like FALKLAND fall.[103] Truth! rouse some genuine Bard, and guide his hand To drive this pestilence from out the land. E'en I--least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skilled to know the right and choose the wrong, 690 Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost, To fight my course through Passion's countless host, [104] Whom every path of Pleasure's flow'ry way Has lured in turn, and all have led astray-- E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal: Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, "What art thou better, meddling fool, [105] than they?" And every Brother Rake will smile to see That miracle, a Moralist in me. 700 No matter--when some Bard in virtue strong, Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice, Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals From silly HAFIZ up to simple BOWLES, [106] Why should we call them from their dark abode, In Broad St. Giles's or Tottenham-Road? 710 Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square? [l] If things of Ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doomed to shun the public sight, What harm? in spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; MILES ANDREWS [107] still his strength in couplets try, And live in prologues, though his dramas die. Lords too are Bards: such things at times befall, And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. 720 Yet, did or Taste or Reason sway the times, Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes? [108] ROSCOMMON! [109] SHEFFIELD! [110] with your spirits fled, [111] No future laurels deck a noble head; No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile, The paralytic puling of CARLISLE. [li] [112] The puny schoolboy and his early lay Men pardon, if his follies pass away; But who forgives the Senior's ceaseless verse, Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 730 What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer! Lord, rhymester, petit-maître, pamphleteer! [113] So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had damned our sinking stage; But Managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!" Nor drugged their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, [lii] And case his volumes in congenial calf; Yes! doff that covering, where Morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. [114] 740 With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread: With you I war not: GIFFORD'S heavy hand Has crushed, without remorse, your numerous band. On "All the Talents" vent your venal spleen; [115] Want is your plea, let Pity be your screen. Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle [116] prove a Blanket too! One common Lethe waits each hapless Bard, And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. 750 Such damning fame; as Dunciads only give [liii] Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in blest repose. Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely ROSA'S prose in masquerade, Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, Leave wondering comprehension far behind. [117] Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, [118] Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still; 760 Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, [liv] Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; And Merry's [119] metaphors appear anew, Chained to the signature of O. P. Q. [120] When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds applaud! How ladies read, and Literati laud! [121] 770 If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 'Tis sheer ill-nature--don't the world know best? Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, And CAPEL LOFFT [122] declares 'tis quite sublime. Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade! Lo! BURNS and BLOOMFIELD, nay, a greater far, GIFFORD was born beneath an adverse star, Forsook the labours of a servile state, Stemmed the rude storm, and triumphed over Fate: 780 Then why no more? if Phoebus smiled on you, BLOOMFIELD! why not on brother Nathan too? [123] Him too the Mania, not the Muse, has seized; Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: And now no Boor can seek his last abode, No common be inclosed without an ode. Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile On Britain's sons, and bless our genial Isle, Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 790 Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong, Compose at once a slipper and a song; So shall the fair your handywork peruse, Your sonnets sure shall please--perhaps your shoes. May Moorland weavers [124] boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats. To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, [lv] Neglected Genius! let me turn to you. 800 Come forth, oh CAMPBELL! give thy talents scope; Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope? And thou, melodious ROGERS! rise at last, Recall the pleasing memory of the past; [125] Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire, And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre; Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, Assert thy country's honour and thine own. What! must deserted Poesy still weep Where her last hopes with pious COWPER sleep? 810 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, BURNS! No! though contempt hath marked the spurious brood, The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, Who, least affecting, still affect the most: [lvi] Feel as they write, and write but as they feel-- Bear witness GIFFORD, [126] SOTHEBY, [127] MACNEIL. [128] "Why slumbers GIFFORD?" once was asked in vain; Why slumbers GIFFORD? let us ask again. [129] 820 Are there no follies for his pen to purge? Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge? Are there no sins for Satire's Bard to greet? Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street? Shall Peers or Princes tread pollution's path, And 'scape alike the Laws and Muse's wrath? Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, Eternal beacons of consummate crime? Arouse thee, GIFFORD! be thy promise claimed, Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 830 Unhappy WHITE! [130] while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, The Spoiler swept that soaring Lyre away, [lvii] [131] Which else had sounded an immortal lay. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroyed her favourite son! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low: 840 So the struck Eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. There be who say, in these enlightened days, That splendid lies are all the poet's praise; 850 That strained Invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern Bard to sing: Tis true, that all who rhyme--nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to Genius--Trite; Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact in Virtue's name let CRABBE [132] attest; Though Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best. And here let SHEE [133] and Genius find a place, Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 860 To guide whose hand the sister Arts combine, And trace the Poet's or the Painter's line; Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow; While honours, doubly merited, attend [lviii] The Poet's rival, but the Painter's friend. Blest is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour; Whose steps have pressed, whose eye has marked afar, The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 870 The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er, Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. But doubly blest is he whose heart expands With hallowed feelings for those classic lands; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, And views their remnants with a poet's eye! WRIGHT! [134] 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Those shores of glory, and to sing them too; And sure no common Muse inspired thy pen To hail the land of Gods and Godlike men. 880 And you, associate Bards! [135] who snatched to light [lvix] Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath While Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, And all their renovated fragrance flung, To grace the beauties of your native tongue; Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse The glorious Spirit of the Grecian Muse, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrowed tone: [lx] Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 890 Let these, or such as these, with just applause, [lxi] Restore the Muse's violated laws; But not in flimsy DARWIN'S [136] pompous chime, [lxii] That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme, Whose gilded cymbals, more adorned than clear, The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, In show the simple lyre could once surpass, But now, worn down, appear in native brass; While all his train of hovering sylphs around Evaporate in similes and sound: 900 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. [137] Yet let them not to vulgar WORDSWORTH [138] stoop, The meanest object of the lowly group, Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, Seems blessed harmony to LAMB and LLOYD: [139] Let them--but hold, my Muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: The native genius with their being given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 910 And thou, too, SCOTT! [140] resign to minstrels rude The wilder Slogan of a Border feud: Let others spin their meagre lines for hire; Enough for Genius, if itself inspire! Let SOUTHEY sing, altho' his teeming muse, [lxiii] Prolific every spring, be too profuse; Let simple WORDSWORTH [141] chime his childish verse, And brother COLERIDGE lull the babe at nurse [lxiv] Let Spectre-mongering LEWIS aim, at most, [lxv] To rouse the Galleries, or to raise a ghost; 920 Let MOORE still sigh; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE, [lxvi] And swear that CAMOËNS sang such notes of yore; Let HAYLEY hobble on, MONTGOMERY rave, And godly GRAHAME chant a stupid stave; Let sonneteering BOWLES [142] his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; Let STOTT, CARLISLE, [143] MATILDA, and the rest Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best, Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain, Or Common Sense assert her rights again; 930 But Thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, Should'st leave to humbler Bards ignoble lays: Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallowed harp--that harp is thine. Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For SHERWOOD'S outlaw tales of ROBIN HOOD? [lxvii] 940 Scotland! still proudly claim thy native Bard, And be thy praise his first, his best reward! Yet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can give; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, And tell the tale of what she was before; To future times her faded fame recall, And save her glory, though his country fall. Yet what avails the sanguine Poet's hope, To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 950 New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other Victors fill th' applauding skies; [144] A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the Poet and his song: E'en now, what once-loved Minstrels scarce may claim The transient mention of a dubious name! When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; And glory, like the Phoenix [145] midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 960 Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at puns? Shall these approach the Muse? ah, no! she flies, Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; [lxviii] Though Printers condescend the press to soil With rhyme by HOARE, [146] and epic blank by HOYLE: [lxix] [147] Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. [148] Ye! who in Granta's honours would surpass, Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 970 A foal well worthy of her ancient Dam, Whose Helicon [149] is duller than her Cam. [lxx] There CLARKE, [150] still striving piteously "to please," [lxxi] Forgetting doggerel leads not to degrees, A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon, [151] Condemned to drudge, the meanest of the mean, And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, Devotes to scandal his congenial mind; Himself a living libel on mankind. 980 Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race! [152] At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's [153] verse Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's [154] worse. [lxxii] But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, The partial Muse delighted loves to lave; On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, [lxxiii] To crown the Bards that haunt her classic grove; Where RICHARDS wakes a genuine poet's fires, And modern Britons glory in their Sires. [155] [lxxiv] 990 For me, who, thus unasked, have dared to tell My country, what her sons should know too well, [lxxv] Zeal for her honour bade me here engage [lxxvi] The host of idiots that infest her age; No just applause her honoured name shall lose, As first in freedom, dearest to the Muse. Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! What Athens was in science, Rome in power, What Tyre appeared in her meridian hour, 1000 'Tis thine at once, fair Albion! to have been-- Earth's chief Dictatress, Ocean's lovely Queen: [lxxvii] But Rome decayed, and Athens strewed the plain, And Tyre's proud piers lie shattered in the main; Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurled, [lxxviii] And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, With warning ever scoffed at, till too late; To themes less lofty still my lay confine, And urge thy Bards to gain a name like thine. [156] 1010 Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest, The senate's oracles, the people's jest! Still hear thy motley orators dispense The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, While CANNING'S colleagues hate him for his wit, And old dame PORTLAND [157] fills the place of PITT. Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, [158] And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 1020 Thence shall I stray through Beauty's native clime, [159] Where Kaff [160] is clad in rocks, and crowned with snows sublime. But should I back return, no tempting press [lxxix] Shall drag my Journal from the desk's recess; Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, Snatch his own wreath of Ridicule from Carr; Let ABERDEEN and ELGIN [161] still pursue The shade of fame through regions of Virtù; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, Misshapen monuments and maimed antiques; 1030 And make their grand saloons a general mart For all the mutilated blocks of art: Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell, I leave topography to rapid [162] GELL; [163] And, quite content, no more shall interpose To stun the public ear--at least with Prose. [lxxx] Thus far I've held my undisturbed career, Prepared for rancour, steeled 'gainst selfish fear; This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own-- Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 1040 My voice was heard again, though not so loud, My page, though nameless, never disavowed; And now at once I tear the veil away:-- Cheer on the pack! the Quarry stands at bay, Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE house, [164] By LAMB'S resentment, or by HOLLAND'S spouse, By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM'S rage, Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:" 1050 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall From lips that now may seem imbued with gall; Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest thing that crawled beneath my eyes: But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, I've learned to think, and sternly speak the truth; Learned to deride the critic's starch decree, And break him on the wheel he meant for me; 1060 To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, I too can hunt a Poetaster down; And, armed in proof, the gauntlet cast at once To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce. Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay [lxxx] Hath wronged these righteous times, let others say: This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. [165] 1070 [Footnote 1: "The 'binding' of this volume is considerably too valuable for the contents. Nothing but the consideration of its being the property of another, prevents me from consigning this miserable record of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 2: IMITATION. "Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam, Vexatus toties, rauci Theseide Codri?" JUVENAL, 'Satire I'.l. 1.] [Footnote 3: "'Hoarse Fitzgerald'.--"Right enough; but why notice such a mountebank?"--B., 1816. Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Small Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the Literary Fund: not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation. [William Thomas Fitzgerald (circ. 1759-1829) played the part of unofficial poet laureate. His loyal recitations were reported by the newspapers. He published, 'inter alia', 'Nelson's Triumph' (1798), 'Tears of Hibernia, dispelled by the Union' (1802), and 'Nelson's Tomb' (1806). He owes his fame to the first line of 'English Bards', and the famous parody in 'Rejected Addresses'. The following 'jeux désprits' were transcribed by R. C. Dallas on a blank leaf of a copy of the Fifth Edition:-- "Written on a copy of 'English Bards' at the 'Alfred' by W. T. Fitzgerald, Esq.-- I find Lord Byron scorns my Muse, Our Fates are ill agreed; The Verse is safe, I can't abuse Those lines, I never read. Signed W. T. F." Answer written on the same page by Lord Byron-- "What's writ on me," cries Fitz, "I never read"! What's writ by thee, dear Fitz, none will, indeed. The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz, Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits; Or rather would be, if for time to come, They luckily were 'deaf', or thou wert dumb; But to their pens while scribblers add their tongues. The Waiter only can escape their lungs. [A]] {Sub-Footnote 0.1: Compare 'Hints from Horace', l. 808, 'note' 1.} [Footnote 4: Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in the last chapter of 'Don Quixote'. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli!] [Footnote 5: "This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy." (B., 1816.)] [Footnote 6: "He's a very good fellow; and, except his mother and sister, the best of the set, to my mind."--B., 1816. [William (1779-1848) and George (1784-1834) Lamb, sons of Sir Peniston Lamb (Viscount Melbourne, 1828), by Elizabeth, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, were Lady Byron's first cousins. William married, in 1805, Lady Caroline Ponsonby, the writer of 'Glenarvon'. George, who was one of the early contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review', married in 1809 Caroline Rosalie Adelaide St. Jules. At the time of the separation, Lady Caroline Lamb and Mrs. George Lamb warmly espoused Lady Byron's cause, Lady Melbourne and her daughter Lady Cowper (afterwards Lady Palmerston) were rather against than for Lady Byron. William Lamb was discreetly silent, and George Lamb declaimed against Lady Byron, calling her a d----d fool. Hence Lord Byron's praises of George. Cf. line 517 of 'English Bards'.] [Footnote 7: This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with his production, in another place. ('Vide post', l. 516.) "Spurious Brat" [see variant ii. p. 300], that is the farce; the ingenuous youth who begat it is mentioned more particularly with his offspring in another place. ['Note. MS. M.'] [The farce 'Whistle for It' was performed two or three times at Covent Garden Theatre in 1807.] [Footnote 8: In the 'Edinburgh Review'.] [Footnote 9: The proverbial "Joe" Miller, an actor by profession (1684-1738), was a man of no education, and is said to have been unable to read. His reputation rests mainly on the book of jests compiled after his death, and attributed to him by John Mottley. (First Edition. T. Read. 1739.)] [Footnote 10: Messrs. Jeffrey and Lamb are the alpha and omega, the first and last of the 'Edinburgh Review'; the others are mentioned hereafter. [The MS. Note is as follows:--"Of the young gentlemen who write in the 'E.R.', I have now named the alpha and omega, the first and the last, the best and the worst. The intermediate members are designated with due honour hereafter."] "This was not just. Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen are at all what they are here represented. At the time this was written, I was personally unacquainted with either."--B., 1816. [Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) founded the 'Edinburgh Review' in conjunction with Sydney Smith, Brougham, and Francis Horner, in 1802. In 1803 he succeeded Smith as editor, and conducted the 'Review' till 1829. Independence of publishers and high pay to contributors ("Ten guineas a sheet," writes Southey to Scott, June, 1807, "instead of seven pounds for the 'Annual'," 'Life and Corr'., iii. 125) distinguished the new journal from the first. Jeffrey was called to the Scottish bar in 1794, and as an advocate was especially successful with juries. He was constantly employed, and won fame and fortune. In 1829 he was elected Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and the following year, when the Whigs came into office, he became Lord Advocate. He sat as M.P. twice for Malton (1830-1832), and, afterwards, for Edinburgh. In 1834 he was appointed a Judge of the Court of Sessions, when he took the title of Lord Jeffrey. Byron had attacked Jeffrey in British Bards before his 'Hours of Idleness' had been cut up by the 'Edinburgh', and when the article appeared (Jan. 1808), under the mistaken impression that he was the author, denounced him at large (ll. 460-528) in the first edition of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. None the less, the great critic did not fail to do ample justice to the poet's mature work, and won from him repeated acknowledgments of his kindness and generosity. (See 'Edinburgh Review', vol. xxii. p. 416, and Byron's comment in his 'Diary' for March 20,1814; 'Life', p. 232. See, too, 'Hints from Horace', ll. 589-626; and 'Don Juan', canto x. st. 11-16, and canto xii. st. 16. See also Bagehot's 'Literary Studies', vol. i. article I.)] [Footnote 11: IMITATION. "Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique ------occurras perituræ parcere chartæ." JUVENAL, 'Sat. I.' ll. 17, 18.] [Footnote 12: IMITATION. "Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo, Per quem magnus equos Auruncæ flexit alumnus, Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam." JUVENAL, 'Sat. I'. ll. 19-21.] [Footnote 13: William Gifford (1756-1826), a self-taught scholar, first a ploughboy, then boy on board a Brixham coaster, afterwards shoemaker's apprentice, was sent by friends to Exeter College, Oxford (1779-81). In the 'Baviad' (1794) and the 'Maeviad' (1795) he attacked many of the smaller writers of the day, who were either silly, like the Della Cruscan School, or discreditable, like Williams, who wrote as "Anthony Pasquin." In his 'Epistle to Peter Pindar' (1800) he laboured to expose the true character of John Wolcot. As editor of the 'Anti-Jacobin, or Weekly Examiner' (November, 1797, to July, 1798), he supported the political views of Canning and his friends. As editor of the 'Quarterly Review', from its foundation (February, 1809) to his resignation in September, 1824, he soon rose to literary eminence by his sound sense and adherence to the best models, though his judgments were sometimes narrow-minded and warped by political prejudice. His editions of 'Massinger' (1805), which superseded that of Monck Mason and Davies (1765), of 'Ben Jonson' (1816), of 'Ford' (1827), are valuable. To his translation of 'Juvenal' (1802) is prefixed his autobiography. His translation of 'Persius' appeared in 1821. To Gifford, Byron usually paid the utmost deference. "Any suggestion of yours, even if it were conveyed," he writes to him, in 1813, "in the less tender text of the 'Baviad', or a Monck Mason note to Massinger, would be obeyed." See also his letter (September 20, 1821, 'Life', p.531): "I know no praise which would compensate me in my own mind for his censure." Byron was attracted to Gifford, partly by his devotion to the classical models of literature, partly by the outspoken frankness of his literary criticism, partly also, perhaps, by his physical deformity.] [Footnote 14: Henry James Pye (1745-1813), M.P. for Berkshire, and afterwards Police Magistrate for Westminster, held the office of poet laureate from 1790 till his death in 1813, succeeding Thomas Warton, and succeeded by Southey. He published 'Farringdon Hill' in 1774, The 'Progress of Refinement' in 1783, and a translation of Burger's 'Lenore' in 1795. His name recurs in the 'Vision of Judgment', stanza xcii. Lines 97-102 were inserted in the Fifth Edition.] [Footnote 15: The first edition of the Satire opened with this line; and Byron's original intention was to prefix the following argument, first published in 'Recollections', by R. C. Dallas (1824):-- "ARGUMENT. "The poet considereth times past, and their poesy--makes a sudden transition to times present--is incensed against book-makers--revileth Walter Scott for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks on Master Southey--complaineth that Master Southey had inflicted three poems, epic and otherwise, on the public--inveigheth against William Wordsworth, but laudeth Mister Coleridge and his elegy on a young ass--is disposed to vituperate Mr. Lewis--and greatly rebuketh Thomas Little (the late) and Lord Strangford--recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn his attention to prose--and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr. Grahame--sympathiseth with the Rev. [William Bowles]--and deploreth the melancholy fate of James Montgomery--breaketh out into invective against the Edinburgh Reviewers--calleth them hard names, harpies and the like--apostrophiseth Jeffrey, and prophesieth.--Episode of Jeffrey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance; portents on the morn of the combat; the Tweed, Tolbooth, Firth of Forth [and Arthur's Seat], severally shocked; descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey; incorporation of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput.--Edinburgh Reviews 'en masse'.--Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe, Sydney Smith, Brougham, etc.--Lord Holland applauded for dinners and translations.--The Drama; Skeffington, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, etc.--Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon [requested, MS.] to write.--Return to poesy--scribblers of all sorts--lords sometimes rhyme; much better not--Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X.Y.Z.--Rogers, Campbell, Gifford, etc. true poets--Translators of the Greek Anthology--Crabbe--Darwin's style--Cambridge--Seatonian Prize--Smythe--Hodgson--Oxford--Richards--Poetaloquitur--Conclusion."] [Footnote 16: Lines 115, 116, were a MS. addition to the printed text of 'British Bards'. An alternative version has been pencilled on the margin:-- "Otway and Congreve mimic scenes had wove And Waller tuned his Lyre to mighty Love."] [Footnote 17: Thomas Little was the name under which Moore's early poems were published, 'The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little, Esq.' (1801). "Twelves" refers to the "duodecimo." Sheets, after printing, are pressed between cold or hot rollers, to impart smoothness of "surface." Hot rolling is the more expensive process.] [Footnote 18: Eccles. chapter i. verse 9.] [Footnote 19: At first sight Byron appears to refer to the lighting of streets by gas, especially as the first shop lighted with it was that of Lardner & Co., at the corner of the Albany (June, 1805), and as lamps were on view at the premises of the Gas Light and Coke Company in Pall Mall from 1808 onwards. But it is almost certain that he alludes to the "sublimating gas" of Dr. Beddoes, which his assistant, Davy, mentions in his 'Researches' (1800) as nitrous oxide, and which was used by Southey and Coleridge. The same four "wonders" of medical science are depicted in Gillray's caricatures, November, 1801, and May and June, 1802, and are satirized in Christopher Caustic's 'Terrible Tractoration! A Poetical Petition against Galvanising Trumpery and the Perkinistit Institution' (in 4 cantos, 1803). Against vaccination, or cow-pox, a brisk war was still being carried on. Gillray has a likeness of Jenner vaccinating patients. Metallic "Tractors" were a remedy much advertised at the beginning of the century by an American quack, Benjamin Charles Perkins, founder of the Perkinean Institution in London, as a "cure for all Disorders, Red Noses, Gouty Toes, Windy Bowels, Broken Legs, Hump Backs." In Galvanism several experiments, conducted by Professor Aldini, nephew of Galvani, are described in the 'Morning Post' for Jan. 6th, Feb. 6th, and Jan. 22nd, 1803. The latter were made on the body of Forster the murderer. For the allusion to Gas, compare 'Terrible Tractoration', canto 1-- "Beddoes (bless the good doctor) has Sent me a bag full of his gas, Which snuff'd the nose up, makes wit brighter, And eke a dunce an airy writer."] [Footnote 20: Stott, better known in the 'Morning Post' by the name of Hafiz. This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special Ode of Master Stott's, beginning thus:--('Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia')-- "Princely offspring of Braganza, Erin greets thee with a stanza," etc. Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering Ode, commencing as follows:-- "Oh! for a Lay! loud as the surge That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" was nothing to this. [The lines "Princely Offspring," headed "Extemporaneous Verse on the expulsion of the Prince Regent from Portugal by Gallic Tyranny," were published in the 'Morning Post', Dec. 30, 1807. (See 'post', l. 708, and 'note'.)] ] [Footnote 21: See p. 317, note 1.] [Footnote 22: See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," 'passim'. Never was any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this production. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to Bayes' tragedy [('vide The Rehearsal'), 'British Bards'], unfortunately takes away the merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, "a stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own elegant phrase, "'twas his neckverse at Harribee," 'i. e.' the gallows. The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are 'chefs d'oeuvre' in the improvement of taste. For incident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a Knight and Charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was manufactured for Messrs. CONSTABLE, MURRAY, and MILLER, worshipful Booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money; and truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. SCOTT will write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of Black-Letter Ballad imitations. [Constable paid Scott a thousand pounds for 'Marmion', and "offered one fourth of the copyright to Mr. Miller of Albemarle Street, and one fourth to Mr. Murray of Fleet Street (see line 173). Both publishers eagerly accepted the proposal." ... "A severe and unjust review of 'Marmion' by Jeffrey appeared in [the 'Edinburgh Review' for April] 1808, accusing Scott of a mercenary spirit in writing for money. ... Scott was much nettled by these observations." ('Memoirs of John Murray', i. 76, 95). In his diary of 1813 Byron wrote of Scott, "He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most 'English' of Bards." 'Life', p. 206.]] [Footnote 23: It was the suggestion of the Countess of Dalkeith, that Scott should write a ballad on the old border legend of 'Gilpin Horner', which first gave shape to the poet's ideas, and led to the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel'.] [Footnote 24: In his strictures on Scott and Southey, Byron takes his lead from Lady Anne Hamilton's (1766-1846, daughter of Archibald, ninth Duke of Hamilton, and Lady-in-waiting to Caroline of Brunswick) 'Epics of the Ton' (1807), a work which has not shared the dubious celebrity of her 'Secret Memories of the Court', etc. (1832). Compare the following lines (p. 9):-- "Then still might Southey sing his crazy Joan, Or feign a Welshman o'er the Atlantic flown, Or tell of Thalaba the wondrous matter, Or with clown Wordsworth, chatter, chatter, chatter. * * * * * Good-natured Scott rehearse, in well-paid lays, The marv'lous chiefs and elves of other days." (For Scott's reference to "my share of flagellation among my betters," and an explicit statement that he had remonstrated with Jeffrey against the "offensive criticism" of 'Hours of Idleness', because he thought it treated with undue severity, see Introduction to 'Marmion', 1830.)]] [Footnote 25: Lines 179, 180, in the Fifth Edition, were substituted for variant i. p. 312.--'Leigh Hunt's annotated Copy of the Fourth Edition'.] [Footnote 26: "Good night to Marmion"--the pathetic and also prophetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion.] [Footnote 27: As the 'Odyssey' is so closely connected with the story of the 'Iliad', they may almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the 'Paradise Lost' and 'Gerusalemme Liberata' as their standard efforts; since neither the 'Jerusalem Conquered' of the Italian, nor the 'Paradise Regained' of the English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems. Query: Which of Mr. Southey's will survive?] [Footnote 28: 'Thalaba', Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 'Joan of Arc' was marvellous enough, but 'Thalaba' was one of those poems "which," in the word of PORSON, "will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but--<i<not till then'." ["Of 'Thalaba" the wild and wondrous song"--Proem to 'Madoc', Southey's 'Poetical Works' (1838), vol. v. 'Joan of Arc' was published in 1796, 'Thalaba the Destroyer' in 1801, and 'Madoc' in 1805.] [Footnote 29: The hero of Fielding's farce, 'The Tragedy of Tragedies', 'or the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great', first played in 1730 at the Haymarket.] [Footnote 30: Southey's 'Madoc' is divided into two parts--Part I., "Madoc in Wales;" Part II., "Madoc in Aztlan." The word "cacique" ("Cacique or cazique... a native chief or 'prince' of the aborigines in the West Indies:" 'New Engl. Dict'., Art. "Cacique") occurs in the translations of Spanish writers quoted by Southey in his notes, but not in the text of the poem.] [Footnote 31: We beg Mr. Southey's pardon: "Madoc disdains the degraded title of Epic." See his Preface. ["It assumes not the degraded title of Epic."--Preface to 'Madoc' (1805), Southey's 'Poetical Works' (1838), vol. v. p. xxi.] Why is Epic degraded? and by whom? Certainly the late Romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hole,[A] and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the Epic Muse; but, as Mr. SOUTHEY'S poem "disdains the appellation," allow us to ask--has he substituted anything better in its stead? or must he be content to rival Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE in the quantity as well as quality of his verse? [Sub-Footnote A: For "Hole," the 'MS'. and 'British Bards' read "Sir J. B. Burgess; Cumberland."] ] [Footnote 32: See 'The Old Woman of Berkeley', a ballad by Mr. Southey, wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high trotting horse."] [Footnote 33: The last line, "God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the 'Anti-Jacobin' to Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics:-- "God help thee, silly one!" 'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin', p. 23.] [Footnote 34: In the annotated copy of the Fourth Edition Byron has drawn a line down the margin of the passage on Wordsworth, lines 236-248, and adds the word "Unjust." The first four lines on Coleridge (lines 255-258) are also marked "Unjust." The recantation is, no doubt, intended to apply to both passages from beginning to end. "'Unjust'."--B., 1816. (See also Byron's letter to S. T. Coleridge, March 31, 1815.)] [Footnote 35: 'Lyrical Ballads', p. 4.--"The Tables Turned," Stanza 1. "Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks, Why all this toil and trouble? Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double."] [Footnote 36: Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove, that prose and verse are much the same; and certainly his precepts and practice are strictly conformable:-- "And thus to Betty's questions he Made answer, like a traveller bold. 'The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold.'" 'Lyrical Ballads', p. 179. [Compare 'The Simpliciad', II. 295-305, and 'note'.]] [Footnote 37: "He has not published for some years."--'British Bards'. (A marginal note in pencil.) [Coleridge's 'Poems' (3rd edit.) appeared in 1803; the first number of 'The Friend' on June 1, 1809.]] [Footnote 38: COLERIDGE'S 'Poems', p. 11, "Songs of the Pixies," 'i. e.' Devonshire Fairies; p. 42, we have "Lines to a Young Lady;" and, p. 52, "Lines to a Young Ass." [Compare 'The Simpliciad', ll. 211, 213-- "Then in despite of scornful Folly's pother, Ask him to live with you and hail him brother."]] [Footnote 39: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818), known as "Monk" Lewis, was the son of a rich Jamaica planter. During a six months' visit to Weimar (1792-3), when he was introduced to Goethe, he applied himself to the study of German literature, especially novels and the drama. In 1794 he was appointed 'attaché' to the Embassy at the Hague, and in the course of ten weeks wrote 'Ambrosio, or The Monk', which was published in 1795. In 1798 he made the acquaintance of Scott, and procured his promise of co-operation in his contemplated 'Tales of Terror'. In the same year he published the 'Castle Spectre' (first played at Drury Lane, Dec. 14, 1797), in which, to quote the postscript "To the Reader," he meant (but Sheridan interposed) "to have exhibited a whole regiment of Ghosts." 'Tales of Terror' were printed at Weybridge in 1801, and two or three editions of 'Tales of Wonder', to which Byron refers, came out in the same year. Lewis borrowed so freely from all sources that the collection was called "Tales of Plunder." In the first edition (two vols., printed by W. Bulmer for the author, 1801) the first eighteen poems, with the exception of 'The Fire King' (xii.) by Walter Scott, are by Lewis, either original or translated. Scott also contributed 'Glenfinlas, The Eve of St. John, Frederick and Alice, The Wild Huntsmen (Der Wilde Jäger). Southey contributed six poems, including 'The Old Woman of Berkeley' (xxiv.). 'The Little Grey Man' (xix.) is by H. Bunbury. The second volume is made up from Burns, Gray, Parnell, Glover, Percy's 'Reliques', and other sources. A second edition, published in 1801, which consists of thirty-two ballads (Southey's are not included), advertises "'Tales of Terror' printed uniform with this edition of 'Tales of Wonder'." 'Romantic Tales', in four volumes, appeared in 1808. Of his other works, 'The Captive, A Monodrama', was played in 1803; the 'Bravo of Venice, A Translation from the German', in 1804; and 'Timour the Tartar' in 1811. His 'Journal of a West Indian Proprietor' was not published till 1834. He sat as M.P. for Hindon (1796-1802). He had been a favourite in society before Byron appeared on the scene, but there is no record of any intimacy or acquaintance before 1813. When Byron was living at Geneva, Lewis visited the Maison Diodati in August, 1816, on which occasion he "translated to him Goethe's 'Faust' by word of mouth," and drew up a codicil to his will, witnessed by Byron, Shelley, and Polidori, which contained certain humane provisions for the well-being of the negroes on his Jamaica estates. He also visited him at 'La Mira' in August, 1817. Byron wrote of him after his death: "He was a good man, and a clever one, but he was a bore, a damned bore--one may say. But I liked him." To judge from his letters to his mother and other evidence (Scott's testimony, for instance), he was a kindly, well-intentioned man, but lacking in humour. When his father condemned the indecency of the 'Monk', he assured him "that he had not the slightest idea that what he was then writing could injure the principles of any human being." "He was," said Byron, "too great a bore to lie," and the plea is evidently offered in good faith. As a writer, he is memorable chiefly for his sponsorship of German literature. Scott said of him that he had the finest ear for rhythm he ever met with--finer than Byron's; and Coleridge, in a letter to Wordsworth, Jan., 1798 ('Letters of S. T. C.' (1895), i. 237), and again in 'Table Talk' for March 20, 1834, commends his verses. Certainly his ballad of "Crazy Jane," once so famous that ladies took to wearing "Crazy Jane" hats, is of the nature of poetry. (See 'Life', 349, 362, 491, etc.; 'Life and Correspondence' of M. G. Lewis (1839), i. 158, etc.; 'Life of Scott', by J. G. Lockhart (1842), pp. 80-83, 94.)] ] [Footnote 40: "For every one knows little Matt's an M.P."--See a poem to Mr. Lewis, in 'The Statesman', supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. [Joseph Jekyll (d. 1837) was celebrated for his witticisms and metrical 'jeux d'esprit' which he contributed to the 'Morning Chronicle' and the 'Evening Statesman'. His election as M.P. for Calne in 1787, at the nomination of Lord Lansdowne, gave rise to 'Jekyll, A Political Eclogue' (see 'The Rottiad' (1799), pp. 219-224). He was a favourite with the Prince Regent, at whose instance he was appointed a Master in Chancery in 1815.]] [Footnote 41: The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to "Strangford's Camoëns," p. 127, note to p. 56, or to the last page of the 'Edinburgh Review' of Strangford's Camoëns. [Percy Clinton Sydney Smythe, sixth Viscount Strangford (1780-1855), published 'Translations from the Portuguese by Luis de Camoens' in 1803. The note to which Byron refers is on the canzonet 'Naö sei quem assella', "Thou hast an eye of tender blue." It runs thus: "Locks of auburn and eyes of blue have ever been dear to the sons of song.... Sterne even considers them as indicative of qualities the most amiable.... The Translator does not wish to deem ... this unfounded. He is, however, aware of the danger to which such a confession exposes him--but he flies for protection to the temple of AUREA VENUS." It may be added that Byron's own locks were auburn, and his eyes a greyish-blue.]] [Footnote 42: It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public as poems of Camoëns are no more to be found in the original Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon.] [Footnote 43: See his various Biographies of defunct Painters, etc. [William Hayley (1745-1820) published 'The Triumphs of Temper' in 1781, and 'The Triumph of Music' in 1804. His biography of Milton appeared in 1796, of Cowper in 1803-4, of Romney in 1809. He had produced, among other plays, 'The Happy Prescription' and 'The Two Connoisseurs' in 1784. In 1808 he would be regarded as out of date, "hobbling on" behind younger rivals in the race (see E.B., I. 923). For his life and works, see Southey's article in the 'Quarterly Review' (vol. xxxi. p. 263). The appeal to "tarts" to "spare the text," is possibly an echo of 'The Dunciad', i. 155, 156-- "Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, Redeemed from topers and defrauded pies." The meaning of the appeal is fixed by such a passage as this from 'The Blues', where the company discuss Wordsworth's appointment to a Collectorship of Stamps-- "'Inkle'. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat; There his works will appear. "'Lady Bluemount'. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. "'Inkle'. I sha'n't go so far. I can have them at Grange's." Grange's was a well-known pastry-cook's in Piccadilly. In Pierce Egan's 'Life in London' (ed. 1821), p. 70, 'note' 1, the author writes, "As I sincerely hope that this work will shrink from the touch of a pastry-cook, and also avoid the foul uses of a trunk-maker ... I feel induced now to describe, for the benefit of posterity, the pedigree of a Dandy in 1820."] [Footnote 44: Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are 'Triumphs of Temper' and 'The Triumph of Music'. He has also written much Comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc., etc. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recommend POPE'S advice to WYCHERLEY to Mr. H.'s consideration, viz., "to convert poetry into prose," which may be easily done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet.] [Footnote 45: Lines 319-326 do not form part of the original 'MS'. A slip of paper which contains a fair copy of the lines in Byron's handwriting has been, with other fragments, bound up with Dallas's copy of 'British Bards'. In the 'MS'. this place is taken by a passage and its pendant note, which Byron omitted at the request of Dallas, who was a friend of Pratt's:-- "In verse most stale, unprofitable, flat-- Come, let us change the scene, and ''glean'' with Pratt; In him an author's luckless lot behold, Condemned to make the books which once he sold: Degraded man! again resume thy trade-- The votaries of the Muse are ill repaid, Though daily puffs once more invite to buy A new edition of thy 'Sympathy.'" "Mr. Pratt, once a Bath bookseller, now a London author, has written as much, to as little purpose, as any of his scribbling contemporaries. Mr. P.'s 'Sympathy' is in rhyme; but his prose productions are the most voluminous." Samuel Jackson Pratt (1749-1814), actor, itinerant lecturer, poet of the Cruscan school, tragedian, and novelist, published a large number of volumes. His 'Gleanings' in England, Holland, Wales, and Westphalia attained some reputation. His 'Sympathy; a Poem' (1788) passed through several editions. His pseudonym was Courtney Melmoth. He was a patron of the cobbler-poet, Blacket] ] [Footnote 46: Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of Cant, under the name of 'Sabbath Walks' and 'Biblical Pictures'. [James Grahame (1765-1811), a lawyer, who subsequently took Holy Orders. 'The Sabbath', a poem, was published anonymously in 1804; and to a second edition were added 'Sabbath Walks'. 'Biblical Pictures' appeared in 1807.] [Footnote 47: The Rev. W. Lisle Bowles (1768-1850). His edition of Pope's 'Works', in ten vols., which stirred Byron's gall, appeared in 1807. The 'Fall of Empires', Tyre, Carthage, etc., is the subject of part of the third book of 'The Spirit of Discovery by Sea' (1805). Lines "To a Withered Leaf," are, perhaps, of later date; but the "sear tresses" and "shivering leaves" of "Autumn's gradual gloom" are familiar images in his earlier poems. Byron's senior by twenty years, he was destined to outlive him by more than a quarter of a century; but when 'English Bards, etc.', was in progress, he was little more than middle-aged, and the "three score years" must have been written in the spirit of prophecy. As it chanced, the last word rested with him, and it was a generous one. Addressing Moore, in 1824, he says ('Childe Harold's Last Pilgrimage')-- "So Harold ends, in Greece, his pilgrimage! There fitly ending--in that land renown'd, Whose mighty Genius lives in Glory's page,-- He on the Muses' consecrated ground, Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound With their unfading wreath!" Among his poems are a "Sonnet to Oxford," and "Stanzas on hearing the Bells of Ostend."] [Footnote 48: "Awake a louder," etc., is the first line in BOWLES'S 'Spirit of Discovery': a very spirited and pretty dwarf Epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the following:-- ----"A kiss Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," etc., etc. That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss; very much astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. "Mis-quoted and misunderstood by me; but not intentionally. It was not the 'woods,' but the people in them who trembled--why, Heaven only knows--unless they were overheard making this prodigious smack."-B., 1816.] [Footnote 49: The episode above alluded to is the story of "Robert à Machin" and "Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. [See Byron's letter to Murray, Feb. 7, 1821, "On Bowies' Strictures," 'Life', p. 688.]] [Footnote 50: CURLL is one of the Heroes of the 'Dunciad', and was a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord HERVEY, author of 'Lines to the Imitator of Horace'.] [Footnote 51: Lord BOLINGBROKE hired MALLET to traduce POPE after his decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke--the "Patriot King,"--which that splendid, but malignant genius had ordered to be destroyed.] [Footnote 52: Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester:-- "Silence, ye Wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, Making Night hideous: answer him, ye owls!" DUNCIAD. [Book III. II. 165, 166, Pope wrote, "And makes night," etc.]] [Footnote 53: See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he received three hundred pounds. [Twelve hundred guineas.--'British Bards'.] Thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of another, than to elevate his own. ["Too savage all this on Bowles," wrote Byron, in 1816, but he afterwards returned to his original sentiments. "Although," he says (Feb. 7, 1821), "I regret having published 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', the part which I regret the least is that which regards Mr. Bowles, with reference to Pope. Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of his works. As I had completed my outline, and felt lazy, I requested that 'he' would do so. He did it. His fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition of 'English Bards', and are quite as severe, and much more poetical, than my own, in the second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles.... I am grieved to say that, in reading over those lines, I repent of their having so far fallen short of what I meant to express upon the subject of his edition of Pope's works" ('Life', pp. 688, 689). The lines supplied by Hobhouse are here subjoined:-- "Stick to thy sonnets, man!--at least they sell. Or take the only path that open lies For modern worthies who would hope to rise: Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit, Pare off the merits of his worth and wit: On each alike employ the critic's knife, And when a comment fails, prefix a life; Hint certain failings, faults before unknown, Review forgotten lies, and add your own; Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape, And print, if luckily deformed, his shape: Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last, Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past; Bards once revered no more with favour view, But give their modern sonneteers their due; Thus with the dead may living merit cope, Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope."]] [Footnote 54: "'Helicon' is a mountain, and not a fish-pond. It should have been 'Hippocrene.'"--B., 1816. [The correction was made in the Fifth Edition.]] [Footnote 55: Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now writers of books they do not sell, have published a pair of Epics--'Alfred' (poor Alfred! Pye has been at him too!)--'Alfred' and the 'Fall of Cambria'. "All right. I saw some letters of this fellow (Jh. Cottle) to an unfortunate poetess, whose productions, which the poor woman by no means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bitterly, that I could hardly regret assailing him, even were it unjust, which it is not--for verily he is an ass."--B., 1816. [Compare 'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin'-- "And Cottle, not he whom that Alfred made famous, But Joseph of Bristol, the brother of Amos." The identity of the brothers Cottle appears to have been a matter beneath the notice both of the authors of the 'Anti-Jacobin' and of Byron. Amos Cottle, who died in 1800 (see Lamb's Letter to Coleridge of Oct. 9, 1800; 'Letters of C. Lamb', 1888, i. 140), was the author of a 'Translation of the Edda of Soemund', published in 1797. Joseph Cottle, 'inter alia', published 'Alfred' in 1801, and 'The Fall of Cambria', 1807. An 'Expostulatory Epistle', in which Joseph avenges Amos and solemnly castigates the author of 'Don Juan', was issued in 1819 (see Lamb's Letter to Cottle, Nov. 5, 1819), and was reprinted in the Memoir of Amos Cottle, inserted in his brother's 'Early Recollections of Coleridge' (London, 1837, i. 119). The "unfortunate poetess" was, probably, Ann Yearsley, the Bristol milk-woman. Wordsworth, too (see 'Recollections of the Table-Talk of S. Rogers', 1856, p. 235), dissuaded her from publishing her poems. Roughness and bitterness were not among Cottle's faults or foibles, and it is possible that Byron misconceived the purport of the correspondence.]] [Footnote 56: Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of "Richmond Hill," and the like:--it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. [The Rev. Thomas Maurice (1754-1824) had this at least in common with Byron--that his 'History of Ancient and Modern Hindostan' was severely attacked in the 'Edinburgh Review'. He published a vindication of his work in 1805. He must have confined his dulness to his poems ('Richmond Hill' (1807), etc.), for his 'Memoirs' (1819) are amusing, and, though otherwise blameless, he left behind him the reputation of an "indiscriminate enjoyment" of literary and other society. Lady Anne Hamilton alludes to him in 'Epics of the Ton' (1807), p. 165-- "Or warmed like Maurice by Museum fire, From Ganges dragged a hurdy-gurdy lyre." He was assistant keeper of MSS. at the British Museum from 1799 till his death.]] [Footnote 57: Poor MONTGOMERY, though praised by every English Review, has been bitterly reviled by the 'Edinburgh'. After all, the Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius. His 'Wanderer of Switzerland' is worth a thousand 'Lyrical Ballads', and at least fifty 'Degraded Epics'. [James Montgomery (1771-1854) was born in Ayrshire, but settled at Sheffield, where he edited a newspaper, the 'Iris', a radical print, which brought him into conflict with the authorities. His early poems were held up to ridicule in the 'Edinburgh Review' by Jeffrey, in Jan. 1807. It was probably the following passage which provoked Byron's note: "When every day is bringing forth some new work from the pen of Scott, Campbell,... Wordsworth, and Southey, it is natural to feel some disgust at the undistinguishing voracity which can swallow down these... verses to a pillow." The 'Wanderer of Switzerland', which Byron said he preferred to the 'Lyrical Ballads', was published in 1806. The allusion in line 419 is to the first stanza of 'The Lyre'-- "Where the roving rill meand'red Down the green, retiring vale, Poor, forlorn Alæcus wandered, Pale with thoughts--serenely pale." He is remembered chiefly as the writer of some admirable hymns. ('Vide ante', p. 107, "Answer to a Beautiful Poem," and 'note'.)] [Footnote 58: Arthur's Seat; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh.] [Footnote 59: Lines 439-527 are not in the 'MS.' The first draft of the passage on Jeffrey, which appears to have found a place in 'British Bards' and to have been afterwards cut out, runs as follows:-- "Who has not heard in this enlightened age, When all can criticise the historic page, Who has not heard in James's Bigot Reign Of Jefferies! monarch of the scourge, and chain, Jefferies the wretch whose pestilential breath, Like the dread Simoom, winged the shaft of Death; The old, the young to Fate remorseless gave Nor spared one victim from the common grave? "Such was the Judge of James's iron time, When Law was Murder, Mercy was a crime, Till from his throne by weary millions hurled The Despot roamed in Exile through the world. "Years have rolled on;--in all the lists of Shame, Who now can parallel a Jefferies' name? With hand less mighty, but with heart as black With voice as willing to decree the Rack, With tongue envenomed, with intentions foul The same in name and character and soul." The first four lines of the above, which have been erased, are to be found on p. 16 of 'British Bards.' Pages 17, 18, are wanting, and quarto proofs of lines 438-527 have been inserted. Lines 528-539 appear for the first time in the Fifth Edition.]] [Footnote 60: "Too ferocious--this is mere insanity."--B., 1816. [The comment applies to lines 432-453.]] [Footnote 61: "All this is bad, because personal."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 62: In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of the Magistracy; and on examination, the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated. This incident gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. [The first four editions read, "the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the combatants."] [The following disclaimer to the foregoing note appears in the MS. in Leigh Hunt's copy of the Fourth Edition, 1811. It was first printed in the Fifth Edition:--] "I am informed that Mr. Moore published at the time a disavowal of the statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and, in justice to him, I mention this circumstance. As I never heard of it before, I cannot state the particulars, and was only made acquainted with the fact very lately. November 4, 1811." [As a matter of fact, it was Jeffrey's pistol that was found to be leadless.]] [Footnote 63: The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum; it would have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown the smallest symptom of apprehension.] [Footnote 64: This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front might have rendered the Edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish.] [Footnote 65: Line 508. For "oat-fed phalanx," the Quarto Proof and Editions 1-4 read "ranks illustrious." The correction is made in 'MS'. in the Annotated Edition. It was suggested that the motto of the 'Edinburgh Review' should have been, "Musam tenui meditamur avenâ."] [Footnote 66: His Lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian Society, and reviewer of Gell's 'Topography of Troy'. [George Gordon, fourth Earl of Aberdeen (1784-1860), published in 1822 'An Inquiry into the Principles of Beauty in Grecian Architecture'. His grandfather purchased Gight, the property which Mrs. Byron had sold to pay her husband's debts. This may have been an additional reason for the introduction of his name.]] [Footnote 67: Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the principal pieces is a 'Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer': the translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus:-- "Instead of money and rings, I wot, The hammer's bruises were her lot. Thus Odin's son his hammer got." [William Herbert (1778-1847), son of the first Earl of Carnarvon, edited 'Musæ Etonenses' in 1795, whilst he was still at school. He was one of the earliest contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review'. At the time when Byron was writing his satire, he was M.P. for Hampshire, but in 1814 he took Orders. He was appointed Dean of Manchester in 1840, and republished his poetical works, and among them his Icelandic Translations or 'Horæ Scandicæ (Miscellaneous Works', 2 vols.), in 1842.]] [Footnote 68: The Rev. SYDNEY SMITH, the reputed Author of 'Peter Plymley's Letters', and sundry criticisms. [Sydney Smith (1771-1845), the "witty Canon of St. Paul's," was one of the founders, and for a short time (1802) the editor, of the 'Edinburgh Review'. His 'Letters on the Catholicks, from Peter Plymley to his brother Abraham', appeared in 1807-8.] [Footnote 69: Mr. HALLAM reviewed PAYNE KNIGHT'S "Taste," and was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity.--['Note added to Second Edition': Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry--not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand his Lordship's feasts are preferable to his compositions. If he did not review Lord HOLLAND'S performance, I am glad; because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to praise it. If Mr. HALLAM will tell me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse: till then, HALLAM must stand for want of a better.] [Henry Hallam (1777-1859), author of 'Europe during the Middle Ages', 1808, etc. "This," said Byron, "is the style in which history ought to be written, if it is wished to impress it on the memory" ('Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron', 1834, p. 213). The article in question was written by Dr. John Allen, Lord Holland's domestic physician, and Byron was misled by the similarity of sound in the two names (see H. C. Robinson's 'Diary', i. 277), or repeated what Hodgson had told him (see Introduction, and Letter 102, 'note' i). For a disproof that Hallam wrote the article, see 'Gent. Mag'., 1830, pt. i. p. 389; and for an allusion to the mistake in the review, compare 'All the Talents', p. 96, and 'note'. "Spare me not 'Chronicles' and 'Sunday News', Spare me not 'Pamphleteers' and 'Scotch Reviews'" "The best literary joke I recollect is its [the 'Edin. Rev'.] attempting to prove some of the Grecian Pindar rank non sense, supposing it to have been written by Mr. P. Knight."] [Footnote 70: Pillans is a [private, 'MS'.] tutor at Eton. [James Pillans (1778-1864), Rector of the High School, and Professor of Humanity in the University, Edinburgh. Byron probably assumed that the review of Hodgson's 'Translation of Juvenal', in the 'Edinburgh Review', April, 1808, was by him.]] Footnote 71: The Honourable G. Lambe reviewed "BERESFORD'S Miseries," and is moreover Author of a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore; and damned with great expedition at the late theatre, Covent Garden. It was entitled 'Whistle for It'. [See note, 'supra', on line 57.] His review of James Beresford's 'Miseries of Human Life; or the Last Groans of Timothy Testy and Samuel Sensitive', appeared in the 'Edinburgh Review 'for Oct. 1806.] [Footnote: 72: Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the 'Edinburgh Review', throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions.--[Here followed, in the First Edition: "The name of this personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the truly northern and 'musical' pronunciation is BROUGH-AM, in two syllables;" but for this, Byron substituted in the Second Edition: "It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but a Borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay:--so be it." The title of the work was "Exposition of the Practices and Machinations which led to the usurpation of the Crown of Spain, and the means adopted by the Emperor of the French to carry it into execution," by Don Pedro Cevallos. The article, which appeared in Oct. 1808, was the joint composition of Jeffrey and Brougham, and proved a turning-point in the political development of the 'Review'.]] [Footnote 73: I ought to apologise to the worthy Deities for introducing a new Goddess with short petticoats to their notice: but, alas! what was to be done? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it being well known there is no genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness; yet without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The national "Kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the "Brownies" and "gude neighbours" (spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him. A Goddess, therefore, has been called for the purpose; and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with anything heavenly.] [Footnote 74: Lines 528-539 appeared for the first time in the Fifth Edition.] [Footnote 75: See the colour of the back binding of the 'Edinburgh Review'.] [Footnote 76: "Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too."--B., 1816. [The comment applies to the whole passage on Lord Holland.] [Henry Richard Vassall, third Lord Holland (1773-1840), to whom Byron dedicated the 'Bride of Abydos' (1813). His 'Life of Lope de Vega' (see note 4) was published in 1806, and 'Three Comedies from the Spanish', in 1807.]] [Footnote 77: Henry Petty (1780-1863) succeeded his brother as third Marquis of Lansdowne in 1809. He was a regular attendant at the social and political gatherings of his relative, Lord Holland; and as Holland House was regarded as one of the main rallying-points of the Whig party and of the Edinburgh Reviewers, the words, "whipper-in and hunts-man," probably refer to their exertions in this respect.] [Footnote 78: See note 1, p. 337. (Footnote 69--Text Ed.)] [Footnote 79: Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted in his life of the author. Both are bepraised by his 'disinterested' guests.] [Footnote 80: Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchless wit in the 'Edinburgh Review'. However that may be, we know from good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal--no doubt, for correction.] [Footnote 81: In the melo-drama of 'Tekeli', that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage; a new asylum for distressed heroes.--[In the 'MS'. and 'British Bards' the note stands thus:--"In the melodrama of 'Tekeli', that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage, and Count Everard in the fortress hides himself in a green-house built expressly for the occasion. 'Tis a pity that Theodore Hook, who is really a man of talent, should confine his genius to such paltry productions as 'The Fortress, Music Mad', etc. etc." Theodore Hook (1788-1841) produced 'Tekeli' in 1806. 'Fortress' and 'Music Mad' were played in 1807. He had written some eight or ten popular plays before he was twenty-one.]] [Footnote 82: 'Vide post', 1. 591, note 3.] [Footnote 83: William Henry West Betty (1791-1874) ("the Young Roscius") made his first appearance on the London stage as Selim, disguised as Achmet, in 'Barbarossa', Dec. 1, 1804, and his last, as a boy actor, in 'Tancred', and Captain Flash in 'Miss in her Teens', Mar. 17, 1806, but acted in the provinces till 1808. So great was the excitement on the occasion of his 'début', that the military were held in readiness to assist in keeping order. Having made a large fortune, he finally retired from the stage in 1824, and passed the last fifty years of his life in retirement, surviving his fame by more than half a century.] [Footnote 84: All these are favourite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. [Frederick Reynolds (1764-1841) produced nearly one hundred plays, one of the most successful of which was 'The Caravan, or the Driver and his Dog'. The text alludes to his endeavour to introduce the language of ordinary life on the stage. Compare 'The Children of Apollo', p. 9-- "But in his diction Reynolds grossly errs; For whether the love hero smiles or mourns, 'Tis oh! and ah! and ah! and oh! by turns."]] [Footnote 85: James Kenney (1780-1849). Among his very numerous plays, the most successful were 'Raising the Wind' (1803), and 'Sweethearts and Wives' (1823). 'The World' was brought out at Covent Garden, March 30, 1808, and had a considerable run. He was intimate with Charles and Mary Lamb (see 'Letters of Charles Lamb', ii. 16, 44).] [Footnote 85a: Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury Lane theatre, stripped the Tragedy of 'Bonduca' ['Caratach' in the original 'MS'.] of the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of 'Caractacus'. Was this worthy of his sire? or of himself? [Thomas Sheridan (1775-1817), most famous as the son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and father of Lady Dufferin, Mrs. Norton, and the Duchess of Somerset, was author of several plays. His 'Bonduca' was played at Covent Garden, May 3, 1808. The following answer to a real or fictitious correspondent, in the 'European Magazine' for May, 1808, is an indication of contemporary opinion: "The Fishwoman's letter to the author of 'Caractacus' on the art of gutting is inadmissible." For anecdotes of Thomas Sheridan, see Angelo's 'Reminiscences', 1828, ii. 170-175. See, too, 'Epics of the Ton', p. 264.]] [Footnote 86: George Colman, the younger (1762-1836), wrote numerous dramas, several of which, 'e.g. The Iron Chest' (1796), 'John Bull' (1803), 'The Heir-at-Law' (1808), have been popular with more than one generation of playgoers. An amusing companion, and a favourite at Court, he was appointed Lieutenant of the Yeomen of the Guard, and examiner of plays by Royal favour, but his reckless mode of life kept him always in difficulties. 'John Bull' is referred to in 'Hints from Horace', line 166.]] [Footnote 87: Richard Cumberland (1732-1811), the original of Sir Fretful Plagiary in 'The Critic', a man of varied abilities, wrote poetry, plays, novels, classical translations, and works of religious controversy. He was successively Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and secretary to the Board of Trade. His best known plays are 'The West Indian, The Wheels of Fortune', and 'The Jew'. He published his 'Memoirs' in 1806-7.]] [Footnote 88: Sheridan's translation of 'Pizarro', by Kotzebue, was first played at Drury Lane, 1799. Southey wrote of it, "It is impossible to sink below 'Pizarro'. Kotzebue's play might have passed for the worst possible if Sheridan had not proved the possibility of making it worse" (Southey's 'Letters', i. 87). Gifford alludes to it in a note to 'The Mæviad' as "the translation so maliciously attributed to Sheridan."] [Footnote 89: In all editions, previous to the fifth, it was, "Kemble lives to tread." Byron used to say, that, of actors, "Cooke was the most natural, Kemble the most supernatural, Kean the medium between the two; but that Mrs. Siddons was worth them all put together." Such effect, however, had Kean's acting on his mind, that once, on seeing him play Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized with a fit.] [Footnote 90: See 'supra', line 562.] [Footnote 91: Andrew Cherry (1762-1812) acted many parts in Ireland and in the provinces, and for a few years appeared at Drury Lane. He was popular in Dublin, where he was known as "Little Cherry." He was painted as Lazarillo in Jephson's 'Two Strings to Your Bow'. He wrote 'The Travellers' (1806), 'Peter the Great' (1807), and other plays.]] [Footnote 92: Mr. [now Sir Lumley] Skeffington is the illustrious author of 'The Sleeping Beauty;' and some comedies, particularly 'Maids and Bachelors: Baccalaurii' baculo magis quam lauro digni. [Lumley St. George (afterwards Sir Lumley) Skeffington (1768-1850). Besides the plays mentioned in the note, he wrote 'The Maid of Honour' (1803) and 'The Mysterious Bride' (1808). 'Amatory Verses, by Tom Shuffleton of the Middle Temple' (1815), are attributed to his pen. They are prefaced by a dedicatory letter to Byron, which includes a coarse but clever skit in the style of 'English Bards'. "Great Skeffington" was a great dandy. According to Capt. Gronow ('Reminiscences', i. 63), "he used to paint his face so that he looked like a French toy; he dressed 'à la Robespierre', and practised all the follies;... was remarkable for his politeness and courtly manners... You always knew of his approach by an 'avant courier' of sweet smell." His play 'The Sleeping Beauty' had a considerable vogue.]] [Footnote 93: Thomas John Dibdin (1771-1841), natural son of Charles Dibdin the elder, made his first appearance on the stage at the age of four, playing Cupid to Mrs. Siddons' Venus at the Shakespearian Jubilee in 1775. One of his best known pieces is 'The Jew and the Doctor' (1798). His pantomime, 'Mother Goose', in which Grimaldi took a part, was played at Covent Garden in 1807, and is said to have brought the management £20,000.] [Footnote 94: Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane theatre--as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him.] [Footnote 95: Naldi and Catalani require little notice; for the visage of the one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the Lady's appearance in trousers. [Guiseppe Naldi (1770-1820) made his 'début' on the London stage at the King's Theatre in April, 1806. In conjunction with Catalani and Braham, he gave concerts at Willis' Rooms. Angelica Catalani (circ. 1785-1849), a famous soprano, Italian by birth and training, made her 'début' at Venice in 1795. She remained in England for eight years (1806-14). Her first appearance in England was at the King's Theatre, in Portogallo's 'Semiramide,' in 1806. Her large salary was one of the causes which provoked the O. P. (Old Prices) Riots in December, 1809, at Covent Garden. Praed says of his 'Ball Room Belle'-- "She warbled Handel: it was grand; She made the Catalani jealous."] [Footnote 96: Moore says that the following twenty lines were struck off one night after Lord Byron's return from the Opera, and sent the next morning to the printer. The date of the letter to Dallas, with which the lines were enclosed, suggests that the representation which provoked the outburst was that of 'I Villegiatori Rezzani,' at the King's Theatre, February 21, 1809. The first piece, in which Naldi and Catalani were the principal singers, was followed by d'Egville's musical extravaganza, 'Don Quichotte, on les Noces de Gamache.' In the 'corps de ballet' were Deshayes, for many years master of the 'ballet' at the King's Theatre; Miss Gayton, who had played a Sylph at Drury Lane as early as 1806 (she was married, March 18, 1809, to the Rev. William Murray, brother of Sir James Pulteney, Bart.--'Morning Chronicle,' December 30, 1810), and Mademoiselle Angiolini, "elegant of figure, 'petite', but finely formed, with the manner of Vestris." Mademoiselle Presle does not seem to have taken part in 'Don Quichotte;' but she was well known as 'première danseuse' in 'La Belle Laitière, La Fête Chinoise,' and other ballets.]] [Footnote 97: For "whet" Editions 1-5 read "raise." Lines 632-637 are marked "good" in the Annotated Fourth Edition.] [Footnote 98: To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and not the Duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at Backgammon.[A] It is but justice to the manager in this instance to say, that some degree of disapprobation was manifested: but why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters of those who are blessed or cursed with such connections, to hear the Billiard-Balls rattling in one room, and the dice in another! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of an Institution which materially affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. [The Argyle Institution, founded by Colonel Greville, flourished many years before the Argyll Rooms were built by Nash in 1818. This mention of Greville's name caused him to demand an explanation from Byron, but the matter was amicably settled by Moore and G. F. Leckie, who acted on behalf of the disputants (see 'Life', pp. 160, 161).]] [Sub-Footnote A: "True. It was Billy Way who lost the money. I knew him, and was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of this event."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 99: Petronius, "Arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, "and a very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's "Old Bachelor" saith of Hannibal.] [Footnote 100: "We are authorised to state that Mr. Greville, who has a small party at his private assembly rooms at the Argyle, will receive from 10 to 12 [p.m.] masks who have Mrs. Chichester's Institution tickets.--Morning Post, June 7, 1809.] [Footnote 101: See note on line 686, infra.] [Footnote 102: 'Clodius'--"Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur."--['MS'] [The allusion is to the well-known incidents of his intrigue with Pompeia, Cæsar's wife, and his sacrilegious intrusion into the mysteries of the Bona Dea. The Romans had a proverb, "Clodius accuset Moechos?" (Juv., 'Sat.' ii. 27). That "Steenie" should lecture on the "turpitude of incontinence!" ('The Fortunes of Nigel,' cap. xxxii.)]] [Footnote 103: I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednesday morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor--as such, Britons will forgive them. ["His behaviour on the field was worthy of a better fate, and his conduct on the bed of death evinced all the firmness of a man without the farce of repentance--I say the farce of repentance, for death-bed repentance is a farce, and as little serviceable to the soul at such a moment as the surgeon to the body, though both may be useful if taken in time. Some hireling in the papers forged a tale about an agonized voice, etc. On mentioning the circumstance to Mr. Heaviside, he exclaimed, 'Good God! what absurdity to talk in this manner of one who died like a lion!'--he did more."--'MS'] He died like a brave man in a better cause; for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes. [Charles John Carey, ninth Viscount Falkland, died from a wound received in a duel with Mr. A. Powell on Feb. 28, 1809. (See Byron's letter to his mother, March 6, 1809.) The story of "the agonized voice" may be traced to a paragraph in the 'Morning Post,' March 2, 1809: "Lord Falkland, after hearing the surgeon's opinion, said with a faltering voice and as intelligibly as the agonized state of his body and mind permitted, "I acquit Mr. Powell of all blame; in this transaction I alone am culpable.'"]] [Footnote 104: "Yes: and a precious chase they led me."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 105: "'Fool' enough, certainly, then, and no wiser since."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 106: What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, HAFIZ, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz (where he reposes with FERDOUSI and SADI, the Oriental Homer and Catullus), and behold his name assumed by one STOTT of DROMORE, the most impudent and execrable of literary poachers for the Daily Prints?] [Footnote 107: Miles Peter Andrews (d. 1824) was the owner of large powder-mills at Dartford. He was M.P. for Bewdley. He held a good social position, but his intimate friends were actors and playwrights. His 'Better Late than Never' (which Reynolds and Topham helped him to write) was played for the first time at Drury Lane, October 17, 1790, with Kemble as Saville, and Mrs. Jordan as Augusta. He is mentioned in 'The Baviad', l. 10; and in a note Gifford satirizes his prologue to 'Lorenzo', and describes him as an "industrious paragraph-monger."]] [Footnote 108: In a manuscript fragment, bound in the same volume as 'British Bards', we find these lines:-- "In these, our times, with daily wonders big, A Lettered peer is like a lettered pig; Both know their Alphabet, but who, from thence, Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense? Still less that such should woo the graceful nine; Parnassus was not made for lords and swine."] [Footnote 109: Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl of Roscommon (1634-1685), author of many translations and minor poems, endeavoured (circ. 1663) to found an English literary academy.] [Footnote 110: John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave (1658), Marquis of Normanby (1694), Duke of Buckingham (1703) (1649-1721), wrote an 'Essay upon Poetry', and several other works.] [Footnote 111: Lines 727-740 were added after 'British Bards' had been printed, and are included in the First Edition, but the appearance in 'British Bards' of lines 723-726 and 741-746, which have been cut out from Mr. Murray's MS., forms one of many proofs as to the identity of the text of the 'MS'. and the printed Quarto.]] [Footnote 112: Frederick Howard, 5th Earl of Carlisle, K.G. (1748-1825), Viceroy of Ireland, 1780-1782, and Privy Seal, etc., published 'Tragedies and Poems', 1801. He was Byron's first cousin once removed, and his guardian. 'Poems Original and Translated,' were dedicated to Lord Carlisle, and, as an erased MS. addition to 'British Bards' testifies, he was to have been excepted from the roll of titled poetasters-- "Ah, who would take their titles from their rhymes? On 'one' alone Apollo deigns to smile, And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle." Before, however, the revised Satire was sent to the press, Carlisle ignored his cousin's request to introduce him on taking his seat in the House of Lords, and, to avenge the slight, eighteen lines of castigation supplanted the flattering couplet. Lord Carlisle suffered from a nervous disorder, and Byron was informed that some readers had scented an allusion in the words "paralytic puling." "I thank Heaven," he exclaimed, "I did not know it; and would not, could not, if I had. I must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects or maladies." In 1814 he consulted Rogers on the chance of conciliating Carlisle, and in 'Childe Harold', iii. 29, he laments the loss of the "young and gallant Howard" (Carlisle's youngest son) at Waterloo, and admits that "he did his sire some wrong." But, according to Medwin ('Conversations', 1824, p. 362), who prints an excellent parody on Carlisle's lines addressed to Lady Holland in 1822, in which he urges her to decline the legacy of Napoleon's snuff-box, Byron made fun of his "noble relative" to the end of the chapter ('vide post', p. 370, 'note' 2).]] [Footnote 113: The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the Stage, and offers his plan for building a new theatre. It is to be hoped his Lordship will be permitted to bring forward anything for the Stage--except his own tragedies. [This pamphlet was entitled 'Thoughts upon the present condition of the stage, and upon the construction of a new Theatre', anon. 1808.] Line 732. None of the earlier editions, including the fifth and Murray, 1831, insert "and" between "petit-maître" and "pamphleteer." No doubt Byron sounded the final syllable of "maître," 'anglicé' "mailer."]] [Footnote 114: "Doff that lion's hide, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." SHAKESPEARE, 'King John.' Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves:-- "The rest is all but [only, MS.] leather and prunella." "Wrong also--the provocation was not sufficient to justify such acerbity."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 115: 'All the Blocks, or an Antidote to "All the Talents"' by Flagellum (W. H. Ireland), London, 1807: 'The Groan of the Talents, or Private Sentiments on Public Occasions,' 1807; "Gr--vile Agonistes, 'A Dramatic Poem, 1807,' etc., etc."] [Footnote 116: "MELVILLE'S Mantle," a parody on 'Elijah's Mantle,' a poem. ['Elijah's Mantle, being verses occasioned by the death of that illustrious statesman, the Right Hon. W. Pitt.' Dedicated to the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of Lincoln (1807), was written by James Sayer. 'Melville's Mantle, being a Parody on the poem entitled "Elijah's Mantle"' was published by Budd, 1807. 'A Monody on the death of the R. H. C. J. Fox,' by Richard Payne Knight, was printed for J. Payne, 1806-7. Another "Monody," 'Lines written on returning from the Funeral of the R. H. C. J. Fox, Friday Oct'. 10, 1806, addressed to Lord Holland, was by M. G. Lewis, and there were others.]] [Footnote 117: This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew King, seems to be a follower of the Della Crusca school, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of 'The Monk.' "She since married the 'Morning Post'--an exceeding good match; and is now dead--which is better."--B., 1816. [The last seven words are in pencil, and, possibly, by another hand. The novelist "Rosa," the daughter of "Jew King," the lordly money-lender who lived in Clarges Street, and drove a yellow chariot, may possibly be confounded with "Rosa Matilda," Mrs. Byrne (Gronow, 'Rem.' (1889), i. 132-136). (See note 1, p. 358.)] [Footnote 118: Lines 759, 760 were added for the first time in the Fourth Edition.] [Footnote 119: Lines 756-764, with variant ii., refer to the Della Cruscan school, attacked by Gifford in 'The Baviad' and 'The Mæviad.' Robert Merry (1755-1798), together with Mrs. Piozzi, Bertie Greatheed, William Parsons, and some Italian friends, formed a literary society called the 'Oziosi' at Florence, where they published 'The Arno Miscellany' (1784) and 'The Florence Miscellany' (1785), consisting of verses in which the authors "say kind things of each other" (Preface to 'The Florence Miscellany,' by Mrs. Piozzi). In 1787 Merry, who had become a member of the Della Cruscan Academy at Florence, returned to London, and wrote in the 'World' (then edited by Captain Topham) a sonnet on "Love," under the signature of "Della Crusca." He was answered by Mrs. Hannah Cowley, 'née' Parkhouse (1743-1809), famous as the authoress of 'The Belles Stratagem' (acted at Covent Garden in 1782), in a sonnet called "The Pen," signed "Anna Matilda." The poetical correspondence which followed was published in 'The British Album' (1789, 2 vols.) by John Bell. Other writers connected with the Della Cruscan school were "Perdita" Robinson, 'née' Darby (1758-1800), who published 'The Mistletoe' (1800) under the pseudonym "Laura Maria," and to whom Merry addressed a poem quoted by Gifford in 'The Baviad' ('note' to line 284); Charlotte Dacre, who married Byrne, Robinson's successor as editor of the 'Morning Post,' wrote under the pseudonym of "Rosa Matilda," and published poems ('Hours of Solitude,' 1805) and numerous novels ('Confessions of the Nun of St. Omer's,' 1805; 'Zofloya;' 'The Libertine,' etc.); and "Hafiz" (Robert Stott, of the 'Morning Post'). Of these writers, "Della Crusca" Merry, and "Laura Maria" Robinson, were dead; "Anna Matilda" Cowley, "Hafiz" Stott, and "Rosa Matilda" Dacre were still living. John Bell (1745-1831), the publisher of 'The British Album,' was also one of the proprietors of the 'Morning Post,' the 'Oracle,' and the 'World,' in all of which the Della Cruscans wrote. His "Owls and Nightingales" are explained by a reference to 'The Baviad' (l. 284), where Gifford pretends to mistake the nightingale, to which Merry ("Arno") addressed some lines, for an owl. "On looking again, I find the owl to be a nightingale!--N'importe."]] [Footnote 120: These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers.] [Footnote 121: "This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then patronised by A. I. B." (Lady Byron); "but 'that' I did not know, or this would not have been written, at least I think not."--B., 1816. [Joseph Blacket (1786-1810), said by Southey ('Letters,' i. 172) to possess "force and rapidity," and to be endowed with "more powers than Robert Bloomfield, and an intellect of higher pitch," was the son of a labourer, and by trade a cobbler. He was brought into notice by S. J. Pratt (who published Blacket's 'Remains' in 1811), and was befriended by the Milbanke family. Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron, wrote (Sept. 2, 1809), "Seaham is at present the residence of a poet, by name Joseph Blacket, one of the Burns-like and Dermody kind, whose genius is his sole possession. I was yesterday in his company for the first time, and was much pleased with his manners and conversation. He is extremely diffident, his deportment is mild, and his countenance animated melancholy and of a satirical turn. His poems certainly display a superior genius and an enlarged mind...." Blacket died on the Seaham estate in Sept., 1810, at the age of twenty-three. (See Byron's letter to Dallas, June 28, 1811; his 'Epitaph for Joseph Blackett;' and 'Hints from Horace,' l. 734.)]] [Footnote 122: Capel Lofft, Esq., the Mæcenas of shoemakers, and Preface-writer-General to distressed versemen; a kind of gratis Accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring it forth. [Capel Lofft (1751-1824), jurist, poet, critic, and horticulturist, honoured himself by his kindly patronage of Robert Bloomfield (1766-1823), who was born at Honington, near Lofft's estate of Throston, Suffolk. Robert Bloomfield was brought up by his elder brothers-- Nathaniel a tailor, and George a shoemaker. It was in the latter's workshop that he composed 'The Farmer's Boy,' which was published (1798) with the help of Lofft. He also wrote 'Rural Tales' (1802), 'Good Tidings; or News from the Farm '(1804), 'The Banks of the Wye' (1811), etc. (See 'Hints from Horace,' line 734, notes 1 and 2.)]] [Footnote 123: See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosures of "Honington Green." [Nathaniel Bloomfield, as a matter of fact, called it a ballad.--'Poems' (1803).]] [Footnote 124: Vide 'Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire'. [The exact title is 'The Moorland Bard; or Poetical Recollections of a Weaver', etc. 2 vols., 1807. The author was T. Bakewell, who also wrote 'A Domestic Guide to Insanity', 1805.]] [Footnote 125: It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of 'The Pleasures of Memory' and 'The Pleasures of Hope', the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's 'Essay on Man': but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Campbell and Rogers are become strange.--[Beneath this note Byron scribbled, in 1816,-- "Pretty Miss Jaqueline Had a nose aquiline, And would assert rude Things of Miss Gertrude, While Mr. Marmion Led a great army on, Making Kehama look Like a fierce Mameluke." "I have been reading," he says, in 1813, "'Memory' again, and 'Hope' together, and retain all my preference of the former. His elegance is really wonderful--there is no such a thing as a vulgar line in his book." In the annotations of 1816, Byron remarks, "Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his first poems, but has still very great merit."] [Footnote 126: GIFFORD, author of the 'Baviad' and 'Mæviad', the first satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal, [and one (though not the best) of the translators of Juvenal.--'British Bards'.]] [Footnote 127: SOTHEBY, translator of WIELAND'S 'Oberon' and Virgil's 'Georgics', and author of 'Saul', an epic poem. [William Sotheby (1757-1833) began life as a cavalry officer, but being a man of fortune, sold out of the army and devoted himself to literature, and to the patronage of men of letters. His translation of the 'Oberon' appeared in 1798, and of the 'Georgics' in 1800. 'Saul' was published in 1807. When Byron was in Venice, he conceived a dislike to Sotheby, in the belief that he had made an anonymous attack on some of his works; but, later, his verdict was, "a good man, rhymes well (if not wisely); but is a bore" ('Diary', 1821; 'Works', p. 509, note). He is "the solemn antique man of rhyme" ('Beppo', st. lxiii.), and the "Botherby" of 'The Blues'; and in 'Don Juan', Canto I. st. cxvi., we read-- "Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's house His Pegasus nor anything that's his."]] [Footnote 128: MACNEIL, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly "SCOTLAND'S Scaith," and the "Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. [Hector Macneil (1746-1816) wrote in defence of slavery in Jamaica, and was the author of several poems: 'Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean' (1795), 'The Waes of War, or the Upshot of the History of Will and Jean' (1796), etc., etc.]] [Footnote 129: Mr. GIFFORD promised publicly that the 'Baviad' and 'Mæviad' should not be his last original works: let him remember, "Mox in reluctantes dracones." [Cf. 'New Morality,' lines 29-42.]] [Footnote 130: Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. [H. K. White (1785-1806) published 'Clifton Grove' and other poems in 1803. Two volumes of his 'Remains,' consisting of poems, letters, etc., with a life by Southey, were issued in 1808. His tendency to epilepsy was increased by over-work at Cambridge. He once remarked to a friend that "were he to paint a picture of Fame, crowning a distinguished undergraduate after the Senate house examination, he would represent her as concealing a Death's head under a mask of Beauty" ('Life of H. K. W.', by Southey, i. 45). By "the soaring lyre, which else had sounded an immortal lay," Byron, perhaps, refers to the unfinished 'Christiad,' which, says Southey, "Henry had most at heart."]] [Footnote 131: Lines 832-834, as they stand in the text, were inserted in MS. in both the Annotated Copies of the Fourth Edition.]] [Footnote 132: "I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these times, in point of power and genius."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 133: Mr. Shee, author of 'Rhymes on Art' and 'Elements of Art'. [Sir Martin Archer Shee (1770-1850) was President of the Royal Academy (1830-45). His 'Rhymes on Art' (1805) and 'Elements of Art' (1809), a poem in six cantos, will hardly be regarded as worthy of Byron's praise, which was probably quite genuine. He also wrote a novel, 'Harry Calverley', and other works.]] [Footnote 134: Mr. Wright, late Consul-General for the Seven Islands, is author of a very beautiful poem, just published: it is entitled 'Horæ Ionicæ', and is descriptive of the isles and the adjacent coast of Greece. [Walter Rodwell Wright was afterwards President of the Court of Appeal in Malta, where he died in 1826. 'Horæ Ionicæ, a Poem descriptive of the Ionian Islands, and Part of the Adjacent Coast of Greece', was published in 1809. He is mentioned in one of Byron's long notes to 'Childe Harold', canto ii., dated Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 1811.]] [Footnote 135: The translators of the Anthology have since published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to attain eminence. [The Rev. Robert Bland (1779-1825) published, in 1806, 'Translations chiefly from the Greek Anthology, with Tales and Miscellaneous Poems'. In these he was assisted (see 'Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 226-260) by Denman (afterwards Chief Justice), by Hodgson himself, and, above all, by John Herman Merivale (1779-1844), who subsequently, in 1813, was joint editor with him of 'Collections from the Greek Anthology', etc.]] [Footnote 136: Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802), the grandfather of Charles Robert Darwin. Coleridge describes his poetry as "nothing but a succession of landscapes or paintings. It arrests the attention too often, and so prevents the rapidity necessary to pathos."--'Anima Poetæ', 1895, p. 5. His chief works are 'The Botanic Garden' (1789-92) and 'The Temple of Nature' (1803). Byron's censure of 'The Botanic Garden' is inconsistent with his principles, for Darwin's verse was strictly modelled on the lines of Pope and his followers. But the 'Loves of the Triangles' had laughed away the 'Loves of the Plants'.]] [Footnote 137: The neglect of 'The Botanic Garden' is some proof of returning taste. The scenery is its sole recommendation.] [Footnote 138: This was not Byron's mature opinion, nor had he so expressed himself in the review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' which he contributed to 'Crosby's Magazine' in 1807 ('Life', p. 669). His scorn was, in part, provoked by indignities offered to Pope and Dryden, and, in part, assumed because one Lake poet called up the rest; and it was good sport to flout and jibe at the "Fraternity." That the day would come when the message of Wordsworth would reach his ears and awaken his enthusiasm, he could not, of course, foresee (see 'Childe Harold', canto iii. stanzas 72, 'et seqq.').]] [Footnote 139: Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co. [Charles Lloyd (1775-1839) resided for some months under Coleridge's roof, first in Bristol, and afterwards at Nether Stowey (1796-1797). He published, in 1796, a folio edition of his 'Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer', in which a sonnet by Coleridge and a poem of Lamb's were included. Lamb and Lloyd contributed several pieces to the second edition of Coleridge's Poems, published in 1797; and in 1798 they brought out a joint volume of their own composition, named 'Poems in Blank Verse'. 'Edmund Oliver', a novel, appeared also in 1798. An estrangement between Coleridge and Lloyd resulted in a quarrel with Lamb, and a drawing together of Lamb, Lloyd, and Southey. But Byron probably had in his mind nothing more than the lines in the 'Anti-Jacobin', where Lamb and Lloyd are classed with Coleridge and Southey as advocates of French socialism:-- "Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd and Lamb and Co., Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux." In later life Byron expressed a very different opinion of Lamb's literary merits. (See the preface to 'Werner', now first published.)]] [Footnote 140: By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, his hero or heroine will be less addicted to "Gramarye," and more to Grammar, than the Lady of the Lay and her Bravo, William of Deloraine.] [Footnote 141: "Unjust."--B., 1816. [In 'Frost at Midnight', first published in 1798, Coleridge twice mentions his "Cradled infant."]] [Footnote 142: The Rev. W. L. Bowles ('vide ante', p. 323, note 2), published, in 1789, 'Fourteen Sonnets written chiefly on Picturesque Spots during a Journey'.]] [Footnote 143: It may be asked, why I have censured the Earl of CARLISLE, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago?--The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not burden my memory with the recollection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a "discerning public" (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate the earl: no--his works come fairly in review with those of other Patrician Literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said anything in favour of his Lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord CARLISLE: if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations from Elegies, Eulogies, Odes, Episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark:-- "What can ennoble knaves, or 'fools', or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards." So says Pope. Amen!--"Much too savage, whatever the foundation might be."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 144: Line 952. 'Note'-- "Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora." (VIRGIL.)] [Footnote 145: "The devil take that 'Phoenix'! How came it there?" --B., 1816.] [Footnote 146: The Rev. Charles James Hoare (1781-1865), a close friend of the leaders of the Evangelical party, gained the Seatonian Prize at Cambridge in 1807 with his poem on the 'Shipwreck of St. Paul'.] [Footnote 147: Edmund Hoyle, the father of the modern game of whist, lived from 1672 to 1769. The Rev. Charles Hoyle, his "poetical namesake," was, like Hoare, a Seatonian prizeman, and wrote an epic in thirteen books on the 'Exodus'.] [Footnote 148: The 'Games of Hoyle', well known to the votaries of Whist, Chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake ["illustrious Synonime" in 'MS.' and 'British Bards'], whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of Egypt."] [Footnote 149: Here, as in line 391, "Fresh fish from Helicon," etc., Byron confounds Helicon and Hippocrene.]] [Footnote 150: This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated 'The Art of Pleasing', as "Lucus a non lucendo," containing little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as ["lies as" in 'MS.'] monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the 'Satirist'. If this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary.] [Note.--An unfortunate young person of Emanuel College, Cambridge, ycleped Hewson Clarke, has lately manifested the most rabid symptoms of confirmed Authorship. His Disorder commenced some years ago, and the 'Newcastle Herald' teemed with his precocious essays, to the great edification of the Burgesses of Newcastle, Morpeth, and the parts adjacent even unto Berwick upon Tweed. These have since been abundantly scurrilous upon the [town] of Newcastle, his native spot, Mr. Mathias and Anacreon Moore. What these men had done to offend Mr. Hewson Clarke is not known, but surely the town in whose markets he had sold meat, and in whose weekly journal he had written prose deserved better treatment. Mr. H.C. should recollect the proverb "'tis a villainous bird that defiles his own nest." He now writes in the 'Satirist'. We recommend the young man to abandon the magazines for mathematics, and to believe that a high degree at Cambridge will be more advantageous, as well as profitable in the end, than his present precarious gleanings.] [Hewson Clarke (1787-circ. 1832) was entered at Emmanuel Coll. Camb. circ. 1806 (see 'Postscript'). He had to leave the University without taking a degree, and migrated to London, where he devoted his not inconsiderable talents to contributions to the 'Satirist', the 'Scourge', etc. He also wrote: 'An Impartial History of the Naval, etc., Events of Europe ... from the French Revolution ... to the Conclusion of a General Peace' (1815); and a continuation of Hume's 'History of England', 2 vols. (1832). The 'Satirist', a monthly magazine illustrated with coloured cartoons, was issued 1808-1814. 'Hours of Idleness' was reviewed Jan. 1808 (i. 77-81). "The Diary of a Cantab" (June, 1808, ii. 368) contains some verses of "Lord B----n to his Bear. To the tune of Lachin y gair." The last verse runs thus:-- "But when with the ardour of Love I am burning, I feel for thy torments, I feel for thy care; And weep for thy bondage, so truly discerning What's felt by a 'Lord', may be felt by a 'Bear'." In August, 1808 (iii. 78-86), there is a critique on 'Poems Original and Translated', in which the bear plays many parts. The writer "is without his bear and is himself muzzled," etc. Towards the close of the article a solemn sentence is passed on the author for his disregard of the advice of parents, tutors, friends; "but," adds the reviewer, "in the paltry volume before us we think we observe some proof that the still small voice of conscience will be heard in the cool of the day. Even now the gay, the gallant, the accomplished bear-leader is not happy," etc. Hence the castigation of "the sizar of Emmanuel College."] [Footnote 151: "Right enough: this was well deserved, and well laid on." (B., 1816.)] [Footnote 152: "Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a considerable body of Vandals." (Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall', ii. 83.) There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion; the breed is still in high perfection. We see no reason to doubt the truth of this statement, as a large stock of the same breed are to be found there at this day.--'British Bards'. [Lines 981-984 do not occur in the 'MS'. Lines 981, 982, are inserted in MS. in 'British Bards'.]] [Footnote 153: This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man who [has surpassed Dryden and Gifford as a Translator.--'MS. British Bards'] in translation displays unquestionable genius may be well expected to excel in original composition, of which, it is to be hoped, we shall soon see a splendid specimen. [Francis Hodgson (1781-1852) was Byron's lifelong friend. His 'Juvenal' appeared in 1807; 'Lady Jane Grey and other Poems', in 1809; 'Sir Edgar, a Tale', in 1810. For other works and details, see 'Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', by the Rev. James T. Hodgson (1878).]] [Footnote 154: Hewson Clarke, 'Esq'., as it is written.] [Footnote 155: 'The Aboriginal Britons', an excellent ["most excellent" in 'MS.'] poem, by Richards. [The Rev. George Richards, D.D. (1769-1835), a Fellow of Oriel, and afterwards Rector of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. 'The Aboriginal Britons', a prize poem, was published in 1792, and was followed by 'The Songs of the Aboriginal Bards of Britain' (1792), and various other prose and poetical works.]] [Footnote: 156. With this verse the satire originally ended.] [Footnote 157: A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace of Portland was likened to an old woman? replied, "he supposed it was because he was past bearing." (Even Homer was a punster--a solitary pun.)--['MS'.] His Grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as ever; but even his sleep was better than his colleagues' waking. 1811. [William Henry Cavendish, third Duke of Portland (1738-1809), Prime Minister in 1807, on the downfall of the Ministry of "All the Talents," till his death in 1809, was, as the wits said, "a convenient block to hang Whigs on," but was not, even in his vigour, a man of much intellectual capacity. When Byron meditated a tour to India in 1808, Portland declined to write on his behalf to the Directors of the East India Company, and couched his refusal in terms which Byron fancied to be offensive.]] [Footnote 158: "Saw it August, 1809."--B., 1816. [The following notes were omitted from the Fifth Edition:-- "Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. Saw it August, 1809.--B., 1816. "Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople. Was there the summer 1810." To "Mount Caucasus," he adds, "Saw the distant ridge of,--1810, 1811"]] [Footnote 159: Georgia.] [Footnote 160: Mount Caucasus.] [Footnote 161: Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without noses, in his stoneshop, are the work of Phidias! "Credat Judæus!" [R. Payne Knight, in his introduction to 'Specimens of Ancient Sculpture', published 1809, by the Dilettanti Society, throws a doubt on the Phidian workmanship of the "Elgin" marbles. See the Introduction to 'The Curse of Minerva'.]] [Footnote 162: [Sir William Gell (1777-1836) published the 'Topography of Troy' (1804), the 'Geography and Antiquities of Ithaca' (1807), and the 'Itinerary of Greece' (1808). Byron reviewed the two last works in the 'Monthly Review' (August, 1811), ('Life', pp. 670, 676). Fresh from the scenes, he speaks with authority. "With Homer in his pocket and Gell on his sumpter-mule, the Odysseus tourist may now make a very classical and delightful excursion." The epithet in the original MS. was "coxcomb," but becoming acquainted with Gell while the satire was in the press, Byron changed it to "classic." In the fifth edition he altered it to "rapid," and appended this note:--"'Rapid,' indeed! He topographised and typographised King Priam's dominions in three days! I called him 'classic' before I saw the Troad, but since have learned better than to tack to his name what don't belong to it."]] [Footnote 163: Mr. Gell's 'Topography of Troy and Ithaca' cannot fail to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the respective works display. "'Troy and Ithaca.' Visited both in 1810, 1811."--B., 1816. "'Ithaca' passed first in 1809."--B., 1816. "Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as to the above note. Cell's survey was hasty and superficial."--B., 1816.] [Footnote 164: "Singular enough, and 'din' enough, God knows." (B., 1816).] [Footnote 165: "The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish had never been written-not only on account of the injustice of much of the critical, and some of the personal part of it--but the tone and temper are such as I cannot approve." BYRON. July 14, 1816. 'Diodati, Geneva'.] [Footnote i: 'Truth be my theme, and Censure guide my song.' ['MS. M.'] [Footnote ii: 'But thou, at least, mine own especial quill Dipt in the dew drops from Parnassus' hill, Shalt ever honoured and regarded be, By more beside no doubt, yet still by me.' ['MS. M.'] ] [Footnote iii: 'And men through life her willing slaves obey.' ['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote iv: 'Unfolds her motley store to suit the time.'-- ['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote v: 'When Justice halts and Right begins to fail.' ['MS. Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote vi: 'A mortal weapon'. ['MS. M.'] [Footnote vii: 'Yet Titles sounding lineage cannot save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave, Lamb had his farce but that Patrician name Failed to preserve the spurious brat from shame.' ['MS.']] [Footnote viii: 'a lucky hit.' ['Second, Third, and Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote ix: 'No dearth of rhyme.' ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote x: 'The Press oppressed.' ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xi: 'While Southey's Epics load.' ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xii: 'O'er taste awhile these Infidels prevail.' ['MS.']] [Footnote xiii: 'Erect and hail an idol of their own.' ['MS.']] [Footnote xiv: 'Not quite a footpad-----.' ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xv: 'Low may they sink to merited contempt.' ['British Bards'.]] 'And Scorn reimmerate the mean attempt!'-- ['MS. First to Fourth Editions']] [Footnote xvi: '--though lesser bards content--' ['British Bards'] [Footnote xvii: 'How well the subject.' ['MS. First to Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote xviii: 'A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.'-- ['British Bards, First to Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote xix: 'Who fain would'st.' ['British Bards, First to Fifth Editions'.]] [Footnote xx: 'Mend thy life, and sin no more.' ['MS.']] [Footnote xxi: 'And o'er harmonious nonsense.' ['MS. First Edition.']] [Footnote xxii: 'In many marble-covered volumes view Hayley, in vain attempting something new, Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, Or scrawls as Wood and Barclay [A] walk, 'gainst Time.' ['MS. British Bards', and 'First to Fourth Editions.'] [Sub-Footnote A: Captain Robert Barclay (1779-1854) of Ury, agriculturalist and pedestrian, came of a family noted for physical strength and endurance. Byron saw him win his walk against Wood at Newmarket. (See Angelo's 'Reminiscences' (1837), vol. ii. pp. 37-44.) In July, 1809, Barclay completed his task of walking a thousand miles in a thousand hours, at the rate of one mile in each and every hour. (See, too, for an account of Barclay, 'The Eccentric Review' (1812), i. 133-150.)]] [Footnote xxiii: 'Breaks into mawkish lines each holy Book'. ['MS. First Edition'.] ] [Footnote xxiv: 'Thy "Sympathy" that'. ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xxv: 'And shows dissolved in sympathetic tears'. '----in thine own melting tears.--' ['MS. First to Fourth Editions'.]] [Footnote xxvi: 'Whether in sighing winds them seek'st relief Or Consolation in a yellow leaf.--' ['MS. first to Fourth Editions.'] ] [Footnote xxvii: 'What pretty sounds.' ['British Bards.'] ] [Footnote xxviii: 'Thou fain woulds't----' ['British Bards.'] ] [Footnote xxix: 'But to soft themes'. ['British Bards, First Edition'.] ] [Footnote xxx: 'The Bard has wove'. ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xxxi: 'If Pope, since mortal, not untaught to err Again demand a dull biographer'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote xxxii: 'Too much in Turtle Bristol's sons delight Too much in Bowls of Rack prolong the night.--' ['MS. Second to Fourth Editions'.] 'Too much o'er Bowls.' ['Second and Third Editions'.]] [Footnote xxxiii: 'And yet why'. ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xxxiv: 'Or old or young'. ['British Bards'.] ] [Footnote xxxv: --'yes, I'm sure all may.' ['Quarto Proof Sheet'] [Footnote xxxvi: 'While Cloacina's holy pontiff Lambe [3] As he himself was damned shall try to damn'. ['British Bards'.] [Sub-Footnote A. We have heard of persons who "when the Bagpipe sings in the nose cannot contain their urine for affection," but Mr. L. carries it a step further than Shakespeare's diuretic amateurs, being notorious at school and college for his inability to contain--anything. We do not know to what "Pipe" to attribute this additional effect, but the fact is uncontrovertible.--['Note' to Quarto Proof bound up with 'British Bards'.]] [Footnote xxxvii: 'Lo! long beneath'--. ['British Bards'.]] [Footnote xxxviii: 'And grateful to the founder of the feast Declare his landlord can translate at least'.-- ['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]] [Footnote xxxix: '--are fed because they write.' ['British Bards'.]] [Footnote xl: 'Princes in Barrels, Counts in arbours pent.-- [MS. British Bards'.]] [Footnote xli: 'His "damme, poohs."' ['MS. First Edition.']] [Footnote xlii: 'While Kenny's World just suffered to proceed Proclaims the audience very kind indeed'.-- ['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]] [Footnote xliii: 'Resume her throne again'.-- ['MS. British Bards. First to Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote xliv:-- 'and Kemble lives to tread'.-- ['British Bards. First to Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote xlv: 'St. George [A] and Goody Goose divide the prize.'-- [MS. alternative in British Bards.] [Sub-Footnote A: We need not inform the reader that we do not allude to the Champion of England who slew the Dragon. Our St. George is content to draw status with a very different kind of animal.--[Pencil note to 'British Bards'.]]] [Footnote xlvi: 'Its humble flight to splendid Pantomimes'. ['British Bards. MS']] [Footnote xlvii: 'Behold the new Petronius of the times The skilful Arbiter of modern crimes.' ['MS.'] [Footnote xlviii: '----a Paget for your wife.' ['MS. First to Fourth Editions.']] [Footnote xlix: 'From Grosvenor Place or Square'. ['MS. British Bards'.]] [Footnote l: 'On one alone Apollo deigns to smile And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle.' ['MS. Addition to British Bards.'] 'Nor e'en a hackneyed Muse will deign to smile On minor Byron, or mature Carlisle.' [First Edition.] [Footnote li: 'Yet at their fiat----' 'Yet at their nausea----.' ['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]] [Footnote lii: 'Such sneering fame.' ['British Bards'] [Footnote liii: 'Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls, Matilda snivels still and Hafiz howls, And Crusca's spirit rising from the dead Revives in Laura, Quiz, and X. Y. Z.'-- ['British Bards. First to Third Editions', 1810.]] [Footnote liv: 'None since the past have claimed the tribute due'. ['British Bards. MS'.]] [Footnote lv: 'From Albion's cliffs to Caledonia's coast. Some few who know to write as well as feel'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote lvi: 'The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.--' ['First to Fourth Editions']] [Footnote lvii: 'On him may meritorious honours tend While doubly mingling,'. ['MS. erased'.]] Footnote lviii: 'And you united Bards'. ['MS. Addition to British Bards'.] 'And you ye nameless'. ['MS. erased'.]] [Footnote lvix: 'Translation's servile work at length disown And quit Achaia's Muse to court your own'. ['MS. Addition to British Bards'.]] [Footnote lx: 'Let these arise and anxious of applause'. ['British Bards. MS'.]] [Footnote lxi: 'But not in heavy'. ['British Bards. MS'.]] [Footnote lxii: 'Let prurient Southey cease'. ['MS. British Bards'.]] [Footnote lxiii: 'still the babe at nurse'. ['MS'.] 'Let Lewis jilt our nurseries with alarm With tales that oft disgust and never charm'. [Footnote lxiv: 'But thou with powers--' ['MS. British Bards'.]] [Footnote lxv: 'Let MOORE be lewd; let STRANGFORD steal from MOORE'. ['MS. First to Fourth Editions'.]] [Footnote lxvi: 'For outlawed Sherwood's tales.' ['MS. Brit. Bards. Eds.' 1-4.] [Footnote lxvii: 'And even spurns the great Seatonian prize.--' ['MS. First to Fourth Editions' (a correction in the Annotated Copy).]] [Footnote lxviii: 'With odes by Smyth [A] and epic songs by Hoyle, Hoyle whose learn'd page, if still upheld by whist Required no sacred theme to bid us list.--' ['MS. British Bards.'] [Sub-Footnote A: William Smyth (1766-1849). Professor of Modern History at Cambridge, published his 'English Lyrics' (in 1806), and several other works.] [Footnote lxix: 'Yet hold--as when by Heaven's supreme behest, If found, ten righteous had preserved the Rest In Sodom's fated town--for Granta's name Let Hodgson's Genius plead and save her fame But where fair Isis, etc.' ['MS.' and 'British Bards.']] [Footnote lxx: 'See Clarke still striving piteously to please Forgets that Doggrel leads not to degrees.--' ['MS. Fragment' bound up with 'British Bards'.] [Footnote lxxi: 'So sunk in dullness and so lost in shame That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame.--' ['MS. Addition to British Bards. First to Fourth Editions'.]] [Footnote lxxii: '----is wove.--' [MS. British Bards' and 'First to Fourth Editions'.]] [Footnote lxxiii: 'And modern Britons justly praise their sires.'-- ['MS. British Bards' and 'First to Fourth Editions]] [Footnote lxxiv: '--what her sons must know too well.' ['British Bards]] [Footnote lxxv: 'Zeal for her honour no malignant Rage, Has bade me spurn the follies of the age.--' ['MS. British Bards'. First Edition]] [Footnote lxxvi: '--Ocean's lonely Queen.' ['British Bards']] '--Ocean's mighty Queen.' ['First to Fourth Editions']] [Footnote: lxxvii. 'Like these thy cliffs may sink in ruin hurled The last white ramparts of a falling world'.-- ['British Bards MS.']] [Footnote: lxxviii. 'But should I back return, no lettered rage Shall drag my common-place book on the stage: Let vain Valentia [A] rival luckless Carr, And equal him whose work he sought to mar.--' ['Second to Fourth Editions'.] [Sub-Footnote: A. Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming with due decorations, graphical, topographical, typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Mr. Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of 'The Stranger' in Ireland.--Oh, fie, my lord! has your lordship no more feeling for a fellow-tourist?--but "two of a trade," they say, etc. [George Annesley, Viscount Valentia (1769-1844), published, in 1809, 'Voyages and Travels to India, Ceylon, the Red Sea, Abyssinia, and Egypt in the Years 1802-6'. Byron calls him "vain" Valentia, because his "accounts of ceremonies attending his lordship's interviews with several of the petty princes" suggest the thought "that his principal errand to India was to measure certain rank in the British peerage against the gradations of Asiatic royalty."--'Eclectic Review', August, 1809. In August, 1808, Sir John Carr, author of numerous 'Travels', brought an unsuccessful action for damages against Messrs. Hood and Sharpe, the publishers of the parody of his works by Edward Dubois,--'My Pocket Book: or Hints for a Ryghte Merrie and Conceitede Tour, in 4to, to be called "The Stranger in Ireland in 1805,"' By a Knight Errant, and dedicated to the papermakers. (See Letter to Hodgson, August 6, 1809, and suppressed stanza (stanza Ixxxvii.) of the first canto of 'Childe Harold'.)]] [Footnote lxxix: 'To stun mankind, with Poesy or Prose'. ['Second to Fourth Editions'.] [Footnote lxxx: 'Thus much I've dared to do, how far my lay'.-- ['First to Fourth Editions'.]] POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. I have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, 'unresisting' Muse, whom they have already so be-deviled with their ungodly ribaldry; "Tantæne animis coelestibus Iræ!" I suppose I must say of JEFFREY as Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK saith, "an I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. [1] My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffery; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and slandering," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking"? I have adduced facts already well known, and of JEFFREY's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury:--what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there "persons of honour and wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal: those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! "the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (subaudi 'esquire'), a sizer of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the 'Satirist' for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name, till coupled with the 'Satirist'. He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather 'pleased' than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the editor of the 'Satirist', who, it seems, is a gentleman--God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. JERNINGHAM[1] is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the few, who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers, and, in the words of SCOTT, I wish "To all and each a fair good night, And rosy dreams and slumbers light." [Footnote 1: The article never appeared, and Lord Byron, in the 'Hints from Horace', taunted Jeffrey with a silence which seemed to indicate that the critic was beaten from the field.] [Footnote 2: Edward Jerningham (1727-1812), third son of Sir George Jerningham, Bart., was an indefatigable versifier. Between the publication of his first poem, 'The Nunnery', in 1766, and his last, 'The Old Bard's Farewell', in 1812, he sent to the press no less than thirty separate compositions. As a contributor to the 'British Album', Gifford handled him roughly in the 'Baviad' (lines 21, 22); and Mathias, in a note to 'Pursuits of Literature', brackets him with Payne Knight as "ecrivain du commun et poëte vulgaire." He was a dandy with a literary turn, who throughout a long life knew every one who was worth knowing. Some of his letters have recently been published (see 'Jerningham Letters', two vols., 1896).] HINTS FROM HORACE: [i] BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE "AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICÂ," AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." ----"Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum Reddere quæ ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." HOR. 'De Arte Poet'., II. 304 and 305. "Rhymes are difficult things--they are stubborn things, Sir." FIELDING'S 'Amelia', Vol. iii. Book; and Chap. v. [Footnote i: Hints from Horace (Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811); being an Imitation in English Verse from the Epistle, etc. [MS, M.] Hints from Horace: being a Partial Imitation, in English Verse, of the Epistle 'Ad Pisones, De Arte Poeticâ'; and intended as a sequel to 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 12, 1811. ['Proof b'.]] INTRODUCTION TO HINTS FROM HORACE Three MSS. of 'Hints from Horace' are extant, two in the possession of Lord Lovelace (MSS. L. a and b), and a third in the possession of Mr. Murray ('MS. M'.). Proofs of lines 173-272 and 1-272 ('Proofs a, b'), are among the Egerton MSS. in the British Museum. They were purchased from the Rev. Alexander Dallas, January 12, 1867, and are, doubtless, fragments of the proofs set up in type for Cawthorn in 1811. They are in "book-form," and show that the volume was intended to be uniform with the Fifth Edition of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', of 1811. The text corresponds closely but not exactly with that adopted by Murray in 1831, and does not embody the variants of the several MSS. It is probable that complete proofs were in Moore's possession at the time when he included the selections from the 'Hints' in his 'Letters and Journals', pp. 263-269, and that the text of the entire poem as published in 1831 was derived from this source. Selections, numbering in all 156 lines, had already appeared in 'Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron', by R. C. Dallas, 1824, pp. 104-113. Byron, estimating the merit by the difficulty of the performance, rated the 'Hints from Horace' extravagantly high. He only forbore to publish them after the success of 'Childe Harold', because he felt, as he states, that he should be "heaping coals of fire upon his head" if he were in his hour of triumph to put forth a sequel to a lampoon provoked by failure. Nine years afterwards, when he resolved to print the work with some omissions, he gravely maintained that it excelled the productions of his mature genius. "As far," he said, "as versification goes, it is good; and on looking back at what I wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how little I have trained on. I wrote better then than now; but that comes of my having fallen into the atrocious bad taste of the times" [September 23, 1820]. The opinion of J. C. Hobhouse that the 'Hints' would require "a good deal of slashing" to adapt them to the passing hour, and other considerations, again led Byron to suspend the publication. Authors are frequently bad judges of their own works, but of all the literary hallucinations upon record there are none which exceed the mistaken preferences of Lord Byron. Shortly after the appearance of 'The Corsair' he fancied that 'English Bards' was still his masterpiece; when all his greatest works had been produced, he contended that his translation from Pulci was his "grand performance,--the best thing he ever did in his life;" and throughout the whole of his literary career he regarded these 'Hints from Horace' with a special and unchanging fondness. HINTS FROM HORACE ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, March. 12, 1811. [i] Who would not laugh, if Lawrence [1], hired to grace [ii] His costly canvas with each flattered face, Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush? Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, A Maid of Honour to a Mermaid's tail? [iii] Or low Dubost [2]--as once the world has seen-- Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen? Not all that forced politeness, which defends Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 10 Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems [iv] The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet. Poets and painters, as all artists know, [v] May shoot a little with a lengthened bow; We claim this mutual mercy for our task, And grant in turn the pardon which we ask; But make not monsters spring from gentle dams-- Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 20 A laboured, long Exordium, sometimes tends (Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; [vi] And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, As Pertness passes with a legal gown: [vii] Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain [viii] The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain: The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls, King's Coll-Cam's stream-stained windows, and old walls: Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames. [3] 30 You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine [ix]-- But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; You plan a _vase_--it dwindles to a _pot_; Then glide down Grub-street--fasting and forgot: Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review, Whose wit is never troublesome till--true. In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, Let it at least be simple and entire. The greater portion of the rhyming tribe [x] (Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 40 Are led astray by some peculiar lure. [xi] I labour to be brief--become obscure; One falls while following Elegance too fast; Another soars, inflated with Bombast; Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, He spins his subject to Satiety; Absurdly varying, he at last engraves Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves! [xii] Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice, The flight from Folly leads but into Vice; 50 None are complete, all wanting in some part, Like certain tailors, limited in art. For galligaskins Slowshears is your man [xiii] But coats must claim another artisan. [4] Now this to me, I own, seems much the same As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame; Or, with a fair complexion, to expose Black eyes, black ringlets, but--a bottle nose! Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength, And ponder well your subject, and its length; 60 Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, [xiv] Await the Poet, skilful in his choice; With native Eloquence he soars along, Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song. Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine With future parts the now omitted line: This shall the Author choose, or that reject, Precise in style, and cautious to select; 70 Nor slight applause will candid pens afford To him who furnishes a wanting word. [xv] Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, (As Pitt has furnished us a word or two, [5] Which Lexicographers declined to do;) So you indeed, with care,--(but be content To take this license rarely)--may invent. New words find credit in these latter days, If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase; [xvi] 80 What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer Muse. If you can add a little, say why not, As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott? Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, [xvii] Enriched our Island's ill-united tongues; 'Tis then--and shall be--lawful to present Reform in writing, as in Parliament. As forests shed their foliage by degrees, So fade expressions which in season please; 90 And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate, And works and words but dwindle to a date. Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls, [xviii] Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain [xix] The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, And rising ports along the busy shore Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar, All, all, must perish; but, surviving last, The love of Letters half preserves the past. 100 True, some decay, yet not a few revive; [xx] [6] Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive, As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway [xxi] Our life and language must alike obey. The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage, Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? His strain will teach what numbers best belong To themes celestial told in Epic song. [xxii] The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint The Lover's anguish, or the Friend's complaint. 110 But which deserves the Laurel--Rhyme or Blank? [xxiii] Which holds on Helicon the higher rank? Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. You doubt--see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's Dean. [7] Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. Though mad Almanzor [8] rhymed in Dryden's days, No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays; 120 Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes For jest and 'pun' [9] in very middling prose. Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. But so Thalia pleases to appear, [xxiv] Poor Virgin! damned some twenty times a year! Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight:-- Adapt your language to your Hero's state. At times Melpomene forgets to groan, And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 130 Nor unregarded will the act pass by Where angry Townly [10] "lifts his voice on high." Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings, When common prose will serve for common things; And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, [xxv]-- To "hollaing Hotspur" [11] and his sceptred sire. [xxvi] 'Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art, To polish poems; they must touch the heart: Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 140 Command your audience or to smile or weep, Whiche'er may please you--anything but sleep. The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave, Before I shed them, let me see 'him' grieve. If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear, Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer. [xxvii] Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, And men look angry in the proper place. At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye; 150 For Nature formed at first the inward man, And actors copy Nature--when they can. She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground; And for Expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung, [xxviii] She gave our mind's interpreter--the tongue, Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense (At least in theatres) with common sense; O'erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit, And raise a laugh with anything--but Wit. 160 To skilful writers it will much import, Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court; Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, To draw a Lying Valet, [12] or a Lear, [13] A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull; All persons please when Nature's voice prevails, Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. Or follow common fame, or forge a plot; [xxix] Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not! 170 One precept serves to regulate the scene: Make it appear as if it _might_ have _been_. If some Drawcansir [14] you aspire to draw, Present him raving, and above all law: If female furies in your scheme are planned, Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand; For tears and treachery, for good and evil, Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil! But if a new design you dare essay, And freely wander from the beaten way, 180 True to your characters, till all be past, Preserve consistency from first to last. Tis hard [15] to venture where our betters fail, [xxx] Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale; And yet, perchance,'tis wiser to prefer A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err; Yet copy not too closely, but record, More justly, thought for thought than word for word; Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways, But only follow where he merits praise. 190 For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead [16] To tremble on the nod of all who read, Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls, [xxxi] Beware--for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles! "Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [17]-- And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?-- He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice! Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire The tempered warblings of his master-lyre; 200 Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, "Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit" He speaks, but, as his subject swells along, Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song."[xxxii] Still to the "midst of things" he hastens on, As if we witnessed all already done; [xxxiii] Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean To raise the subject, or adorn the scene; Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness--light; 210 And truth and fiction with such art compounds, We know not where to fix their several bounds. If you would please the Public, deign to hear What soothes the many-headed monster's ear: [xxxiv] If your heart triumph when the hands of all Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, Deserve those plaudits--study Nature's page, And sketch the striking traits of every age; While varying Man and varying years unfold Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told; 220 Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays: Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! [xxxv] Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan [xxxvi] O'er Virgil's [18] devilish verses and his own; Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse, He flies from Tavell's frown to "Fordham's Mews;" (Unlucky Tavell! [19] doomed to daily cares [xxxvii] By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) 230 Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain, Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain. Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash; Constant to nought--save hazard and a whore, [xxxviii] Yet cursing both--for both have made him sore: Unread (unless since books beguile disease, The P----x becomes his passage to Degrees); Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away, [xxxix] And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.; 240 Master of Arts! as _hells_ and _clubs_ [20] proclaim, [xl] Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name! Launched into life, extinct his early fire, He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire; Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank; Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir; Sends him to Harrow--for himself was there. Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer, His son's so sharp--he'll see the dog a Peer! 250 Manhood declines--Age palsies every limb; He quits the scene--or else the scene quits him; Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, [xli] And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves; Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets, O'er hoards diminished by young Hopeful's debts; Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, Complete in all life's lessons--but to die; Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, Commending every time, save times like these; 260 Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, Expires unwept--is buried--Let him rot! But from the Drama let me not digress, Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. [xlii] Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred, [xliii] When what is done is rather seen than heard, Yet many deeds preserved in History's page Are better told than acted on the stage; The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy, 270 True Briton all beside, I here am French-- Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench: The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show; We hate the carnage while we see the trick, And find small sympathy in being sick. Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth Appals an audience with a Monarch's death; [xliv] To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear Young Arthur's eyes, can _ours_ or _Nature_ bear? 280 A haltered heroine [21] Johnson sought to slay-- We saved Irene, but half damned the play, And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes; And Lewis' [22] self, with all his sprites, would quake To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake! Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, We loathe the action which exceeds belief: And yet, God knows! what may not authors do, Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue"? [23] 290 Above all things, _Dan_ Poet, if you can, Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man, Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape [xlv] Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did; [24] Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, Rage, love, and aught but moralise--in song. Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, [xlvi] Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends! 300 Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay On whores--spies--singers--wisely shipped away. Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread [xlvii] Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread, In all iniquity is grown so nice, It scorns amusements which are not of price. Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, [xlviii] Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, His anguish doubling by his own "encore;" [xlix] 310 Squeezed in "Fop's Alley," [25] jostled by the beaux, Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes; Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease, Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release: Why this, and more, he suffers--can ye guess?-- Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress! [26] So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools; Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools! Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk, [l] [27] (What harm, if David danced before the ark?) [li] 320 In Christmas revels, simple country folks Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes. Improving years, with things no longer known, Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, [lii] 'Tis strange Benvolio [28] suffers such a show; Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place, [liii] Oaths, boxing, begging--all, save rout and race. Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime, In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time: [29] 330 Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best, And turned some very serious things to jest. Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers, Arms nor the Gown--Priests--Lawyers--Volunteers: "Alas, poor Yorick!" now for ever mute! Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens, When "Crononhotonthologos must die," [30] And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 340 Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit, [liv] And smile at folly, if we can't at wit; Yes, Friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell, And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle!" Which charmed our days in each Ægean clime, As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, Soothe thy Life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last; But find in thine--like pagan Plato's bed, [lv] [31] Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead. 350 Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies; [32] Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance; Decorum left her for an Opera dance! Yet Chesterfield, [33] whose polished pen inveighs 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays; Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains, And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains. Repeal that act! again let Humour roam Wild o'er the stage--we've time for tears at home; 360 Let Archer [34] plant the horns on Sullen's brows, And Estifania gull her "Copper" [35] spouse; The moral's scant--but that may be excused, Men go not to be lectured, but amused. He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; [36] Aye, but Macheath's example--psha!--no more! It formed no thieves--the thief was formed before; [37] And spite of puritans and Collier's curse, [lvi] Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. [38] 370 Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men! Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again. [39] But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal? Can heavenly Mercy dwell with earthly Zeal? For times of fire and faggot let them hope! Times dear alike to puritan or Pope. As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, So would new sects on newer victims gaze. E'en now the songs of Solyma begin; Faith cants, perplexed apologist of Sin! 380 While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, And Simeon kicks, [40] where Baxter only "shoves."[41] Whom Nature guides, so writes, that every dunce [lvii], Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; But after inky thumbs and bitten nails [lviii], And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails. Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? Yet his and Philips' [42] faults, of different kind, For Art too rude, for Nature too refined, [lix] 390 Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced In this nice age, when all aspire to taste; The dirty language, and the noisome jest, Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest; Proscribed not only in the world polite [lx], But even too nasty for a City Knight! Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made them pass, Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras! 400 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, Who from our couplet lopped two final feet; Nor less in merit than the longer line, This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain Formed, save in Ode, to bear a serious strain [lxi], Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, And, varied skilfully, surpasses far Heroic rhyme, but most in Love and War, 410 Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme. But many a skilful judge abhors to see, What few admire--irregularity. This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard When such a word contents a British Bard. And must the Bard his glowing thoughts confine, [lxii] Lest Censure hover o'er some faulty line? Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, To gain the paltry suffrage of "Correct"? 420 Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, To fly from Error, not to merit Praise? Ye, who seek finished models, never cease [lxiii], By day and night, to read the works of Greece. But our good Fathers never bent their brains To heathen Greek, content with native strains. The few who read a page, or used a pen, Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben; The jokes and numbers suited to their taste Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste; 430 Yet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules, It will not do to call our Fathers fools! Though you and I, who eruditely know To separate the elegant and low, Can also, when a hobbling line appears, Detect with fingers--in default of ears. In sooth I do not know, or greatly care To learn, who our first English strollers were; Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 440 But this is certain, since our Shakespeare's days, There's pomp enough--if little else--in plays; Nor will Melpomene ascend her Throne [lxiv] Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. Old Comedies still meet with much applause, Though too licentious for dramatic laws; At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest [lxv]. Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, Our enterprising Bards pass nought untried; 450 Nor do they merit slight applause who choose An English subject for an English Muse, And leave to minds which never dare invent French flippancy and German sentiment. Where is that living language which could claim Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, If all our Bards, more patient of delay, Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way? [43] Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults [lxvi], 460 Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, And prove our marble with too nice a nail! Democritus himself was not so bad; He only 'thought'--but 'you' would make us--mad! But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard Against that ridicule they deem so hard; In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth; Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, And walk in alleys rather than the street. 470 With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, The name of Poet may be got with ease, So that not tuns of helleboric juice [lxvii] Shall ever turn your head to any use; Write but like Wordsworth--live beside a lake, And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake; [44] Then print your book, once more return to town, And boys shall hunt your Bardship up and down. [45] Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, To purge in spring--like Bayes [46]--before I write? 480 If this precaution softened not my bile, I know no scribbler with a madder style; But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) I cannot purchase Fame at such a price, I'll labour gratis as a grinders' wheel, [lxviii] And, blunt myself, give edge to other's steel, Nor write at all, unless to teach the art To those rehearsing for the Poet's part; From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, [lxix], And from my own example--what is wrong. 490 Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 'Tis just as well to think before you write; Let every book that suits your theme be read, So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. He who has learned the duty which he owes To friends and country, and to pardon foes; Who models his deportment as may best Accord with Brother, Sire, or Stranger-guest; Who takes our Laws and Worship as they are, Nor roars reform for Senate, Church, and Bar; 500 In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize: Such is the man the Poet should rehearse, As joint exemplar of his life and verse. Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold A longer empire o'er the public mind Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 510 Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts. [lxx] Our boys (save those whom public schools compel To "Long and Short" before they're taught to spell) From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, "A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take [lxxi] The third, how much will the remainder make?-- "A groat."--"Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum! [lxxii] He'll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum." [47] 520 They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes; And Locke will tell you, that the father's right Who hides all verses from his children's sight; For Poets (says this Sage [48], and many more,) Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore: [lxxiii] And Delphi now, however rich of old, Discovers little silver, and less gold, Because Parnassus, though a Mount divine, Is poor as Irus, [49] or an Irish mine. [lxxiv] [50] 530 Two objects always should the Poet move, Or one or both,--to please or to improve. Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design For our remembrance your didactic line; Redundance places Memory on the rack, For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. [lxxv] Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth, And fairy fables bubble none but youth: Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales! 540 Young men with aught but Elegance dispense; Maturer years require a little Sense. To end at once:--that Bard for all is fit [lxxvi] Who mingles well instruction with his wit; For him Reviews shall smile; for him o'erflow The patronage of Paternoster-row; His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass (Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 550 But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, And wayward voices, at their owner's call, With all his best endeavours, only squall; Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. [lxxvii] [51] Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, We must not quarrel for a blot or two; But pardon equally to books or men, The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen. 560 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, Despises all advice too much to mend, But ever twangs the same discordant string, Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. Let Havard's [52] fate o'ertake him, who, for once, Produced a play too dashing for a dunce: At first none deemed it his; but when his name Announced the fact--what then?--it lost its fame. Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, [lxxviii] In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 570 As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand The critic eye, and please when near at hand; [lxxix] But others at a distance strike the sight; This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new. Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice, [lxxx] Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; Few reach the Summit which before you lies. 580 Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede Reward to very moderate heads indeed! In these plain common sense will travel far; All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar: [lxxxi] [53] But Poesy between the best and worst No medium knows; you must be last or first; For middling Poets' miserable volumes Are damned alike by Gods, and Men, and Columns. [lxxxii] Again, my Jeffrey--as that sound inspires, [54] How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 590 Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, Or mild Eclectics, [55] when some, worse than Turks, Would rob poor Faith to decorate "Good Works." Such are the genial feelings them canst claim-- My Falcon flies not at ignoble game. Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase! For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 600 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, "Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes." [56] Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine? Dear d--d contemner of my schoolboy songs, Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood's wrongs? If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed? What! not a word!--and am I then so low? Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 610 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? No wit for Nobles, Dunces by descent? No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name, [57] Nor one facetious paragraph of blame? Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, And thought of Homer less than Holyrood? On shore of Euxine or Ægean sea, My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee. Ah! let me cease! in vain my bosom burns, From Corydon unkind Alexis turns: [58] 620 Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego, Nor woo that anger which he will not show. What then?--Edina starves some lanker son, To write an article thou canst not shun; Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned. As if at table some discordant dish, [59] Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish; As oil in lieu of butter men decry, And poppies please not in a modern pie; [lxxxiii] 630 If all such mixtures then be half a crime, We must have Excellence to relish rhyme. Mere roast and boiled no Epicure invites; Thus Poetry disgusts, or else delights. Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun: Will he who swims not to the river run? And men unpractised in exchanging knocks Must go to Jackson [60] ere they dare to box. Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, None reach expertness without years of toil; 640 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please. Why not?--shall I, thus qualified to sit For rotten boroughs, never show my wit? Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate, [lxxxiv] And lived in freedom on a fair estate; Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, [lxxxv] To 'all' their income, and to--'twice' its tax; Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt? 650 Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen;" but you, Besides all this, must have some Genius too. Be this your sober judgment, and a rule, And print not piping hot from Southey's school, Who (ere another Thalaba appears), I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. And hark'ye, Southey! [61] pray--but don't be vexed-- Burn all your last three works--and half the next. But why this vain advice? once published, books Can never be recalled--from pastry-cooks! [lxxxvi] 660 Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle," [62] instead of Punk, May travel back to Quito--on a trunk! [63] Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, Led all wild beasts but Women by the ear; And had he fiddled at the present hour, We'd seen the Lions waltzing in the Tower; [64] And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. Verse too was Justice, and the Bards of Greece Did more than constables to keep the peace; 670 Abolished cuckoldom with much applause, Called county meetings, and enforced the laws, Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, And served the Church--without demanding tithes; And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, Each Poet was a Prophet and a Priest, Whose old-established Board of Joint Controls [65] Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, And Fighting's been in fashion ever since; 680 And old Tyrtæus, when the Spartans warred, (A limping leader, but a lofty bard) [lxxxvii] Though walled Ithome had resisted long, Reduced the fortress by the force of song. When Oracles prevailed, in times of old, In song alone Apollo's will was told. [lxxxviii] Then if your verse is what all verse should be, And Gods were not ashamed on't, why should we? The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed; [66] In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude; 690 Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, Mild as the same upon the second night; Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer, Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier! Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone-- Ice in a crowd--and Lava when alone. If Verse be studied with some show of Art. Kind Nature always will perform her part; Though without Genius, and a native vein Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 700 Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize, Unless they act like us and our allies. The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, Must bear privations with unruffled face, Be called to labour when he thinks to dine, And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, Have followed Music through her farthest flight; [lxxxix] But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, "I've got a pretty poem for the Press;" 710 And that's enough; then write and print so fast;-- If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last? They storm the Types, they publish, one and all, [xc] [67] They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. Provincial Maidens, men of high command, Yea! Baronets have inked the bloody hand! Cash cannot quell them; Pollio played this prank, [xci] (Then Phoebus first found credit in a Bank!) Not all the living only, but the dead, Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' Head; [68] 720 Damned all their days, they posthumously thrive, Dug up from dust, though buried when alive! Reviews record this epidemic crime, Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. There lurk his earlier lays; but soon, hot pressed, [xcii] Behold a Quarto!--Tarts must tell the rest. Then leave, ye wise, the Lyre's precarious chords To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, [cxiii] 730 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale! Hark to those notes, narcotically soft! The Cobbler-Laureats [69] sing to Capel Lofft! [70] Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, [xciv] Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears! [xcv] There lives one Druid, who prepares in time [71] 'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; Racks his dull Memory, and his duller Muse, To publish faults which Friendship should excuse. 740 If Friendship's nothing, Self-regard might teach More polished usage of his parts of speech. But what is shame, or what is aught to him? [xcvi] He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate; Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon. Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town: 750 If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man-- May Heaven forgive you, for he never can! Then be it so; and may his withering Bays Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, Be (what they never were before) be--sold! Should some rich Bard (but such a monster now, [72] In modern Physics, we can scarce allow), [xcvii] 760 Should some pretending scribbler of the Court, Some rhyming Peer--there's plenty of the sort--[xcviii] [73] All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, (Ah! too regardless of his Chaplain's yawn!) Condemn the unlucky Curate to recite Their last dramatic work by candle-light, How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! Yet, since 'tis promised at the Rector's death, He'll risk no living for a little breath. 770 Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, (The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! Grand! Divine!" Hoarse with those praises (which, by Flatt'ry fed, [xcix] Dependence barters for her bitter bread), He strides and stamps along with creaking boot; Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot, Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, [c] As when the dying vicar will not die! Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart;-- But all Dissemblers overact their part. 780 Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme," [74] Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;" But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, "Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," And, after fruitless efforts, you return Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!" That instant throw your paper in the fire, Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; But (if true Bard!) you scorn to condescend, [ci] And will not alter what you can't defend, 790 If you will breed this Bastard of your Brains, [75] We'll have no words--I've only lost my pains. Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought, As critics kindly do, and authors ought; If your cool friend annoy you now and then, And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen; No matter, throw your ornaments aside,-- Better let him than all the world deride. Give light to passages too much in shade, Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made; 800 Your friend's a "Johnson," not to leave one word, However trifling, which may seem absurd; Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, And furnish food for critics, or their quills. [76] As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, Or the sad influence of the angry Moon, All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, As yawning waiters fly [77] Fitzscribble's lungs; [cii] Yet on he mouths--ten minutes--tedious each [ciii] [78] As Prelate's homily, or placeman's speech; 810 Long as the last years of a lingering lease, When Riot pauses until Rents increase. While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, If by some chance he walks into a well, And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, "A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!" Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; For there his carcass he might freely fling, [civ] From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 820 Though this has happened to more Bards than one; I'll tell you Budgell's story,--and have done. Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, (Unless his case be much misunderstood) When teased with creditors' continual claims, "To die like Cato," [79] leapt into the Thames! And therefore be it lawful through the town For any Bard to poison, hang, or drown. Who saves the intended Suicide receives Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves; [cv] 830 And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose The Glory of that death they freely choose. Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse [cvi] Prick not the Poet's conscience as a curse; Dosed [80] with vile drams on Sunday he was found, Or got a child on consecrated ground! And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage-- Feared like a bear just bursting from his cage. If free, all fly his versifying fit, Fatal at once to Simpleton or Wit: 840 But 'him', unhappy! whom he seizes,--'him' He flays with Recitation limb by limb; Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, And gorges like a Lawyer--or a Leech. [The last page of 'MS. M.' is dated-- BYRON, Capuchin Convent, Athens. 'March 14th, 1811'. The following memorandum, in Byron's handwriting, is also inscribed on the last page: "722 lines, and 4 inserted after and now counted, in all 726.--B. "Since this several lines are added.--B. June 14th, 1811. "Copied fair at Malta, May 3rd, 1811.--B." BYRON, 'March 11th and 12th', Athens. 1811. ['MS. L. (a)'.] BYRON, 'March 14th, 1811.' Athens, Capuchin Convent. ['MS. L. (b)'.]] [Footnote 1: Sir Thomas Lawrence (1769-1830) succeeded West as P.R.A. in 1820. Benjamin West (1738-1820) had been elected P.R.A. in 1792, on the death of Sir Joshua Reynolds.] [Footnote 2: In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H---as a "beast," and the consequent action, etc. The circumstance is, probably, too well known to require further comment. [Thomas Hope (1770-1831) was celebrated for his collections of pictures, sculpture, and _bric-à-brac_. He was the author of _Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Greek, etc_., which was attributed to Byron, and, according to Lady Blessington, excited his envy. "Low Dubost" was a French painter, who, in revenge for some fancied injustice, caricatured Hope and his wife as Beauty and the Beast. An exhibition of the sketch is said to have brought in from twenty to thirty pounds a week. A brother of Mrs. Hope (Louisa Beresford, daughter of Lord Decies, Archbishop of Tuam) mutilated the picture, and, an action having been brought, was ordered to pay a nominal sum of five pounds. Dubost's academy portrait of Mrs. Hope did not please Peter Pindar. "In Mistress Hope, Monsieur Dubost! Thy Genius yieldeth up the Ghost." _Works_ (1812), v. 372.]] [Footnote 3: "While pure Description held the place of Sense."-- Pope, _Prol. to the Sat.,_ L. 148. "While Mr. Sol decked out all so glorious Shines like a Beau in his Birthday Embroidery." [Fielding, _Tom Thumb_, act i. sc. I.]--[_MS. M._] "_Fas est et ab Hoste doceri._" In the 7th Art. of the 31st No. of the _Edinburgh Review_ (vol. xvi. Ap. 1810) the "Observations" of an Oxford Tutor are compared to "Children's Cradles" (page 181), then to a "Barndoor fowl flying" (page 182), then the man himself to "a Coach-horse on the Trottoir" (page 185) etc., etc., with a variety of other conundrums all tending to prove that the ingenuity of comparison increases in proportion to the dissimilarity between the things compared.--[_MS. L. (b) erased._]] [Footnote 4: Mere common mortals were commonly content with one Taylor and with one bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible to confide their lower garments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak of the beginning of 1809: what reform may have since taken place I neither know, nor desire to know.--[_MSS. L. (b), M_.]] [Footnote 5: Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our Parliamentary tongue; as may be seen in many publications, particularly the 'Edinburgh Review'. [The reference may be to financial terms, such as sinking fund (a phrase not introduced by Pitt), the English equivalent of 'caisse d'amortissement', or income tax ('impôt sur le revenu'), or to actual French words such as 'chouannerie, projet', etc. But Pitt's "additions" are unnoticed by Frere and other reporters and critics of his speeches. For a satirical description of Pitt's words, "which are finer and longer than can be conceived," see 'Rolliad', 1799; 'Political Miscellanies', p. 421; and 'Political Eclogues', p. 195. "And Billy best of all things loves--a trope." Compare, too, Peter Pindar, "To Sylvanus Urban," 'Works' (1812), ii. 259. "Lycurgus Pitt whose penetrating eyes Behold the fount of Freedom in excise, Whose 'patriot' logic possibly maintains The 'identity' of 'liberty' and 'chains'."]] [Footnote 6: Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact, this is the millennium of black letter: thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and Scotts! [Richard Heber (1773-1833), book-collector and man of letters, was half-brother of the Bishop of Calcutta. He edited, 'inter alia', 'Specimens of the Early English Poets', by George Ellis, 3 vols., London: 1811. W. H. Weber (1783-1818), a German by birth, was employed by Sir Walter Scott as an amanuensis and "searcher." He edited, in 1810, 'Metrical Romances of the 13th, 14th, and 15th Centuries', a work described by Southey ('Letters', ii. 308) as "admirably edited, exceedingly curious, and after my own heart." He also published editions of Ford, and Beaumont and Fletcher, which were adversely criticized by Gifford. For an account of his relations to Scott and of his melancholy end, see Lockhart's 'Life of Scott' (1871), p. 251.]] [Footnote 7: 'Mac Flecknoe', the 'Dunciad', and all Swift's lampooning ballads. Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal feelings, and angry retort on unworthy rivals; and though the ability of these satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the personal character of the writers.] [Footnote 8: 'Almanzor: or the Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards', a Tragedy by John Dryden. The bombastic character of the hero was severely criticized in Dryden's own time, and was defended by him thus: "'Tis said that Almanzor is no perfect pattern of heroic virtue, that he is a contemner of kings, and that he is made to perform impossibilities. I must therefore avow, in the first place, from whence I took the character. The first image I had of him was from the Achilles of Homer: the next from Tasso's Rinaldo, and the third from the Artaban of Mons. Calprenède.... He talks extravagantly in his passion, but if I would take the trouble to quote from Ben Jonson's Cethegus, I could easily show you that the rhodomontades of Almanzor are neither so irrational as his nor so impossible to be put in execution." 'An Essay on Heroic Plays. Works of John Dryden' (1821), iv. 23-25.] [Footnote 9: With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of puns, they have Aristotle on their side; who permits them to orators, and gives them consequence by a grave disquisition. ["Cicero also," says Addison, "has sprinkled several of his works with them; and in his book on Oratory, quotes abundance of sayings as pieces of wit, which, upon examination, prove arrant puns."--'Essay on Wit, Works' (1888), ii. 354.]] [Footnote 10: In Vanbrugh and Gibber's comedy of The Provoked Husband, first played at Drury Lane, January 10, 1728.]] [Footnote 11: "And in his ear I'll holla--Mortimer!" ['I Henry IV'., act i. sc. 3.]] [Footnote 12: Garrick's 'Lying Valet' was played for the first time at Goodman's Fields, November 30, 1741.] ["Peregrine" is a character in George Colman's 'John Bull', or 'An Englishman's Fire-Side', Covent Garden. March 5, 1803.] ] [Footnote 13: I have Johnson's authority for making Lear a monosyllable-- "Perhaps where Lear rav'd or Hamlet died On flying cars new sorcerers may ride." ["Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet dy'd." Prologue to 'Irene. Johnson's Works' (1806), i. 168.] and (if it need be mentioned) the 'authority' of the epigram on Barry and Garrick.--[Note 'erased, Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote 14: "'Johnson'. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir? 'Bayes'. Why, Sir, a great [fierce] hero, that frights his mistress, snubs up kings, baffles armies, and does what he will, without regard to numbers, good sense, or justice [good manners, justice, or numbers]." 'The Rehearsal', act iv. sc. I. 'The Rehearsal', by George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham (1627-1688), appeared in 1671. Sprat and others are said to have shared the authorship. So popular was the play that "Drawcansir" passed into a synonime for a braggadocio. It is believed that "Bayes" (that is, of course, "laureate") was meant for a caricature of Dryden: "he himself complains bitterly that it was so." (See 'Lives of the Poets' (1890), i. 386; and Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' (1876), p. 235, and 'note'.)]] [Footnote 15: "Difficile est proprie communia dicere; tuque Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus." HOR: 'DE ARTE POET': 128-130. Mons. Dacier, Mons. de Sévigné, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of this sentence in a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sévigné's Letters, edited by Grouvelle, Paris, 1806. Presuming that all who can construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so many who _can't_ have taken the same liberty, I should have held "my farthing candle" as awkwardly as another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis 14th's Augustan "Siècle" induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. I therefore offer: firstly Boileau: "Il est difficile de trailer des sujets qui sont à la portée de tout le monde d'une maniere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu'on y donne." 2dly, Batteux: "Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traits propres et individuels aux etres purement possibles." 3dly, Dacier: "Il est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caractères que tout le monde peut inventer." Mr. Sévigné's opinion and translation, consisting of some thirty pages, I omit, particularly as Mr. Grouvelle observes, "La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait être la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards, "Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs again, "dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentiments;" and I suppose some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy or Copernicus and comments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations. I am happy to say, "la longueur de la dissertation" of Mr. D. prevents Mr. G. from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at least as good a scholar as Mr. de Sévigné, has said, "A little learning is a dangerous thing." And by the above extract, it appears that a good deal may be rendered as useless to the Proprietors. [Byron chose the words in question, Difficile,' etc., as a motto for the first five cantos of 'Don Juan'] [Footnote 16: About two years ago a young man named Townsend was announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review (since deceased) [the 'London Review'], as being engaged in an epic poem to be entitled "Armageddon." The plan and specimen promise much; but I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor his friends, by recommending to his attention the lines of Horace to which these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, how much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing him before the public! But, till that eventful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature display of his plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly are) has not,--by raising expectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, by developing his argument,--rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend must not suppose me actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author all the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the "dull of past and present days." Even if he is not a 'Milton', he may be better than 'Blackmore'; if not a 'Homer', an 'Antimachus'. I should deem myself presumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest difficulties to encounter; but in conquering them he will find employment; in having conquered them, his reward. I know too well "the scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely;" and I am afraid time will teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, and those who do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from 'envy'; he will soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to malice. [This note was written [at Athens] before the author was apprised of Mr. Cumberland's death [in May, 1811].--'MS'. (See Byron's letter to Dallas, August 27, 1811.) The Rev. George Townsend (1788-1857) published 'Poems' in 1810, and eight books of his 'Armageddon' in 1815. They met with the fate which Byron had predicted. In later life he compiled numerous works of scriptural exegesis. He was a Canon of Durham from 1825 till his death.]] [Footnote 17: The first line of 'A Spirit of Discovery by Sea', by the Rev. W. Lisle Bowles, first published in 1805.] [Footnote 18: Harvey, the 'circulator' of the 'circulation' of the blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admiration and say, "the book had a devil." Now such a character as I am copying would probably fling it away also, but rather wish that "the devil had the book;" not from dislike to the poet, but a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed, the public school penance of "Long and Short" is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be an advantage.] [Footnote 19: "'Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem'." I dare say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me; and it is no matter whether any one else does or no.--To the above events, "'quæque ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui'," all 'times' and 'terms' bear testimony. [The Rev. G.F. Tavell was a fellow and tutor of Trinity College, Cambridge, during Byron's residence, and owed this notice to the "zeal with which he protested against his juvenile vagaries." During a part of his residence at Trinity, Byron kept a tame bear in his rooms in Neville's Court. (See 'English Bards', l. 973, 'note', and postscript to the Second Edition, 'ante', p. 383. See also letter to Miss Pigot, October 26, 1807.) The following copy of a bill (no date) tells its own story:-- The Honble. Lord Byron. To John Clarke. To Bread & Milk for the Bear deliv'd.} £ 1 9 7 to Haladay ... ... ... } Cambridge Reve. A Clarke.]] [Footnote 20: "Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all.] [Footnote 21: "Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round her neck; but the audience cried out ['Murder!'] 'Murder!' and she was obliged to go off the stage alive." 'Boswell's Johnson' [1876, p. 60]. [Irene (first played February 6, 1749) for the future was put to death behind the scenes. The strangling her, contrary to Horace's rule, 'coram populo', was suggested by Garrick. (See Davies' 'Life of Garrick' (1808), i. 157.)]] [Footnote 22: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818). ('Vide English Bards, etc'., l. 265, n. 8.) The character of Hassan, "my misanthropic negro," as Lewis called him, was said by the critics of the day to have been borrowed from Zanga in Young's 'Revenge'. Lewis, in his "Address to the Reader," quoted by Byron (in 'note' 3), defends the originality of the conception.] [Footnote 23: In the postscript to _The Castle Spectre_, Mr. Lewis tells us, that though blacks were unknown in England at the period of his action, yet he has made the anachronism to set off the scene: and if he could have produced the effect "by making his heroine blue,"--I quote him--"blue he would have made her!" [_The Castle Spectre_, by M.G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., London, 1798, page 102.]] [Footnote 24: In 1706 John Dennis, the critic (1657-1734), wrote an 'Essay on the Operas after the Italian manner, which are about to be established on the English Stage'; to show that they were more immoral than the most licentious play.] [Footnote 25: One of the gangways in the Opera House, where the young men of fashion used to assemble. (See letter to Murray, Nov. 9, 1820; _Life_, p. 62.)] [Footnote 26: In the year 1808, happening at the opera to tread on the toes of a very well-dressed man, I turned round to apologize, when, to my utter astonishment, I recognized the face of the porter of the very hotel where I then lodged in Albemarle Street. So here was a gentleman who ran every morning forty errands for half a crown, throwing away half a guinea at night, besides the expense of his habiliments, and the hire of his "Chapeau de Bras."--[_MS. L. (a)_.]] [Footnote 27: The first theatrical representations, entitled "Mysteries and Moralities," were generally enacted at Christmas, by monks (as the only persons who could read), and latterly by the clergy and students of the universities. The dramatis personae were usually Adam, Pater Coelestis, Faith, Vice, and sometimes an angel or two; but these were eventually superseded by 'Gammer Gurton's Needle'.--'Vide' Warton's 'History of English Poetry [passim]'.--['MSS. M., L. (b)'.]] [Footnote 28: 'Benvolio' [Lord Grosvenor, 'MS. L'. ('b')] does not bet; but every man who maintains racehorses is a promoter of all the concomitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little pharisaical. Is it an exculpation? I think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for chastity, because 'she herself' did not commit fornication. [Robert, second Earl Grosvenor (1767-1845), was created Marquis of Westminster in 1831. Like his father, Gifford's patron, the first Earl Grosvenor, he was a breeder of racehorses, and a patron of the turf. As Lord Belgrave, he brought forward a motion for the suppression of Sunday newspapers, June 11, 1799, denouncing them in a violent speech. The motion was lost; but many years after, in a speech delivered in the House of Lords, January 2, 1807, he returned to the charge. (See 'Parl. Hist'., 34. 1006, 1010; and 'Parl. Deb'., 8. 286.) (For a skit on Lord Belgrave's sabbatarian views, see Peter Pindar, 'Works' (1812), iv. 519.)]] [Footnote 29: Samuel Foote (1720-1777), actor and playwright. His solo entertainments, in 'The Dish of Tea, An Auction of Pictures', 1747-8 (see his comedy 'Taste'), were the precursors of 'Mathews at Home', and a long line of successors. His farces and curtain-pieces were often "spiced-up" with more or less malicious character-sketches of living persons. Among his better known pieces are 'The Minor' (1760), ridiculing Whitefield and the Methodists, and 'The Mayor of Garratt' (1763), in which he played the part of Sturgeon (Byron used this piece, for an illustration in his speech on the Frame-workers Bill, February 27, 1812). 'The Lyar', first played at Covent Garden, January 12, 1762, was the latest to hold the stage. It was reproduced at the Opera Comique in 1877.] [Footnote 30: Henry Carey, poet and musician (d. 1743), a natural son of George Savile, Marquis of Halifax, was the author of _Chrononhotonthologos_, "the most tragical tragedy ever yet tragedised by any company of tragedians," which was first played at the Haymarket, February 22, 1734. The well-known lines, "Go, call a coach, and let a coach be called," etc., which Scott prefixed to the first chapter of _The Antiquary_, are from the last scene, in which Bombardinion fights with and kills the King Chrononhotonthologos. But his one achievement was _Sally in our Alley_, of which he wrote both the words and the music. The authorship of "God Save the King" has been attributed to him, probably under a misapprehension.] [Footnote 31: Under Plato's pillow a volume of the 'Mimes' of Sophron was found the day he died.--'Vide' Barthélémi, De Pauw, or Diogenes Laërtius, [Lib. iii. p. 168--Chouet 1595] if agreeable. De Pauw calls it a jest-book. Cumberland, in his 'Observer', terms it moral, like the sayings of Publius Syrus.] [Footnote 32: In 1737 the manager of Goodman's Fields Theatre having brought Sir Robert Walpole a farce called 'The Golden Rump', the minister detained the copy. He then made extracts of the most offensive passages, read them to the house, and brought in a bill to limit the number of playhouses and to subject all dramatic writings to the inspection of the Lord Chamberlain. Horace Walpole ascribed 'The Golden Rump' to Fielding, and said that he had found an imperfect copy of the play among his father's papers. But this has been questioned. (See 'A Book of the Play', by Dutton Cook (1881), p. 27.)]] [Footnote 33: His speech on the Licensing Act [in which he opposed the Bill], is reckoned one of his most eloquent efforts. [The following sentences have been extracted from the speech which was delivered:-- "The bill is not only an encroachment upon liberty, it is likewise an encroachment on property. Wit, my lords, is a sort of property; it is the property of those who have it, and too often the only property they have to depend on... "Those gentlemen who have any such property are all, I hope, our friends; do not let us subject them to any unnecessary or arbitrary restraint... "The stage and the press, my lord, are two of our out-sentries; if we remove them, if we hoodwink them, if we throw them into fetters, the enemy may surprise us. Therefore I must now look upon the bill before us as a step for introducing arbitrary power into this kingdom." Lord Chesterfield's sentiments with regard to laughter are contained in an apophthegm, repeated more than once in his correspondence: "The vulgar laugh aloud, but never smile; on the contrary, people of fashion often smile, but seldom or never laugh aloud."--'Chesterfield's Letters to his Godson', Oxford, 1890, p. 27.]] [Footnote 34: Archer and Squire Sullen are characters in Farquhar's play (1678-1707), 'The Beaux' Stratagem', March 8, 1707.]] [Footnote 35: Michael Perez, the "Copper Captain," in [Fletcher's] 'Rule a Wife and Have a Wife' [licensed October 19, 1624].] [Footnote 36: The Rev. Dr. Francis Willis died in 1807, in the 90th year of his age. He attended George III. in his first attack of madness in 1788. The power of his eye on other persons is illustrated by a story related by Frederick Reynolds ('Life and Times', ii. 23), who describes how Edmund Burke quailed under his look. His son, John Willis, was entrusted with the entire charge of the king in 1811. Compare Shelley's 'Peter Bell the Third', part vi.-- "Let him shave his head: Where's Dr. Willis?" (See, too, 'Bland-Burges Papers' (1885), pp. 113-115, and 'Life of George IV'., by Percy Fitzgerald (1881), ii. 18.)]] [Footnote 37: Dr. Johnson was of the like opinion. "Highwaymen and housebreakers," he says, in his Life of Gay, "seldom frequent the playhouse, or mingle in any elegant diversion; nor is it possible for any one to imagine that he may rob with safety, because he sees Macheath reprieved upon the stage." 'Lives of the Poets', by Samuel Johnson (1890), ii. 266. It was asserted, on the other hand, by Sir John Fielding, the Bow-street magistrate, that on every run of the piece, 'The Beggar's Opera', an increased number of highwaymen were brought to his office; and so strong was his conviction, that in 1772 he remonstrated against the performance with the managers of both the houses.] [Footnote 38: Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, etc., on the subject of the drama, is too well known to require further comment. [Jeremy Collier (1650-1756), non-juring bishop and divine. The occasion of his controversy with Congreve was the publication of his 'Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage' (1697-8). Congreve, who had been attacked by name, replied in a tract entitled 'Amendments upon Mr. Collier's false and imperfect citations from the' OLD BATCHELEUR, etc.]] [Footnote 39: A few months after lines 370-381 were added to 'The Hints', in September, 1812, Byron, at the request of Lord Holland, wrote the address delivered on the opening of the theatre, which had been rebuilt after the fire of February 24, 1809. He subsequently joined the Committee of Management] [Footnote 40: Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator of "good works." He is ably supported by John Stickles, a labourer in the same vineyard:--but I say no more, for, according to Johnny in full congregation,'"No hopes for them as laughs."' [The Rev. Charles Simeon (1758-1836) was the leader of the evangelical movement in Cambridge. The reference may be to the rigour with which he repelled a charge brought against him by Dr. Edwards, the Master of Sidney Sussex, that a sermon which he had preached in November, 1809, savoured of antinomianism. It may be noted that a friend (the Rev. W. Parish), to whom he submitted the MS. of a rejoinder to Pearson's 'Cautions, etc.', advised him to print it, "especially if you should rather keep down a lash or two which might irritate." Simeon was naturally irascible, and, in reply to a friend who had mildly reproved him for some display of temper, signed himself, in humorous penitence, "Charles proud and irritable." (See 'Memoirs of the Life of the Rev. Mr. Simeon', by Rev. W. Carus (1847), pp. 195, 282, etc.)]] [Footnote 41: 'Baxter's Shove to heavy-a--d Christians', the veritable title of a book once in good repute, and likely enough to be so again. ["Baxter" is a slip of the pen. The tract or sermon, 'An Effectual Shove to the heavy-arse Christian', was, according to the title-page, written by William Bunyan, minister of the gospel in South Wales, and "printed for the author" in London in 1768.]] [Footnote 42: Ambrose Philips (1675?-1749) published his 'Epistle to the Earl of Dorset' and his 'Pastorals' in 1709. It is said that Pope attacked him in his satires in consequence of an article in the 'Guardian', in which the 'Pastorals' were unduly extolled. His verses, addressed to the children of his patron, Lord Carteret, were parodied by Henry Carey, in 'Namby Pamby, or a Panegyric on the New Versification'.] [Footnote 43: See letters to Murray, Sept. 15, 1817; Jan. 25, 1819; Mar. 29, 1820; Nov. 4, 1820; etc. See also the two 'Letters' against Bowles, written at Ravenna, Feb. 7 and Mar. 21, 1821, in which Byron's enthusiastic reverence for Pope is the dominant note.] [Footnote 44: As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid [and may be like him a senator, one day or other: no disparagement to the High Court of Parliament.--'MS.L.(b)'], and may, like him, be one day a senator, having a better qualification than one half of the heads he crops, viz.--Independence. [According to the Scholiast, Cassar made his barber Licinus a senator, "quod odisset Pompeium." Blake (see Letter to Murray, Nov. 9, 1820) was, presumably, Benjamin Blake, a perfumer, who lived at 46, Park Street, Grosvenor Square.]] [Footnote 45: There was some foundation for this. When Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy called on Daniel Stuart, editor of the 'Courier', at his fine new house in Harley Street, the butler would not admit them further than the hall, and was not a little taken aback when he witnessed the deference shown to these strangely-attired figures by his master.--Personal Reminiscence of the late Miss Stuart, of 106, Harley Street.] [Footnote 46: "'Bayes'. If I am to write familiar things, as sonnets to Armida, and the like, I make use of stewed prunes only; but when I have a grand design in hand, I ever take physic and let blood; for when you would have pure swiftness of thought, and fiery flights of fancy, you must have a care of the pensive part. In fine, you must purge." 'Rehearsal', act ii. sc. 1. This passage is instanced by Johnson as a proof that "Bayes" was a caricature of Dryden. "Bayes, when he is to write, is blooded and purged; this, as Lamotte relates, ... was the real practice of the poet." 'Lives of the Poets' 1890), i. 388.]] [Footnote 47: Cant term for £100,000.] [Footnote 48: I have not the original by me, but the Italian translation runs as follows:-- "E una cosa a mio credere molto stravagante, che un Padre desideri, o permetta, che suo figliuolo coltivi e perfezioni questo talento." A little further on: "Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento," 'Educazione dei Fanciulli del Signer Locke' (Venice, 1782), ii. 87. ["If the child have a poetic vein, it is to me the strangest thing in the world, that the father should desire or suffer it to be cherished or improved."--"It is very seldom seen, that any one discovers mines of gold or silver on Parnassus." 'Some Thoughts concerning Education', by John Locke (1880), p. 152.]] [Footnote 49: "Iro pauperior:" a proverb: this is the same beggar who boxed with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which he lost and half a dozen teeth besides. (See 'Odyssey', xviii. 98.)] [Footnote 50: The Irish gold mine in Wicklow, which yields just ore enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea.] [Footnote 51: As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he was under great obligations--"'And Homer (damn him!) calls'"--it may be presumed that anybody or anything may be damned in verse by poetical licence [I shall suppose one may damn anything else in verse with impunity.--'MS. L. (b)']; and, in case of accident, I beg leave to plead so illustrious a precedent.] [Footnote 52: For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see Davies's 'Life of Garrick'. I believe it is 'Regulus', or 'Charles the First' [Lincoln's Inn Fields, March 1, 1737]. The moment it was known to be his the theatre thinned, and the book-seller refused to give the customary sum for the copyright. [See 'Life of Garrick', by Thomas Davies (1808), ii. 205.] [Footnote 53: Thomas Erskine (third son of the fifth Earl of Buchan) afterwards Lord Erskine (1750-1823), Lord Chancellor (1806-7), an eloquent orator, a supremely great advocate, was, by comparison, a failure as a judge. His power over a jury, "his little twelvers," as he would sometimes address them, was practically unlimited. (See 'Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers' (1856), p. 126.)]] [Footnote 54: Lines 589-626 are not in the 'Murray MS'., nor in either of the 'Lovelace MSS'.]] [Footnote 55: To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thanks for the fervour of that charity which, in 1809, induced them to express a hope that a thing then published by me might lead to certain consequences, which, although natural enough, surely came but rashly from reverend lips. I refer them to their own pages, where they congratulated themselves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from which some great good was to accrue, provided one or both were knocked on the head. Having survived two years and a half those "Elegies" which they were kindly preparing to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give them "so joyful a trouble," except, indeed, "upon compulsion, Hal;" but if, as David says in 'The Rivals', it should come to "bloody sword and gun fighting," we "won't run, will we, Sir Lucius?" [Byron, writing at Athens, away from his books, misquotes 'The Rivals'. The words, "Sir Lucius, we--we--we--we won't run," are spoken by Acres, not by David.] I do not know what I had done to these Eclectic gentlemen: my works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agag, if it seem meet unto them: but why they should be in such a hurry to kill off their author, I am ignorant. "The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong:" and now, as these Christians have "smote me on one cheek," I hold them up the other; and, in return for their good wishes, give them an opportunity of repeating them. Had any other set of men expressed such sentiments, I should have smiled, and left them to the "recording angel;" but from the pharisees of Christianity decency might be expected. I can assure these brethren, that, publican and sinner as I am, I would not have treated "mine enemy's dog thus." To show them the superiority of my brotherly love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should be engaged in such a conflict as that in which they requested me to fall, I hope they may escape with being "winged" only, and that Heaviside may be at hand to extract the ball. ["If, however, the noble Lord and the learned advocate have the courage requisite to sustain their mutual insults, we shall probably soon hear the explosions of another kind of 'paper' war, after the fashion of the ever-memorable duel which the latter is said to have fought, or seemed to fight, with 'Little' Moore. We confess there is sufficient provocation, if not in the critique, at least in the satire, to urge a 'man of honour' to defy his assailant to mortal combat, and perhaps to warrant a man of law to 'declare' war in Westminster Hall. Of this we shall no doubt hear more in due time" ('Eclectic Review', May, 1809). Byron pretends to believe that the "Christian" Reviewers, actuated by stern zeal for piety, were making mischief in sober earnest. "Heaviside" (see last line of Byron's note) was the surgeon in attendance at the duel between Lord Falkland and Mr. A. Powell. (See 'English Bards', 1. 686, note 2.)]] [Footnote 56: _Macbeth_, act v. sc. 7.] [Footnote 57: See the critique of the 'Edinburgh Review' on 'Hours of Idleness', January, 1808.] [Footnote 58: "Invenies alium, si te hic fastidit, Alexin."] [Footnote 59: Here 'MS. L.' (a) recommences.] [Footnote 60: John Jackson (1769-1845), better known as "Gentleman" Jackson, was champion of England from 1795 to 1803. His three fights were against Fewterel (1788), George Ingleston, nicknamed "the Brewer" (1789), and Mendoza (1795). In 1803 he retired from the ring. His rooms at 13, Bond Street, became the head-quarters of the Pugilistic Club. (See Pierce Egan's 'Life in London', pp. 252-254, where the rooms are described, and a drawing of them by Cruikshank is given.) Jackson's character stood high. "From the highest to the lowest person in the Sporting World, his 'decision' is law." He was Byron's guest at Cambridge, Newstead, and Brighton; received from him many letters; and is described by him, in a note to 'Don Juan' (xi. 19), as: "my old friend and corporeal pastor and master."] [Footnote 61: Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in 'The Curse of Kehama', maugre the neglect of 'Madoc', etc., and has in one instance had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, was alarmed by the cry of "one in jeopardy:" he rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on butter-milk in an adjacent paddock), procured three rakes, one eel-spear and a landing net, and at last ('horresco referens') pulled out--his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its "alacrity of sinking" was so great, that it has never since been heard of; though some maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of "'Felo de bibliopolâ'" against a "quarto unknown;" and circumstantial evidence being since strong against 'The Curse of Kehama' (of which the above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers next session, in Grub-street--Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodiad, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bell-man of St. Sepulchre's. The same advocates, pro and con, will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public anxiously await the result, and all 'live' publishers will be subpoenaed as witnesses.--But Mr. Southey has published 'The Curse of Kehama',--an inviting title to quibblers. By the bye, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Campbell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle them, in the 'Edinburgh Annual Register' (of which, by the bye, Southey is editor) "the grand poetical triumvirate of the day." But, on second thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, though they might as well keep to themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," which must sadly discomfort poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, it should seem, is the "Lepidus" of this poetical triumvirate. I am only surprised to see him in such good company. "Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil 'he' came there." The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid:-- "Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B; D B is equal to A C; and B C common to both; the two sides D B, B C, are equal to the two A C, C B, each to each, and the angle D B C is equal to the angle A C B: therefore, the base D C is equal to the base A B, and the triangle D B C (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle A C B, the less to the greater, which is absurd" etc. The editor of the 'Edinburgh Register' will find the rest of the theorem hard by his stabling; he has only to cross the river; 'tis the first turnpike t' other side 'Pons Asinorum.'[A] ['The Curse of Kehama', by Robert Southey, was published 1810; 'Arthur, or The Northern Enchantment', by the Rev. Richard Hole, in 1789; 'Alfred', by Joseph Cottle, in 1801; 'Davideis`', by Abraham Cowley, in 1656; 'Richard the First', by Sir James Bland Surges, in 1801; 'Exodiad', by Sir J. Bland Surges and R. Cumberland, in 1808; 'Exodus', by Charles Hoyle, in 1802; 'Epigoniad', by W. Wilkie, D.D., in 1757; 'Calvary', by R. Cumberland, in 1792; 'Fall of Cambria', by Joseph Cottle, in 1809; 'Siege of Acre', by Hannah Cowley, in 1801; 'The Vision of Don Roderick', by Sir Walter Scott, in 1811; 'Tom Thumb the Great', by Henry Fielding, in 1730. The 'Courier' of July 16, 1811, reports in full the first stage of the case Sir F. Burdett 'v.' William Scott ('vide supra'), which was brought before Lord Meadowbank as ordinary in the outer court. Jeffrey was counsel for the pursuer, who sought to recover a sum of £5000 lent under a bond. For the defence it was alleged that the money had been entrusted for a particular purpose, namely, the maintenance of an infant. Jeffrey denied the existence of any such claim, and maintained that whatever was scandalous or calumnious in the defence was absolutely untrue. The case, which was not included in the Scottish Law Reports, was probably settled out of court. Evidently the judge held that on technical grounds an action did not lie. Burdett's enemies were not slow in turning the scandal to account. (See a contemporary pamphlet, 'Adultery and Patriotism', London, 1811.)] ] [Sub-Footnote A: This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. Ballantyne said it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," but Southey claimed it as half English; Scott swore it was the "Brig o' Stirling:" he had just passed two King James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it was decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor less than the "counter of Archy Constable's shop."] [Footnote 62: Voltaire's 'Pucelle' is not quite so immaculate as Mr. Southey's 'Joan of Arc', and yet I am afraid the Frenchman has both more truth and poetry too on his side--(they rarely go together)--than our patriotic minstrel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose title of witch would be correct with the change of the first letter.] [Footnote 63: Like Sir Bland Burges's 'Richard'; the tenth book of which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyre's, 19, Cockspur-street. If this be doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau to quote from. [Sir James Bland Burges (1752-1824), who assumed, in 1821, the name of Lamb, married, as his first wife, the Hon. Elizabeth Noel, daughter of Lord Wentworth, and younger sister of Byron's mother-in-law, Lady Milbanke. He was called to the bar in 1777, and in the same year was appointed a Commissioner in Bankruptcy. In 1787 he was returned M.P. for the borough of Helleston; and from 1789 to 1795 held office as Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. In 1795, at the instance of his chief, Lord Grenville, he vacated his post, and by way of compensation was created a baronet with a sinecure post as Knight-Marshal of the Royal Household. Thenceforth he devoted himself to literature. In 1796 he wrote the 'Birth and Triumph of Love', by way of letter-press to some elegant designs of the Princess Elizabeth. (For 'Richard the First' and the 'Exodiad', see note, p. 436.) His plays, 'Riches and Tricks for Travellers', appeared in 1810, and there were other works. In spite of Wordsworth's testimony (Wordsworth signed, but Coleridge dictated and no doubt composed, the letter: see 'Thomas Poole and His Friends', ii. 27) "to a pure and unmixed vein of native English" in 'Richard the First (Bland-Burges Papers', 1885, p. 308), Burges as a poet awaits rediscovery. His diaries, portions of which were published in 1885, are lively and instructive. He has been immortalized in Person's Macaronics-- "Poetis nos lætamur tribus, Pye, Petro Pindar, parvo Pybus. Si ulterius ire pergis, Adde his Sir James Bland Burges!"] [Footnote 64: [Charles Lamb, in "Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago" (_Prose Works_, 1836, ii. 30), records his repeated visits, as a Blue Coat boy, "to the Lions in the Tower--to whose levée, by courtesy immemorial, we had a prescriptive title to admission."] [Footnote 65: Lines 677, 678 are not in 'MS. L. (a)'.] [Footnote 66: Lines 689-696 are not in 'MS. L. (a)' or 'MS. L. (b)'.] [Footnote 67: 'MS. L.' ('a' and 'b') continue at line 758.] [Footnote 68: "Tum quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, Gurgite cum medio portans OEagrius Hebrus, Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua; Ah, miseram Eurydicen! animâ fugiente vocabat; Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripæ." 'Georgic', iv. 523-527.] [Footnote 69: I beg Nathaniel's pardon: he is not a cobbler; 'it' is a 'tailor', but begged Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface to two pair of panta--psha!--of cantos, which he wished the public to try on; but the sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved the expense of an advertisement to his country customers--Merry's "Moorfields whine" was nothing to all this. The "Delia Cruscans" were people of some education, and no profession; but these Arcadians ("Arcades ambo"--bumpkins both) send out their native nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and small-clothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures, and Pæans to Gunpowder. Sitting on a shop-board, they describe the fields of battle, when the only blood they ever saw was shed from the finger; and an "Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part of a "poet;" "And own that 'nine' such poets made a Tate." Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope? and if he did, why not take it as his motto? ['An Essay on War; Honington Green, a Ballad ... an Elegy and other Poems,' was published in 1803.]] [Footnote 70: This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoemakers, and been accessory to the poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire singing; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. Pratt too (who once was wiser) has caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving one child and two volumes of "Remains" utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do well; but the "tragedies" are as ricketty as if they had been the offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly answerable for his end; and it ought to be an indictable offence. But this is the least they have done: for, by a refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what he would have had sense enough never to print himself. Certes these rakers of "Remains" come under the statute against "resurrection men." What does it signify whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo? "We know what we are, but we know not what we may be;" and it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed through life with a sort of éclat is to find himself a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory. The plea of publication is to provide for the child; now, might not some of this 'Sutor ultra Crepidaitis' friends and seducers have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into biography? And then his inscription split into so many modicums!--"To the Duchess of Somuch, the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these volumes are," etc. etc.--why, this is doling out the "soft milk of dedication" in gills,--there is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a puff left? Dost thou think six families of distinction can share this in quiet? There is a child, a book, and a dedication: send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the dedication to the devil. [For Robert Bloomfield, see 'English Bards', ll. 774-786, and note 2. For Joseph Blacket, see 'English Bards', ll. 765-770, and note 1. Blacket's 'Remains', with Life by Pratt, appeared in 1811. The work was dedicated "To Her Grace the Duchess of Leeds, Lady Milbanke and Family, Benevolent Patrons of the Author," etc.]] [Footnote 71: Lines 737-758 are not in either of the three original MSS. of 'Hints from Horace', and were probably written in the autumn of 1811. They appear among a sheet of "alterations to 'English Bards, and S. Reviewers', continued with additions" ('MSS. L.'}, drawn up for the fifth edition, and they are inserted on a separate sheet in 'MS. M.' A second sheet ('MSS. L.') of "scraps of rhyme ... principally additions and corrections for 'English Bards', etc." (for the fifth edition), some of which are dated 1810, does not give the whole passage, but includes the following variants (erased) of lines 753-756:-- (i.) "Then let thy ponderous quarto steep and stink, The dullest fattest weed on Lethe's brink. Down with that volume to the depths of hell! Oblivion seems rewarding it too well." (ii.) "Yet then thy quarto still may," etc. A "Druid" (see 'English Bards', line 741) was Byron's name for a scribbler who wrote for his living. In 'MS. M.', "scribbler" has been erased, and "Druid" substituted. It is doubtful to whom the passage, in its final shape, was intended to apply, but it is possible that the erased lines, in which "ponderous quarto" stands for "lost songs," were aimed at Southey (see 'ante', line 657, 'note' 1).] [Footnote 72: 'MS. L. (a)' recommences at line 758.] [Footnote 73: Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to his notice the sole survivor, the "ultimus Romanorum," the last of the Cruscanti--"Edwin" the "profound" by our Lady of Punishment! here he is, as lively as in the days of "well said Baviad the Correct." I thought Fitzgerald had been the tail of poesy; but, alas! he is only the penultimate. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE "MORNING CHRONICLE." "What reams of paper, floods of ink," Do some men spoil, who never think! And so perhaps you'll say of me, In which your readers may agree. Still I write on, and tell you why; Nothing's so bad, you can't deny, But may instruct or entertain Without the risk of giving pain, etc., etc. ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS. In tracing of the human mind Through all its various courses, Though strange, 'tis true, we often find It knows not its resources: And men through life assume a part For which no talents they possess, Yet wonder that, with all their art, They meet no better with success, etc., etc.] ['A Familiar Epistle, etc.', by T. Vaughan, Esq., was published in the 'Morning Chronicle', October 7, 1811. Gifford, in the 'Baviad' (l. 350), speaks of "Edwin's mewlings," and in a note names "Edwin" as the "profound Mr. T. Vaughan." 'Love's Metamorphoses', by T. Vaughan, was played at Drury Lane, April 15, 1776. He also wrote 'The Hotel, or Double Valet', November 26, 1776, which Jephson rewrote under the title of 'The Servant with Two Masters.' Compare 'Children of Apollo', p. 49:-- "Jephson, who has no humour of his own, Thinks it no crime to borrow from the town; The farce (almost forgot) of 'The Hotel' Or 'Double Valet' seems to answer well. This and his own make 'Two Strings to his Bow'."]] [Footnote 74: See Milton's 'Lycidas'.] [Footnote 75: Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc, etc. etc.] [Footnote 76: "A crust for the critics." 'Bayes, in "the Rehearsal"' [act ii. sc. 2]. [Footnote 77: And the "waiters" are the only fortunate people who can "fly" from them; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the "Literary Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaiming, "Sic" (that is, by choking Fitz. with bad wine, or worse poetry) "me servavit Apollo!" [See 'English Bards', line 1 and 'note' 3.]] [Footnote 78: Lines 813-816 not in 'MS. L. (a)' or 'MS. L. (b)'.] [Footnote 79: On his table were found these words:--"What Cato did, and Addison approved, cannot be wrong." But Addison did not "approve;" and if he had, it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on the same water-party; but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of "Atticus," and the enemy of Pope! [Eustace Budgell (1686-1737), a friend and relative of Addison's, "leapt into the Thames" to escape the dishonour which attached to him in connection with Dr. Tindal's will, and the immediate pressure of money difficulties. He was, more or less, insane. "We talked (says Boswell) of a man's drowning himself. I put the case of Eustace Budgell. 'Suppose, sir,' said I, 'that a man is absolutely sure that, if he lives a few days longer, he shall be detected in a fraud, the consequence of which will be utter disgrace, and expulsion from society?' JOHNSON. 'Then, sir, let him go abroad to a distant country; let him go to some place where he is 'not' known. Don't let him go to the devil, where he 'is' known.'" Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' (1886), p. 281.]] [Footnote 80: If "dosed with," etc. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to the original for something still lower; and if any reader will translate "Minxerit in patrios cineres," etc. into a decent couplet, I will insert said couplet in lieu of the present.] [Footnote i: ATHENS, 'March 2nd, 1811'. ['MS. L.' (a).] ATHENS, 'March 12th, 1811'. ['MS. L. (i), MS. M.']] [Footnote ii: 'If [A] West or Lawrence, (take whichever you will) Sons of the Brush, supreme in graphic skill, Should clap a human head-piece on a mare, How would our Exhibition's loungers stare! Or should some dashing limner set to sale My Lady's likeness with a Mermaid's tail.' ['MS. L.' (a).] 'The features finished, should superbly deck My Lady's likeness with a Filly's neck; Or should some limner mad or maudlin group A Mermaid's tail and Maid of Honour's Hoop.' ['MS. L. '(b).] ] [Sub-Footnote A: I have been obliged to dive into the "Bathos" for the simile, as I could not find a description of these Painters' merits above ground. "Si liceat parvis Componere magna"-- "Like London's column pointing to the skies Like a 'tall Bully', lifts its head and lies" I was in hopes might bear me out, if the monument be like a Bully. West's glory may be reduced by the scale of comparison. If not, let me have recourse to 'Tom Thumb the Great' [Fielding's farce, first played 1730] to keep my simile in countenance.--['MS. L. (b) erased]] [Footnote iii: After line 6, the following lines (erased) were inserted:-- 'Or patch a Mammoth up with wings and limbs, And fins of aught that flies or walks or swims'. ['MS. M'.] Another variant ran-- 'Or paint (astray from Truth and Nature led) A Judge with wings, a Statesman with a Head'! ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote iv: 'Believe me, Hobhouse'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote v: 'as we scribblers'. ['MSS. L'. ('a' and 'b'), 'MS. M'.]] [Footnote vi: 'Like Wardle's'[A] 'speeches'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Sub-Footnote A: [Gwyllim Lloyd Wardle (1762-1834), who served in Ireland in 1798, as Colonel of the Welsh Fusiliers, known as "Wynne's lambs," was M.P. for Okehampton 1807-12. In January, 1809, he brought forward a motion for a parliamentary investigation into the exercise of military patronage by the Duke of York, and the supposed influence of the Duke's mistress, Mary Anne Clarke.]] [Footnote vii: 'As pertness lurks beneath a legal gown. And nonsense in a lofty note goes down'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] or, 'Which covers all things like a Prelate's gown'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] or, 'Which wraps presumption'. ['MS. M. erased'.]] [Footnote viii: 'As when the poet to description yields Of waters gliding through the goodly fields; The Groves of Granta and her Gothic Halls, Oxford and Christchurch, London and St. Pauls, Or with a ruder flight he feebly aims To paint a rainbow or the River Thames. Perhaps you draw a fir tree or a beech, But then a landscape is beyond your reach; Or, if that allegory please you not, Take this--you'ld form a vase, but make a pot'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote ix: 'Although you sketch a tree which Taste endures, Your ill-daubed Shipwreck shocks the Connoisseurs.' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote x: 'The greater portion of the men of rhyme Parents and children or their Sires sublime'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote xi: 'But change the malady they strive to cure'. ['MS. L. (a').]] [Footnote xii: 'Fish in the woods and wild-boars in the waves'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote xiii: 'For Coat and waistcoat Slowshears is your man, But Breeches claim another Artisan; Now this to me I own seems much the same As one leg perfect and the other lame'. ['MSS. M., L. (a').] 'Sweitzer is your man'. [MS. M. 'erased'.]] [Footnote xiv: 'Him who hath sense to make a skilful choice Nor lucid Order, nor the Siren Voice Of Eloquence shall shun, and Wit and Grace (Or I'm deceived) shall aid him in the Race: These too will teach him to defer or join To future parts the now omitted line: This shall the Author like or that reject, Sparing in words and cautious to select: Nor slight applause will candid pens afford To him who well compounds a wanting word, And if, by chance, 'tis needful to produce Some term long laid and obsolete in use'.-- ['MSS. M., L'. ('a' and 'b'). 'The last line partly erased.'] [Footnote xv: 'The dextrous Coiner of a' wanting 'word'.-- ['Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote xvi: 'Adroitly grafted.' ['Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote xvii: 'Since they enriched our language in their time In modern speeches or Black letter rhyme.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xviii: 'Though at a Monarch's nod, and Traffic's call Reluctant rivers deviate to Canal'. ['MSS. M., L'. ('a' and 'b').]] [Footnote xix: 'marshes dried, sustain'. ['Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote xx: 'Thus--future years dead volumes shall revive'. ['Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote xxi: 'As Custom fluctuates whose Iron Sway Though ever changing Mortals must obey'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote xxii: 'To mark the Majesty of Epic song'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote xxiii: 'But which is preferable rhyme or blank Which holds in poesy'. ['MS. L'. ('a').] [Footnote xxiv: --'ventures to appear.--' ['MS. Corr. in Proof b, British Museum'.] [Footnote xxv: 'And Harry Monmouth, till the scenes require, Resigns heroics to his sceptred Sire.' ['MS. L'. (a).]] [Footnote xxvi: 'To "hollaing Hotspur" and the sceptred sire.'-- ['MS. Corr. in Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote xxvii: 'Dull as an Opera, I should sleep or sneer.' ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote xxviii: 'And for Emotion's aid 'tis said and sung'. ['MS. L, (a)'.]] [Footnote xxix: 'or form a plot'. ['Proof b, British Museum'.]] [Footnote xxx: 'Whate'er the critic says or poet sings 'Tis no slight task to write on common things'. ['MS. L. (a).']] [Footnote xxxi: 'Ere o'er our heads your Muse's Thunder rolls.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xxxii: 'Earth, Heaven and Hell, are shaken with the Song.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xxxiii: 'Through deeds we know not, though already done,' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xxxiv: 'What soothes the people's, Peer's, and Critic's ear.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xxxv: 'And Vice buds forth developed with his Teens.' [MS. M.]] [Footnote xxxvi: 'The beardless Tyro freed at length from school. [MSS. L. (b), M. erased'.] 'And blushing Birch disdains all College rule. [MS. M. erased'.] 'And dreaded Birch. [MS. L.' (a' and 'b').]] [Footnote xxxvii: 'Unlucky Tavell! damned to daily cares By pugilistic Freshmen, and by Bears.' ['MS. M. erased'.]] [Footnote xxxviii: 'Ready to quit whatever he loved before, Constant to nought, save hazard and a whore.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xxxix: 'The better years of youth he wastes away.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xl: 'Master of Arts, as all the Clubs proclaim.' ['MS. L. (b)'.]] [Footnote xli: 'Scrapes wealth, o'er Grandam's endless jointure grieves.' ['MS. erased'.] 'O'er Grandam's mortgage, or young hopeful's debts.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] 'O'er Uncle's mortgage.' ['MS. L. (b)'.]] [Footnote xlii: 'Your plot is told or acted more or less.' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote xliii: 'To greater sympathy our feelings rise When what is done is done before our eyes.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xliv: 'Appalls an audience with the work of Death-- To gaze when Hubert simply threats to sere.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xlv: 'Nor call a Ghost, unless some cursed hitch Requires a trapdoor Goblin or a Witch.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xlvi: 'This comes from Commerce with our foreign friends These are the precious fruits Ausonia sends.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote xlvii: 'Our Giant Capital where streets still spread Where once our simpler sins were bred.' ['MS. L. (a).'] 'Our fields where once the rustic earned his bread.' ['MS. L. (b)'.]] [Footnote xlviii: 'Aches with the Orchestra he pays to hear. [MS. M.']] [Footnote xlix: 'Scarce kept awake by roaring out encore.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote l: 'Ere theatres were built and reverend clerks Wrote plays as some old book remarks.' [MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote li: 'Who did what Vestris--yet, at least,--cannot, And cut his kingly capers "Sans culotte."' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote lii: 'Who yet squeaks on nor fears to be forgot If good Earl Grosvenor supersede them not'. ['MS. L'. ('a').] 'Who still frisk on with feats so vastly low 'Tis strange Earl Grosvenor suffers such a show'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote liii: 'Suppressing Peer! to whom all vice gives place, Save Gambling--for his Lordship loves a Race'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote liv: 'Hobhouse, since we have roved through Eastern climes, While all the Ægean echoed to our rhymes, And bound to Momus by some pagan spell Laughed, sang and quaffed to "Vive la Bagatelle!'"-- ['MS. L'. ('a').] 'Hobhouse, with whom once more I hope to sit And smile at what our Stage retails for wit. Since few, I know, enjoy a laugh so well Sardonic slave to "Vive la Bagatelle" So that in your's like Pagan Plato's bed They'll find some book of Epigrams when dead'. ['MS. L'. ('b').]] [Footnote lv: 'My wayward Spirit weakly yields to gloom, But thine will waft thee lightly to the Tomb, So that in thine, like Pagan Plato's, bed They'll find some Manuscript of Mimes, when dead'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote lvi: 'And spite of Methodism and Collier's curse'. ['MS. M'.] 'He who's seduced by plays must be a fool' 'If boys want teaching let them stay at school'. [MS. L. (a).]] [Footnote lvii: 'Whom Nature guides so writes that he who sees Enraptured thinks to do the same with ease'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote lviii: 'But after toil-inked thumbs and bitten nails Scratched head, ten quires--the easy scribbler fails'.-- ['MS. L'. ('a').] [Footnote lix: 'The one too rustic, t'other too refined'. ['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]] [Footnotes lx: 'Offensive most to men with house and land Possessed of Pedigree and bloody hand'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] Footnote lxi: 'Composed for any but the lightest strain'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] Footnote lxii: 'And must I then my'-- ['MS.L'. ('a').] [Footnote lxiii: 'Ye who require Improvement'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote lxiv: 'And Tragedy, whatever stuff he spoke Now wants high heels, long sword and velvet cloak'.-- ['MS. L'. ('a') 'erased'.]] [Footnote lxv: 'Curtail or silence the offensive jest'. ['MS. M'.] 'Curtail the personal or smutty jest'. ['MS. L'. ('a') 'erased'.]] [Footnote lxvi: 'Overthrow whole books with all their hosts of faults'.-- ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnotes lxvii: 'So that not Hellebore with all its juice'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote lxviii: 'I'll act instead of whetstone--blunted, but Of use to make another's razor cut'. ['MS. L.' ('a').]] [Footnote lxix: 'From Horace show the better arts of song'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote lxx: 'To Trade, but gave their hours to arms and arts'. ['MS. L'. ('a').] 'With traffic'. ['MS. L'. ('b').]] [Footnote lxxi: 'Babe of old Thelusson' [A]----. ['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]] [Sub-Footnote A: [Peter Isaac Thellusson, banker (died July 21, 1797), by his will directed that his property should accumulate for the benefit of the unborn heir of an unborn grandson. The will was, finally, upheld, but, meanwhile, on July 28, 1800, an act (39 and 40 Geo. III.c.98) was passed limiting such executory devises.]] [Footnote lxxii: 'A groat--ah bravo! Dick's the boy for sums He'll swell my fifty thousand into plums'. ['MS. L'. ('a').]] [Footnote lxxiii: 'Are idle dogs and (damn them!) always poor'.-- ['MS. L'. ('a' and 'b').]] [Footnote lxxiv: 'Unlike Potosi holds no silver mine'. ['MS. L'. ('a').] 'Keeps back his ingots like'} 'Is rather costive--like' } 'an Irish Mine'. 'Is no Potosi, but' } ['MS. L'. ('b').]] [Footnote lxxv: 'Write but recite not, e'en Apollo's song Mouthed in a mortal ear would seem too long, Long as the last year of a lingering lease, When Revel pauses until Rents increase'. ['MS. M. erased'.]] [Footnote lxxvi: 'To finish all'. ['MS. L'. ('b').] 'That Bard the mask will fit'. ['MS. L'. ('b').]] [Footnote lxxvii: 'Revenge defeats its object in the dark And pistols (courage bullies!) miss their mark.' ['MS. L. (a).'] And pistols (courage duellists!) miss their mark. ['MS. L. (b)'.]] [Footnote lxxviii: 'Though much displeased.' ['MS. L. (a and b)'.]] [Footnote lxxix: 'The scrutiny.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote lxxx: 'Oh ye aspiring youths whom fate or choice.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] [Footnote lxxxi: 'All are not Erskines who adorn the bar.' ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote lxxxii: 'With very middling verses to offend The Devil and Jeffrey grant but to a friend.' ['MS. L. (a).'] 'Though what "Gods, men, and columns" interdict, The Devil and Jeffrey [A] pardon--in a Pict.' ['MS. M.']] [Sub-Footnote A: "The Devil and Jeffrey are here placed antithetically to gods and men, such being their usual position, and their due one--according to the facetious saying, 'If God won't take you, the Devil must;' and I am sure no one durst object to his taking the poetry, which, rejected by Horace, is accepted by Jeffrey. That these gentlemen are in some cases kinder,--the one to countrymen, and the other from his odd propensity to prefer evil to good,--than the 'gods, men, and columns' of Horace, may be seen by a reference to the review of Campbell's 'Gertrude of Wyoming'; and in No. 31 of the 'Edinburgh Review' (given to me the other day by the captain of an English frigate off Salamis), there is a similar concession to the mediocrity of Jamie Graham's 'British Georgics'. It is fortunate for Campbell, that his fame neither depends on his last poem, nor the puff of the 'Edinburgh Review'. The catalogues of our English are also less fastidious than the pillars of the Roman librarians. A word more with the author of 'Gertrude of Wyoming'. At the end of a poem, and even of a couplet, we have generally 'that unmeaning thing we call a thought;' so Mr. Campbell concludes with a thought in such a manner as to fulfil the whole of Pope's prescription, and be as 'unmeaning' as the best of his brethren:-- 'Because I may not 'stain' with grief The death-song of an Indian chief.' "When I was in the fifth form, I carried to my master the translation of a chorus in Prometheus, wherein was a pestilent expression about 'staining a voice,' which met with no quarter. Little did I think that Mr. Campbell would have adopted my fifth form 'sublime'--at least in so conspicuous a situation. 'Sorrow' has been 'dry' (in proverbs), and 'wet' (in sonnets), this many a day; and now it ''stains',' and stains a sound, of all feasible things! To be sure, death-songs might have been stained with that same grief to very good purpose, if Outalissi had clapped down his stanzas on wholesome paper for the 'Edinburgh Evening Post', or any other given hyperborean gazette; or if the said Outalissi had been troubled with the slightest second sight of his own notes embodied on the last proof of an overcharged quarto; but as he is supposed to have been an improvisatore on this occasion, and probably to the last tune he ever chanted in this world, it would have done him no discredit to have made his exit with a mouthful of common sense. Talking of ''staining'' (as Caleb Quotem says) 'puts me in mind' of a certain couplet, which Mr. Campbell will find in a writer for whom he, and his school, have no small contempt:-- 'E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, The last and greatest art--the art to 'blot'!'" ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote lxxxiii: 'And mustard rarely pleases in a pie.' ['MS. L. '(a).]] [Footnote lxxxiv: 'At the Sessions'. ['MS. L.' (b), 'in pencil'.] ] [Footnote lxxxv: Lines 647-650-- Whose character contains no glaring fault... Shall I, I say. [MS. L. (a).]] [Footnote lxxxvi: After 660-- 'But why this hint-what author e'er could stop His poems' progress in a Grocers shop.' ['MS. L. (a).'] ] [Footnote lxxxvii: 'As lame as I am, but a better bard.' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote lxxxviii: 'Apollo's song the fate of men foretold.' ['MS. L. (a).']] [Footnote lxxxix: 'Have studied with a Master day and night'. ['MS. L. (a, b).']] [Footnote xc: 'They storm Bolt Court, they publish one and all'.-- ['MS. M. erased.']] [Footnote xci: 'Rogers played this prank'. ['MS. M.']] [Footnote xcii: 'There see their sonnets first--but Spring--hot prest Beholds a Quarto--Tarts must tell the Rest.' ['MS. M. erased.']] [Footnote xciii: 'To fuddled Esquires or to flippant Lords.' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote xciv: 'Till lo! that modern Midas of the swains-- Feels his ears lengthen--with the lengthening strains'.-- ['MS. M. erased'.]] [Footnote xcv: 'Adds a week's growth to his enormous ears'. ['MS. M. erased.']] [Footnote xcvi: 'But what are these? Benefits might bind Some decent ties about a manly mind'. ['MS. M.']] [Footnote xcvii: 'Our modern sceptics can no more allow.' ['MS. L. (a).']] [Footnote xcviii: 'Some rhyming peer--Carlisle or Carysfort.'[A] ['MS. M.']] [Sub-Footnote A: [To variant ii. (p. 444) (this footnote) is subjoined this note: "Of 'John Joshua, Earl of Carysfort,' I know nothing at present, but from an advertisement in an old newspaper of certain Poems and Tragedies by his Lordship, which I saw by accident in the Morea. Being a rhymer himself, he will forgive the liberty I take with his name, seeing, as he must, how very commodious it is at the close of that couplet; and as for what follows and goes before, let him place it to the account of the other Thane; since I cannot, under these circumstances, augur pro or con the contents of his 'foolscap crown octavos.'" [John Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint postmaster-general in 1805, envoy to Berlin in 1806, and ambassador to Petersburgh in 1807. Besides his poems ('Dramatic and Miscellaneous Works', 1810), he published two pamphlets (1780,1783), to show the necessity of universal suffrage and short parliaments. He died in 1828.]] [Footnote xcix: 'Hoarse with bepraising, and half choaked with lies, Sweat on his brow and tear drops in his eyes.' ['MS. L. (a).']] [Footnote c: 'Then sits again, then shakes his piteous head As if the Vicar were already dead.' ['MS. L. (a).']] [Footnote ci: 'But if you're too conceited to amend.' ['MS. L. (a).]'] [Footnote cii: 'On pain of suffering from their pen or tongues.' ['MS. M. erased.'] '--fly Fitzgerald's lungs.' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote ciii: 'Ah when Bards mouth! how sympathetic Time Stagnates, and Hours stand still to hear their rhyme.' ['MS. M. erased'.]] [Footnote civ: 'Besides how know ye? that he did not fling Himself there--for the humour of the thing.' ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote cv: 'Small thanks, unwelcome life he quickly leaves; And raving poets--really should not lose.' ['MS. M'.] [Footnote cvi: 'Nor is it clearly understood that verse Has not been given the poet for a curse; Perhaps he sent the parson's pig to pound, Or got a child on consecrated ground; But, be this as it may, his rhyming rage Exceeds a Bear who strives to break his cage. If free, all fly his versifying fit; The young, the old, the simpleton and wit.' ['MS. L. (a)'.]] THE CURSE OF MINERVA. --"Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." _Aeneid_, lib. xii, 947, 948. NOTE I. In 'The Malediction of Minerva (New Monthly Magazine', vol. iii. p. 240) additional footnotes are appended (1) to line 106, recording the obliteration of Lord Elgin's name, "which had been inscribed on a pillar of one of the principal temples," while that of Lady Elgin had been left untouched; and (2) to line 196, giving quotations from pp. 158, 269, 419 of Eustace's 'Classical Tour in Italy'. After line 130, which reads, "And well I know within that murky land" ('i.e'. Caledonia), the following apology for a hiatus was inserted: "Here follows in the original certain lines which the editor has exercised his discretion by suppressing; inasmuch as they comprise national reflections which the bard's justifiable indignation has made him pour forth against a people which, if not universally of an amiable, is generally of a respectable character, and deserves not in this case to be censured 'en masse' for the faults of an individual." NOTE II. The text of 'The Curse of Minerva' is based on that of the quarto printed by T. Davison in 1813. With the exception of the variants, as noted, the text corresponds with the MS. in the possession of Lord Stanhope. Doubtless it represents Byron's final revision. The text of an edition of 'The Curse, etc'., Philadelphia, 1815, 8vo [printed by De Silver and Co.], was followed by Galignani (third edit., 1818, etc.). The same text is followed, but not invariably, in the selections printed by Hone in 1816 (111 lines); Wilson, 1818 (112 lines); and Knight and Lacy, 1824 (111 lines). It exhibits the following variants from the quarto of 1813:-- Line. Variant. 56.----'lands and main.' 81. 'Her helm was deep indented and her lance.' 94. 'Seek'st thou the cause? O mortal, look around.' 102. 'That Hadrian----' 116. 'The last base brute----' 143. 'Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride.' 152. '----victors o'er the grave.' 162. '----Time shall tell the rest.' 199. 'Loath'd throughout life--scarce pardon'd in the dust.' 203. 'Erostratus and Elgin, etc.' 206. '----viler than the first. 222. 'Shall shake your usurpation to its base.' 233. 'While Lusitania----' 273. 'Then in the Senates----' 290. '----decorate his fall.' The following variants may also be noted:-- Line. Variant. Publisher 1. 'Slow sinks now lovely, etc.' Hone 110. 'The Gothic monarch and the British----.' Wilson '----and his fit compeer.' 131. 'And well I know within that murky land. ... Dispatched her reckoning children far and wide. Hone And well I know, albeit afar, the land, Where starving Avarice keeps her chosen band; Or sends their hungry numbers eager forth. ... And aye accursed, etc.' Wilson INTRODUCTION TO _THE CURSE OF MINERVA_ 'The Curse of Minerva', which was written at Athens, and is dated March 17, 1811, remained unpublished, as a whole, in this country, during Byron's life-time. The arrangement which had been made with Cawthorn, to bring out a fifth edition of 'English Bards', included the issue of a separate volume, containing 'Hints from Horace' and 'The Curse of Minerva;' and, as Moore intimates, it was the withdrawal of the latter, in deference to the wishes of Lord Elgin or his connections, which led to the suppression of the other satires. The quarto edition of The 'Curse of Minerva', printed by T. Davison in 1812, was probably set up at the same time as Murray's quarto edition of 'Childe Harold', and reserved for private circulation. With or without Byron's consent, the poem as a whole was published in Philadelphia by De Silver and Co., 1815, 8vo (for variants, see p. 453, 'note'). In a letter to Murray, March 6, 1816, he says that he "disowns" 'The Curse, etc.', "as stolen and published in a miserable and villainous copy in the magazine." The reference is to 'The Malediction of Minerva, or The Athenian Marble-Market', which appeared in the 'New Monthly Magazine' for April, 1818, vol. iii. 240. It numbers 111 lines, and is signed "Steropes" (The Lightner, a Cyclops). The text of the magazine, with the same additional footnotes, but under the title of 'The Curse', etc., was republished in the eighth edition of 'Poems on His Domestic Circumstances', W. Hone, London, 1816, 8vo, and, thenceforth, in other piratical issues. Whatever may have been his feelings or intentions in 1812, four years later Byron was well aware that 'The Curse of Minerva' would not increase his reputation as a poet, while the object of his satire--the exposure and denunciation of Lord Elgin--had been accomplished by the scathing stanzas (canto ii. 10-15), with their accompanying note, in 'Childe Harold'. "Disown" it as he might, his words were past recall, and both indictments stand in his name. Byron was prejudiced against Elgin before he started on his tour. He had, perhaps, glanced at the splendid folio, 'Specimens of Ancient Sculpture', which was issued by the Dilettanti Society in 1809. Payne Knight wrote the preface, in which he maintains that the friezes and metopes of the Parthenon were not the actual work of Phidias, "but ... architectural studies ... probably by workmen scarcely ranked among artists." So judged the leader of the 'cognoscenti', and, in accordance with his views, Elgin and Aberdeen are held up to ridicule in 'English Bards' (second edition, October, 1809, 1. 1007, and 'note') as credulous and extravagant collectors of "maimed antiques." It was, however, not till the first visit to Athens (December, 1809-March, 1810), when he saw with his own eyes the "ravages of barbarous and antiquarian despoilers" (Lord Broughton's 'Travels in Albania', 1858, i. 259), that contempt gave way to indignation, and his wrath found vent in the pages of 'Childe Harold'. Byron cared as little for ancient buildings as he did for the authorities, or for patriotic enterprise, but he was stirred to the quick by the marks of fresh and, as he was led to believe, wanton injury to "Athena's poor remains." The southern side of the half-wrecked Parthenon had been deprived of its remaining metopes, which had suffered far less from the weather than the other sides which are still in the building; all that remained of the frieze had been stripped from the three sides of the cella, and the eastern pediment had been despoiled of its diminished and mutilated, but still splendid, group of figures; and, though five or six years had gone by, the blank spaces between the triglyphs must have revealed their recent exposure to the light, and the shattered edges of the cornice, which here and there had been raised and demolished to permit the dislodgment of the metopes, must have caught the eye as they sparkled in the sun. Nor had the removal and deportation of friezes and statues come to an end. The firman which Dr. Hunt, the chaplain to the embassy, had obtained in 1801, which empowered Elgin and his agents to take away 'qualche pezzi di pietra', still ran, and Don Tita Lusieri, the Italian artist, who remained in Elgin's service, was still, like the 'canes venatici' (Americané, "smell-dogs") employed by Verres in Sicily (see 'Childe Harold', canto ii. st. 12, 'note'), finding fresh relics, and still bewailing to sympathetic travellers the hard fate which compelled him to despoil the temples 'malgré lui'. The feelings of the inhabitants themselves were not much in question, but their opinions were quoted for and against the removal of the marbles. Elgin's secretary and prime agent, W.R. Hamilton, testifies, from personal knowledge, that, "so far from exciting any unpleasant sensations, the people seemed to feel it as the means of bringing foreigners into the country, and of having money spent there" ('Memoir on the Earl of Elgin's Pursuits in Greece', 1811). On the other hand, the traveller, Edward Daniel Clarke, with whom Byron corresponded (see 'Childe Harold', canto ii. st. 12, 'note'), speaks of the attachment of the Turks to the Parthenon, and their religious veneration for the building as a mosque, and tells a pathetic story of the grief of the Disdar when "a metope was lowered, and the adjacent masonry scattered its white fragments with thundering noise among the ruins" ('Travels in Various Countries', part ii, sect. ii, p. 483). Other travellers of less authority than Clarke--Dodwell, for instance, who visited the Parthenon before it had been dismantled, and, afterwards, was present at the removal of metopes; and Hughes, who came after Byron (autumn, 1813)--make use of such phrases as "shattered desolation," "wanton devastation and avidity of plunder." Even Michaelis, the great archaeologist, who denounces 'The Curse of Minerva' as a "'libellous' poem," and affirms "that only blind passion could doubt that Lord Elgin's act was an act of preservation," admits that "the removal of several metopes and of the statue from the Erechtheion had severely injured the surrounding architecture" ('Ancient Marbles in Great Britain', by A. Michaelis, translated by C.A.M. Fennell, 1882, p. 135). Highly coloured and emotional as some of these phrases may be, they explain, if they do not justify, the 'sæva indignatio' of Byron's satire. It is almost, if not quite, unnecessary to state the facts on the other side. History regards Lord Elgin as a disinterested official, who at personal loss (at least thirty-five thousand pounds on his own showing), and in spite of opposition and disparagement, secured for his own country and the furtherance of art the perishable fragments of Phidian workmanship, which, but for his intervention, might have perished altogether. If they had eluded the clutches of Turkish mason and Greek dealer in antiquities--if, by some happy chance, they had escaped the ravages of war, the gradual but gradually increasing assaults of rain and frost would have already left their effacing scars on the "Elgin marbles." As it is, the progress of decay has been arrested, and all the world is the gainer. Byron was neither a prophet nor an archaeologist, and time and knowledge have put him in the wrong. But in 1810 the gaps in the entablature of the Parthenon were new, the Phidian marbles were huddled in a "damp dirty penthouse" in Park Lane (see 'Life of Haydon', i. 84), and the logic of events had not justified a sad necessity. THE CURSE OF MINERVA. Pallas te hoc Vulnere Pallas Immolat et poenam scelerato ex Sanguine Sumit. ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, _March_ 17, 1811. Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, [1] Along Morea's hills the setting Sun; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light; O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, [i] Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows; On old Ægina's rock and Hydra's isle [2] The God of gladness sheds his parting smile; O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. [ii] 10 Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss Thy glorious Gulf, unconquered Salamis! Their azure arches through the long expanse, [iii] More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. [iv] On such an eve his palest beam he cast When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last. 20 How watched thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murdered Sage's [3] latest day! Not yet--not yet--Sol pauses on the hill, The precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes; Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour, The land where Phoebus never frowned before; But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, The cup of Woe was quaffed--the Spirit fled; 30 The soul of Him that scorned to fear or fly, [v] Who lived and died as none can live or die. But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain The Queen of Night asserts her silent reign; [vi] [4] No murky vapour, herald of the storm, [vii] Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form; With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And bright around, with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o'er the Minaret; 40 The groves of olive scattered dark and wide, Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, [5] And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm; All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye; And dull were his that passed them heedless by. [6] Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war: 50 Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle That frown, where gentler Ocean deigns to smile. [viii] As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, I marked the beauties of the land and main, Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore; Oft as the matchless dome I turned to scan, Sacred to Gods, but not secure from Man, 60 The Past returned, the Present seemed to cease, And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece! Hour rolled along, and Dian's orb on high Had gained the centre of her softest sky; And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod O'er the vain shrine of many a vanished God: [ix] But chiefly, Pallas! thine, when Hecate's glare Checked by thy columns, fell more sadly fair O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 70 Long had I mused, and treasured every trace The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, When, lo! a giant-form before me strode, And Pallas hailed me in her own Abode! Yes,'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how changed, Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged! Not such as erst, by her divine command, Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand: Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, Her idle Ægis bore no Gorgon now; 80 Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance Seemed weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance; The Olive Branch, which still she deigned to clasp, Shrunk from her touch, and withered in her grasp; And, ah! though still the brightest of the sky, Celestial tears bedimmed her large blue eye; Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, And mourned his mistress with a shriek of woe! "Mortal!"--'twas thus she spake--"that blush of shame Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; 90 First of the mighty, foremost of the free, [x] Now honoured 'less' by all, and 'least' by me: Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. Seek'st thou the cause of loathing!--look around. Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire, I saw successive Tyrannies expire; 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, [xi] Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. Survey this vacant, violated fane; Recount the relics torn that yet remain: 100 'These' Cecrops placed, 'this' Pericles adorned, [7] 'That' Adrian reared when drooping Science mourned. What more I owe let Gratitude attest-- Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, The insulted wall sustains his hated name: [8] For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, Below, his name--above, behold his deeds! Be ever hailed with equal honour here The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: [xii] 110 Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, But basely stole what less barbarians won. So when the Lion quits his fell repast, Next prowls the Wolf, the filthy Jackal last: [xiii] Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. Yet still the Gods are just, and crimes are crossed: See here what Elgin won, and what he lost! Another name with _his_ pollutes my shrine: Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine! 120 Some retribution still might Pallas claim, When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." [9] She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye: "Daughter of Jove! in Britain's injured name, [xiv] A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. Frown not on England; England owns him not: Athena, no! thy plunderer was a Scot. Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyles' towers Survey Boeotia;--Caledonia's ours. 130 And well I know within that bastard land [10] Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command; A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined To stern sterility, can stint the mind; Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, Emblem of all to whom the Land gives birth; Each genial influence nurtured to resist; A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. [xv] Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 140 Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'erflows, Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows: Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride Despatch her scheming children far and wide; Some East, some West, some--everywhere but North! In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. And thus--accursed be the day and year! She sent a Pict to play the felon here. Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, [11] As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth; 150 So may her few, the lettered and the brave, Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, And shine like children of a happier strand; As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." "Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once more Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. [12] Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine, To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 160 Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. "First on the head of him who did this deed My curse shall light,--on him and all his seed: Without one spark of intellectual fire, Be all the sons as senseless as the sire: If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, Believe him bastard of a brighter race: Still with his hireling artists let him prate, And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate; 170 Long of their Patron's gusto let them tell, Whose noblest, _native_ gusto is--to sell: To sell, and make--may shame record the day!-- The State--Receiver of his pilfered prey. Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, And own himself an infant of fourscore. [13] Be all the Bruisers culled from all St. Giles', That Art and Nature may compare their styles; [xvi] 180 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, And marvel at his Lordship's 'stone shop' there. [14] Round the thronged gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep; While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, On giant statues casts the curious eye; The room with transient glance appears to skim, Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb; Mourns o'er the difference of _now_ and _then_; Exclaims, 'These Greeks indeed were proper men!' 190 Draws slight comparisons of 'these' with 'those', [xvii] And envies Laïs all her Attic beaux. When shall a modern maid have swains like these? [xviii] Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules! And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, In silent indignation mixed with grief, Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. Oh, loathed in life, nor pardoned in the dust, May Hate pursue his sacrilegious lust! 200 Linked with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, [15] And Eratostratus [16] and Elgin shine In many a branding page and burning line; Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, Perchance the second blacker than the first. "So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, Fixed statue on the pedestal of Scorn; Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, But fits thy country for her coming fate: 210 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son To do what oft Britannia's self had done. Look to the Baltic--blazing from afar, Your old Ally yet mourns perfidious war. [17] Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, Or break the compact which herself had made; Far from such counsels, from the faithless field She fled--but left behind her Gorgon shield; A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone, And left lost Albion hated and alone. 220 "Look to the East, [18] where Ganges' swarthy race Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base; Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, And glares the Nemesis of native dead; Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, And claims his long arrear of northern blood. So may ye perish!--Pallas, when she gave Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. "Look on your Spain!--she clasps the hand she hates, But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 230 Bear witness, bright Barossa! [19] thou canst tell Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. Oh glorious field! by Famine fiercely won, The Gaul retires for once, and all is done! But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat? "Look last at home--ye love not to look there On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 240 Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls, Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. See all alike of more or less bereft; No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 'Blest paper credit;' [20] who shall dare to sing? It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear, Who Gods and men alike disdained to hear; But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, On Pallas calls,--but calls, alas! too late: 250 Then raves for'----'; to that Mentor bends, Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. So, once of yore, each reasonable frog, Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.' Thus hailed your rulers their patrician clod, As Egypt chose an onion [21] for a God. "Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour; Go, grasp the shadow of your vanished power; 260 Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme; Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. Gone is that Gold, the marvel of mankind. And Pirates barter all that's left behind. [22] No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. The idle merchant on the useless quay Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away; Or, back returning, sees rejected stores Rot piecemeal on his own encumbered shores: 270 The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. Then in the Senates of your sinking state Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. Vain is each voice where tones could once command; E'en factions cease to charm a factious land: Yet jarring sects convulse a sister Isle, And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. "'Tis done, 'tis past--since Pallas warns in vain; The Furies seize her abdicated reign: 280 Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands, And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. But one convulsive struggle still remains, [xix] And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains, The bannered pomp of war, the glittering files, [xx] O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, That bid the foe defiance ere they come; The hero bounding at his country's call, The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 290 Swell the young heart with visionary charms. And bid it antedate the joys of arms. But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, With death alone are laurels cheaply bought; Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, His day of mercy is the day of fight. But when the field is fought, the battle won, Though drenched with gore, his woes are but begun: His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name; The slaughtered peasant and the ravished dame, 300 The rifled mansion and the foe-reaped field, Ill suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. Say with what eye along the distant down Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? How view the column of ascending flames Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was thine That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most? 310 The law of Heaven and Earth is life for life, And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." [Footnote 1: The lines (1-54) with which the Satire begins, down to "As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane," first appeared (1814) as the opening stanza of the Third Canto of 'The Corsair'. At that time the publication of 'The Curse of Minerva' had been abandoned. (See Byron's 'note' to 'The Corsair', Canto III. st. i. line i.)] [Footnote 2: Idra; 'The Corsair', III. st. i. line 7. Hydra, or Hydrea, is an island on the east coast of the Peloponnese, between the gulfs of Nauplia and Ægina. As an "isle of Greece" it had almost no history until the War of Independence, when its chief town became a "city of refuge" for the inhabitants of the Morea and Northern Greece. Byron was, perhaps, the first poet to give it a name in song.] [Footnote 3: Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.] [Footnote 4: The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration.] [Footnote 5: The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.] [Footnote 6: "The Temple of Theseus is the most perfect ancient edifice in the world. In this fabric, the most enduring stability, and a simplicity of design peculiarly striking, are united with the highest elegance and accuracy of workmanship." 'Travels in Albania, etc.', by Lord Broughton (1858), i. 259.] [Footnote 7: This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian; sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful marble and architecture.] [Footnote 8: The following lines, of which the first two were written on the original 'MS'., are in Byron's handwriting:-- "Aspice quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores; Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide. Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis ædi, Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. Pygmalion statuam pro sponsâ arsisse refertur; Tu statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest." Compare 'Horace in London', by the authors of 'Rejected Addresses' (James and Horace Smith), London, 1813, ode xv., "The Parthenon," "'Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus'." "And Hymen shall thy nuptial hopes consume, Unless, like fond Pygmalion, thou canst wed Statues thy hand could never give to bloom. In wifeless wedlock shall thy life be led, No marriage joys to bless thy solitary bed." [Lord Elgin's first marriage with Mary, daughter of William Hamilton Nisbet, was dissolved by Act of Parliament in 1808.]] [Footnote 9: His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon; above, in a part not far distant, are the torn remnants of the bassorelievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove them. [On the Erechtheum there was deeply cut in a plaster wall the words-- "QUOD NON FECERUNT GOTI, HOC FECERUNT SCOTI."]] [Footnote 10: "Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan. ["A wild Irish soldier in the Prussian Army," in Macklin's 'Love-à-la-Mode' (first played December 12, 1759).]] [Footnote 11: Lines 149-156 not in original 'MS'.] [Footnote 12: Compare 'Horace in London', ode xv:-- "All who behold my mutilated pile, Shall brand its ravages with classic rage; And soon a titled bard from Britain's isle Thy country's praise and suffrage shall engage, And fire with Athens' wrongs an angry age."] [Footnote 13: Mr. West, on seeing the "Elgin Collection," (I suppose we shall hear of the "Abershaw" and "Jack Shephard" collection) declared himself a "mere tyro" in art. [Compare Letters of Benjamin West to the Earl of Elgin, February 6, 1809, March 20, 1811, published in W.R. Hamilton's 'Memorandum', 1811.]] [Footnote 14: Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were first exhibited at Elgin House; he asked if it was not "a stone shop?"--He was right; it 'is' a shop.] [Footnote 15: Lines 202-265 are not in the MS.] [Footnote 16: Herostratus or Eratostratus fired the temple of Artemis on the same night that Alexander the Great was born. (See Plut., 'Alex'., 3, etc.)] [Footnote 17: The affair of Copenhagen. Copenhagen was bombarded by sea by Admiral Lord Gambier (1756-1833), and by land by General Lord Cathcart (1755-1843), September 2-8, 1807. The citadel was given up to the English, and the Danes surrendered their fleet, with all the naval stores, and their arsenals and dockyards. The expedition was "promptly and secretly equipped" by the British Government "with an activity and celerity," says Koch ('Hist. of Europe', p. 214), "such as they had never displayed in sending aid to their allies," with a view to anticipate the seizure and appropriation of the Danish fleet by Napoleon and Alexander (Green's 'Hist. English People' (1875), p. 799).]] [Footnote 18: "The East" is brought within range of Minerva's curse, 'symmetriae causâ', and it is hard to say to which "rebellion" she refers. A choice lies between the mutiny which broke out in 1809, during Sir George Barlow's presidency of Madras, among the officers of the Company's service, and which at one time threatened the continuance of British sway in India; and later troubles, in 1810, arising from the Pindárí hordes, who laid waste the villages of Central India and Hindostan, and from the Pathans, who invaded Berar under Ameer Khan. But here, as in lines 245-258 ('vide infra', p. 470, 'note' i), Byron is taking toll of a note to 'Epics of the Ton', pp. 246, 247, which enlarges on the mutiny of native soldiers which took place at Vellore in 1806, where several "European officers and a considerable portion of the 69th Regiment were massacred," in consequence of "an injudicious order with respect to the dress of the Sepoys."--Gleig's 'History of the British Empire in India' (1835), iii. 233, 'note'.]] [Footnote 19: The victory of "bright Barossa," March 5, 1811, was achieved by the sudden determination--"an inspiration rather than a resolution," says Napier--of the British commander, General Graham (Thomas, Lord Lynedoch, 1750-1843), to counter-march his troops, and force the eminence known as the Cerro de Puerco, or hill of Barosa, which had fallen into the hands of the French under Ruffin. Graham was at this time second in command to the Spanish Captain-general, La Peña, and at his orders, but under the impression that the hill would be guarded by the Spanish troops, was making his way to a neighbouring height. Meantime La Peña had withdrawn the corps of battle to a distance, and left the hill covered with baggage and imperfectly protected. Graham recaptured Barosa, and repulsed the French with heavy loss, in an hour and a half. Napier affirms that La Peña "looked idly on, neither sending his cavalry nor his horse artillery to the assistance of his ally;" and testifies "that no stroke in aid of the British was struck by a Spanish sabre that day." "Famine" may have raised the devil in the English troops, but it prevented them from following up the victory. A further charge against the Spaniards was that, after Barosa had been won, the English were left for hours without food, and, as they had marched through the night before they came into action, they could only look on while the French made good their retreat. Two companies of the 20th Portuguese formed part of the British contingent, and took part in the engagement. The year before, at Busaco (September 27, 1810), the Portuguese had displayed signal bravery; but at Gebora (February 19, 1811) "Madden's Portuguese, regardless of his example and reproaches, shamefully turned their backs" (Napier's 'History of the Peninsular War' (1890), iii. 26, 98, 102-107).] [Footnote 20: "Blest paper credit! last and best supply, That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly." (POPE.) [In February, 1811, a select committee of the House of Commons "on commercial credit" recommended an advance of £6,000,000 to manufacturers who were suffering from over-speculation. "Did they not know," asked Lord Grenville, in the House of Lords, March 21, "that they were adding to the mass of paper at this moment in existence a sum of £6,000,000, as if there was not paper enough already in the country, in order to protect their commerce and manufactures from destruction?" Nevertheless, the measure passed. The year before (February 19, 1810), a committee which had sat under the presidency of Francis Horner, to inquire into the cause of the high price of gold bullion (gold was worth £4. 10s. an ounce), returned (June 10) a report urging the resumption of cash payment at the end of two years. It has been suggested to the editor that the asterisks ('----') in line 251 (which are not filled up in Lord Stanhope's MS. of 'The Curse of Minerva') stand for "Horner," and that Byron, writing at Athens in March, 1811, was under the impression that Perceval would adopt sound views on the currency question, and was not aware that he was strongly anti-bullionist. On that supposition the two premiers are Portland and Perceval, Horner is the Mentor, and Perceval (line 257) the "patrician clod." To what extent Byron was 'au courant' with home politics when he wrote the lines, it is impossible to say, and without such knowledge some doubt must rest on any interpretation of the passage. But of its genesis there is no doubt. Lady Ann Hamilton, in her estimate of Lord Henry Petty, in 'Epics of the Ton' (p. 139), has something to say on budget "figures"-- "Those imps which make the senses reel, and zounds! Mistake a cypher for a thousand pounds;" and her note-writer comments thus: "It somewhat hurts the feelings to see a minister stand up in his place, and after a very pretty exordium to the budget, take up a bundle of papers from the table, gaze at the incomprehensible calculations before him, stammer out a few confused numbers, and then, with a rueful face, look over his shoulder to V--ns--rt for assistance. How often have I grieved to see unhappy A--d--g--n in this lamentable predicament!" Again, on Thellusson being raised to the peerage as Lord Rendlesham, she asks-- "Say, shall we bend to titles thus bestowed, And like the Egyptians, hail the calf a god? With toads, asps, onions, ornament the shrine, And reptiles own and pot-herbs things divine?" It is evident that Byron, uninspired by Pallas, turned to the 'Epics of the Ton' for "copy," but whether he left a blank on purpose because "Vansittart" (to whom Perceval did turn) would not scan, or, misled by old newspapers, would have written "Horner," must remain a mystery.]] [Footnote 21: See the portrait of Spencer Perceval in the National Portrait Gallery.] [Footnote 22: The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie.] [Footnote i: 'O'er the blue ocean way his'. ['MS.'][A]] [Sub-Footnote A: The only MS. of 'The Curse of Minerva' which the editor has seen, is in the possession of the Earl of Stanhope. A second MS., formerly in the possession of the Duke of Newcastle, is believed to have perished in a fire which broke out at Clumber in 1879.] [Footnote ii: 'Nor yet forbears each long-abandoned shrine'. ['MS.']] [Footnote iii: 'Their 'varying azure mingled with the sky Beneath his rays assumes a deeper dye'. ['MS.']] [Footnote iv: 'Behind his Delphian cliff'----. ['Corsair', III. st. i. l. 18.]] [Footnote v: 'The soul of him who'----. ['Corsair, III. st. i. 1. 31.']] [Footnote vi: 'silver reign'. ['MS.']] [Footnote vii: 'How sweet and Silent, not a passing cloud Hides her fair face with intervening shroud'. ['MS.']] [Footnote viii: 'seems to smile', ['Corsair', III. st. i. 1. 54.]] [Footnote ix: 'Sad shrine'. ['MS.']] [Footnote x: 'Welcome to slaves, and foremost'. ['MS'.] ] [Footnote xi: 'Ah, Athens! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth, Hell sends a paltry Scotchman worse than both.' ['MS'.]] [Footnote xii: 'British peer'. ['MS'.] ] [Footnote xiii: 'Sneaking Jackal'. ['MS'.] ] [Footnote xiv: 'guilty name'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote xv: 'A land of liars, mountebanks, and Mist'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote xvi: 'That Art may measure old and modern styles'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote xvii: 'shy comparisons'. ['MS'.] [Footnote xviii: 'In sooth the Nymph 'twere no slight task to please Since young Sir Harry, etc.' ['MS'.]] [Footnote xix: 'Fallen is each dear bought friend on Foreign Coast Or leagued to add you to the world you lost'. ['MS'.]] [Footnote xx: '----'the glittering file The martial sounds that animate the while'. ['MS'.]] INTRODUCTION TO 'THE WALTZ' Byron spent the autumn of 1812 "by the waters of Cheltenham," and, besides writing to order his 'Song of Drury Lane' (the address spoken at the opening of the theatre, Oct. 10, 1812), he put in hand a 'Satire on Waltzing'. It was published anonymously in the following spring; but, possibly, because it was somewhat coolly received, he told Murray (April 21, 1813) "to contradict the report that he was the author of a certain malicious publication on waltzing." In his memoranda "chiefly with reference to my Byron," Moore notes "Byron's hatred of waltzing," and records a passage of arms between "the lame boy" and Mary Chaworth, which arose from her "dancing with some person who was unknown to her." Then, and always, he must have experienced the bitter sense of exclusion from active amusements; but it is a hasty assumption that Byron only denounced waltzing because he was unable to waltz himself. To modern sentiment, on the moral side, waltzing is unassailable; but the first impressions of spectators, to whom it was a novelty, were distinctly unfavourable. In a letter from Germany (May 17, 1799) Coleridge describes a dance round the maypole at Rübeland. "The dances were reels and the waltzes, but chiefly the latter; this dance is in the higher circles sufficiently voluptuous, but here the motions of it were 'far' more faithful interpreters of the passions." A year later, H.C. Robinson, writing from Frankfort in 1800 ('Diary and Letters', i. 76), says, "The dancing is unlike anything you ever saw. You must have heard of it under the name of waltzing, that is rolling and turning, though the rolling is not horizontal but perpendicular. Yet Werther, after describing his first waltz with Charlotte, says, and I say so too, 'I felt that if I were married my wife should waltz (or roll) with no one but myself.'" Ten years later, Gillray publishes a caricature of the waltz, as a French dance, which he styles, "Le bon Genre." It is not a pretty picture. By degrees, however, and with some reluctance, society yielded to the fascinations of the stranger. "My cousin Hartington," writes Lady Caroline Lamb, in 1812 ('Memoirs of Viscount Melbourne', by W.T. McCullagh Torrens, i. 105), "wanted to have waltzes and quadrilles; and at Devonshire House it could not be allowed, so we had them in the great drawing-room at Whitehall. All the 'bon ton' assembled there continually. There was nothing so fashionable." "No event," says Thomas Raikes ('Personal Reminiscences', p. 284), ever produced so great a sensation in English society as the introduction of the German waltz.... Old and young returned to school, and the mornings were now absorbed at home in practising the figures of a French quadrille or whirling a chair round the room to learn the step and measure of the German waltz. The anti-waltzing party took the alarm, cried it down; mothers forbad it, and every ballroom became a scene of feud and contention. The foreigners were not idle in forming their 'élèves'; Baron Tripp, Neumann, St. Aldegonde, etc., persevered in spite of all prejudices which were marshalled against them. It was not, however, till Byron's "malicious publication" had been issued and forgotten that the new dance received full recognition. "When," Raikes concludes, "the Emperor Alexander was seen waltzing round the room at Almack's with his tight uniform and numerous decorations," or [Gronow, 'Recollections', 1860, pp. 32, 33] "Lord Palmerston might have been seen describing an infinite number of circles with Madame de Lieven," insular prejudices gave way, and waltzing became general. THE WALTZ: AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. BY HORACE HORNEM, ESQ. "Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, Exercet DIANA choros." VIRGIL, 'Æn'. i. 502. "Such on Eurotas's banks, or Cynthus's height, Diana seems: and so she charms the sight, When in the dance the graceful goddess leads The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." DRYDEN'S _Virgil_. NOTE. The title-page of the first edition (4to.) of _The Waltz_ bears the imprint: London: Printed by S. Gosnell, Little Queen Street, Holborn. For Sherwood, Neely and Jones, Paternoster Row. 1813. (Price Three Shillings.) Successive Revises had run as follows:-- i. London: Printed for John Murray, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. By S. Gosnell, Little Queen Street. 1813. ii. Cambridge: Printed by G. Maitland. For John Murray, etc. iii. Cambridge: Printed by G. Maitland. For Sherwood, Neely and Jones, Paternoster Row. 1813. For the Bibliography of _The Waltz_, see vol. vi. of the present issue. TO THE PUBLISHER. SIR, I am a country Gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a Parliament-man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812. [1] But I was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged Maid of Honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last Season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my Spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our Girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, 'marketable') age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot,--of which, by the bye, my wife grew so ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside--that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and Opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, Cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes, But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, to a d----d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the "Black Joke," only more "'affettuoso'"[1] till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down:--but no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his shoulder, "'Quam familiariter'"[2] (as Terence said, when I was at school,) they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cock-chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the 'Vicar of Wakefield', though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach,) said, "L--d! Mr. Hornem, can't you see they're valtzing?" or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr. Busby, (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late successful "Drury Lane Address,")[1] I composed the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the Public; whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics. I am, Sir, yours, etc., etc. HORACE HORNEM. [Footnote 1: State of the poll (last day) 5. [General Tarleton (1754-1833) contested Liverpool in October, 1812. For three days the poll stood at five, and on the last day, eleven. Canning and Gascoigne were the successful candidates.]] [Footnote 2: More expressive.--[_MS_.] [Footnote 3: My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the pope, because we can't burn him any more.--[Revise No. 2.] ] [Footnote 4: See 'Rejected Addresses'.] THE WALTZ Muse of the many-twinkling feet! [1] whose charms Are now extended up from legs to arms; Terpsichore!--too long misdeemed a maid-- Reproachful term--bestowed but to upbraid-- Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, [i] The least a Vestal of the Virgin Nine. Far be from thee and thine the name of Prude: Mocked yet triumphant; sneered at, unsubdued; Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, If but thy coats are reasonably high! 10 Thy breast--if bare enough--requires no shield; Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults, Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz." Hail, nimble Nymph! to whom the young hussar, [2] The whiskered votary of Waltz and War, His night devotes, despite of spur and boots; A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes: Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz!--beneath whose banners A modern hero fought for modish manners; 20 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's [3] fame, Cocked, fired, and missed his man--but gained his aim; Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. Oh! for the flow of Busby, [4] or of Fitz, The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, To "energise the object I pursue," And give both Belial and his Dance their due! [ii] Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 30 Long be thine import from all duty free, And Hock itself be less esteemed than thee; In some few qualities alike--for Hock Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock. The head to Hock belongs--thy subtler art Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, And wakes to Wantonness the willing limbs. Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe, As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 40 Ere cursed Confederation made thee France's, And only left us thy d--d debts and dances! [5] Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, We bless thee still--George the Third is left! Of kings the best--and last, not least in worth, For graciously begetting George the Fourth. To Germany, and Highnesses serene, Who owe us millions--don't we owe the Queen? To Germany, what owe we not besides? So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 50 Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud: Who sent us--so be pardoned all her faults-- A dozen dukes, some kings, a Queen--and Waltz. But peace to her--her Emperor and Diet, Though now transferred to Buonapartè's "fiat!" Back to my theme--O muse of Motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? Borne on the breath of Hyperborean gales, From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_), 60 Ere yet unlucky Fame--compelled to creep To snowy Gottenburg-was chilled to sleep; Or, starting from her slumbers, deigned arise, Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies; [iii] While unburnt Moscow [6] yet had news to send, Nor owed her fiery Exit to a friend, She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets Of true despatches, and as true Gazettes; Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, [7] Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match 70 And--almost crushed beneath the glorious news-- Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; [8] One envoy's letters, six composer's airs, And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs: Meiners' four volumes upon Womankind, [9] Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, [10] and, to back it, Of Heynè, [11] such as should not sink the packet. [iv] Fraught with this cargo--and her fairest freight, Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a Mate, 80 The welcome vessel reached the genial strand, And round her flocked the daughters of the land. Not decent David, when, before the ark, His grand _Pas-seul_ excited some remark; Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought The knight's _Fandango_ friskier than it ought; Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, Her nimble feet danced off another's head; Not Cleopatra on her Galley's Deck, Displayed so much of _leg_ or more of _neck_, 90 Than Thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the Moon Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! To You, ye husbands of ten years! whose brows Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; To you of nine years less, who only bear The budding sprouts of those that you _shall_ wear, With added ornaments around them rolled Of native brass, or law-awarded gold; To You, ye Matrons, ever on the watch To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 100 To You, ye children of--whom chance accords-- _Always_ the Ladies, and _sometimes_ their Lords; To You, ye single gentlemen, who seek Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, To gain your own, or snatch another's bride;-- To one and all the lovely Stranger came, And every Ball-room echoes with her name. Endearing Waltz!--to thy more melting tune Bow Irish Jig, and ancient Rigadoon. [12] 110 Scotch reels, avaunt! and Country-dance forego Your future claims to each fantastic toe! Waltz--Waltz alone--both legs and arms demands, Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands; Hands which may freely range in public sight Where ne'er before--but--pray "put out the light." Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier Shines much too far--or I am much too near; And true, though strange--Waltz whispers this remark, "My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 120 But here the Muse with due decorum halts, And lends her longest petticoat to "Waltz." Observant Travellers of every time! Ye Quartos published upon every clime! 0 say, shall dull _Romaika's_ heavy round, _Fandango's_ wriggle, or _Bolero's_ bound; Can Egypt's _Almas_ [13]--tantalising group-- Columbia's caperers to the warlike Whoop-- Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be born? 130 Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Galt's, [14] Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz." Shades of those Belles whose reign began of yore, With George the Third's--and ended long before!-- Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, [v] Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive! Back to the Ball-room speed your spectred host, Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. [vi] No treacherous powder bids Conjecture quake; No stiff-starched stays make meddling fingers ache; [vii] 140 (Transferred to those ambiguous things that ape Goats in their visage, [15] women in their shape;) No damsel faints when rather closely pressed, But more caressing seems when most caressed; Superfluous Hartshorn, and reviving Salts, Both banished by the sovereign cordial "Waltz." Seductive Waltz!--though on thy native shore Even Werter's self proclaimed thee half a whore; Werter--to decent vice though much inclined, Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind-- 150 Though gentle Genlis, [16] in her strife with Staël, Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball; The fashion hails--from Countesses to Queens, And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, And turns--if nothing else--at least our _heads_; With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, And cockney's practise what they can't pronounce. Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, And Rhyme finds partner Rhyme in praise of "Waltz!" 160 Blest was the time Waltz chose for her _début_! The Court, the Regent, like herself were new; [17] New face for friends, for foes some new rewards; New ornaments for black-and royal Guards; [viii] New laws to hang the rogues that roared for bread; New coins (most new) [18] to follow those that fled; New victories--nor can we prize them less, Though Jenky [19] wonders at his own success; New wars, because the old succeed so well, That most survivors envy those who fell; 170 New mistresses--no, old--and yet 'tis true, Though they be _old_, the _thing_ is something new; Each new, quite new--(except some ancient tricks), [20] New white-sticks--gold-sticks--broom-sticks--_all new sticks_! With vests or ribands--decked alike in hue, New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue: So saith the Muse: my----, [21] what say you? Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain Her new preferments in this novel reign; Such was the time, nor ever yet was such; 180 Hoops are _ more_, and petticoats _not much_; Morals and Minuets, Virtue and her stays, And tell-tale powder--all have had their days. The Ball begins--the honours of the house First duly done by daughter or by spouse, Some Potentate--or royal or serene-- With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, [ix] Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush Might once have been mistaken for a blush. From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 190 That spot where hearts [22] were once supposed to be; Round all the confines of the yielded waist, The strangest hand may wander undisplaced: The lady's in return may grasp as much As princely paunches offer to her touch. Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip One hand reposing on the royal hip! [23] The other to the shoulder no less royal Ascending with affection truly loyal! Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 200 The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand; And all in turn may follow in their rank, The Earl of--Asterisk--and Lady--Blank; Sir--Such-a-one--with those of fashion's host, [x] [24] For whose blest surnames--vide "Morning Post." (Or if for that impartial print too late, Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date)-- Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, The genial contact gently undergo; Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 210 If "nothing follows all this palming work?" [25] True, honest Mirza!--you may trust my rhyme-- Something does follow at a fitter time; The breast thus publicly resigned to man, In private may resist him--if it can. O ye who loved our Grandmothers of yore, Fitzpatrick, [26] Sheridan, and many more! And thou, my Prince! whose sovereign taste and will [xi] It is to love the lovely beldames still! Thou Ghost of Queensberry! [27] whose judging Sprite 220 Satan may spare to peep a single night, Pronounce--if ever in your days of bliss Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this; To teach the young ideas how to rise, Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes; Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, With half-told wish, and ill-dissembled flame, For prurient Nature still will storm the breast-- _Who_, tempted thus, can answer for the rest? But ye--who never felt a single thought 230 For what our Morals are to be, or ought; Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, Say--would you make those beauties quite so cheap? Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, Where were the rapture then to clasp the form From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm? [xii] At once Love's most endearing thought resign, To press the hand so pressed by none but thine; To gaze upon that eye which never met 240 Another's ardent look without regret; Approach the lip which all, without restraint, Come near enough--if not to touch--to taint; If such thou lovest--love her then no more, Or give--like her--caresses to a score; Her Mind with these is gone, and with it go The little left behind it to bestow. Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme? Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. Terpsichore forgive!--at every Ball 250 My wife _now_ waltzes--and my daughters _shall_; _My_ son--(or stop--'tis needless to inquire-- These little accidents should ne'er transpire; Some ages hence our genealogic tree [xiii] Will wear as green a bough for him as me)-- Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends Grandsons for me--in heirs to all his friends. [Footnote 1: "Glance their many-twinkling feet."--GRAY.] [Footnote 2: Lines 15-28 do not appear in the MS., but ten lines (omitting lines 21-24) were inserted in Proof No. 1.] [Footnote 3: To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases:--the one gained a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting for; and the other has been fighting in the Peninsula many a long day, "by Shrewsbury clock," without gaining anything in 'that' country but the title of "the Great Lord," and "the Lord;" which savours of profanation, having been hitherto applied only to that Being to whom "'Te Deums'" for carnage are the rankest blasphemy.--It is to be presumed the general will one day return to his Sabine farm: there "To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 'Almost as quickly' as he conquer'd Spain!" The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer; we do more--we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If the "great Lord's" 'Cincinnatian' progress in agriculture be no speedier than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the farmer's proverb, be "ploughing with dogs." By the bye--one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten--it is, however, worth remembering--"'Salvador del mundo!" credite, posteri'! If this be the appellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to the name of a 'man' who has not yet saved them--query--are they worth saving, even in this world? for, according to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds much against them in the next--"Saviour of the world," quotha!--it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of it--his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connection between superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves there can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catholics too) who can confer such an appellation on a 'Protestant'. I suppose next year he will be entitled the "Virgin Mary;" if so, Lord George Gordon himself would have nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of Babylon. [William Pole-Wellesley (1785?-1857), afterwards fourth Lord Mornington, a nephew of the great Duke of Wellington, married, in March, 1812, Catharine, daughter and heiress of Sir Tylney Long, Bart. On his marriage he added his wife's double surname to his own, and, thereby, gave the wits their chance. In 'Rejected Addresses' Fitzgerald is made to exclaim-- "Bless every man possess'd of aught to give, Long may Long-Tilney-Wellesley-Long-Pole live." The principals in the duel to which Byron alludes were Wellesley-Pole and Lord Kilworth. The occasion of the quarrel was a misconception of some expression of Pole's at an assembly at Lady Hawarden's (August 6, 1811). A meeting took place on Wimbledon Common (August 9), at which the seconds intervened, and everything was "amicably adjusted." Some days later a letter appeared in the 'Morning Post' (August 14, 1811), signed "Kilworth," to the effect that an apology had been offered and accepted. This led to a second meeting on Hounslow Heath (August 15), when shots were exchanged. Again the seconds intervened, and, after more explanations, matters were finally arranged. A 'jeu d'esprit' which appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' (August 16, 1811) connects the "mortal fracas" with Pole's prowess in waltzing at a fête at Wanstead House, near Hackney, where, when the heiress had been wooed and won, his guests used to dine at midnight after the opera. "Mid the tumult of waltzing and wild Irish reels, A prime dancer, I'm sure to get at her-- And by Love's graceful movements to trip up her heels, Is the Long and the short of the matter."] [Footnote 4: Thomas Busby, Mus. Doc. (1755-1838), musical composer, and author of 'A New and Complete Musical Dictionary', 1801, etc. He was also a versifier. As early as 1785 he published 'The Age of Genius, A Satire'; and, after he had ceased to compose music for the stage, brought out a translation of Lucretius, which had long been in MS. His "rejected address" on the reopening of Drury Lane Theatre, would have been recited by his son (October 15), but the gallery refused to hear it out. On the next night (October 16) "Master" Busby was more successful. Byron's parody of Busby's address, which began with the line, "When energising objects men pursue," is headed, "Parenthetical Address. By Dr. Plagiary."] [Footnote 5: The Confederation of the Rhine (1803-1813), by which the courts of Würtemberg and Bavaria, together with some lesser principalities, detached themselves from the Germanic Body, and accepted the immediate protection of France.] [Footnote 6: The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be sufficiently commended--nor subscribed for. Amongst other details omitted in the various [A] despatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel C----, in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable,) that one entire province perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as follows:--In General Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to the demand: and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet! the lamp-lighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of best moulds (four to the pound), to the relief of the surviving Scythians;--the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a proper attention to the 'quality' rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to our suffering manufacturers. [Hamburg fell to Napoleon's forces in 1810, and thence-forward the mails from the north of Europe were despatched from Anholt, or Gothenberg, or Heligoland. In 1811 an attempt to enforce the conscription resulted in the emigration of numbers of young men of suitable age for military service. The unfortunate city was deprived of mails and males at the same time. Heligoland, which was taken by the British in 1807, and turned into a depot for the importation of smuggled goods to French territory, afforded a meeting-place for British and continental traders. Mails from Heligoland detailed rumours of what was taking place at the centres of war; but the newspapers occasionally threw doubts on the information obtained from this source. Lord Cathcart's despatch, dated November 23, appeared in the 'Gazette' December 16, 1812. The paragraph which appealed to Byron's sense of humour is as follows: "The expedition of Colonel Chernichef ('sic') [the Czar's aide-de-camp] was a continued and extraordinary exertion, he having marched seven hundred wersts ('sic') in five days, and swam several rivers."] [Sub-Footnote A: Veracious despatches.--['MS. M'.] ] [Footnote 7: Austerlitz was fought on Dec. 2, 1805. On Dec. 20 the 'Morning Chronicle' published a communication from a correspondent, giving the substance of Napoleon's "Proclamation to the Army," issued on the evening after the battle, which had reached Bourrienne, the French minister at Hamburg. "An army," ran the proclamation, "of 100,000 men, which was commanded by the Emperors of Russia and Austria, has been in less than four hours either cut off or dispersed." It was an official note of this "blest despatch," forwarded by courier to Bath, which brought "the heavy news" to Pitt, and, it is believed, hastened his death.] [Footnote 8: August Frederick Ferdinand von Kotzebue (1761-1819), whom Coleridge appraised as "the German Beaumont and Fletcher without their poetic powers," and Carlyle as "a bundle of dyed rags," wrote over a hundred plays, publishing twenty within a few years. An adaptation of 'Misanthropy and Repentance' as 'The Stranger', Sheridan's 'Pizarro', and Lewis' 'Castle Spectre' are well-known instances of his powerful influence on English dramatists. "The Present," writes Sara Coleridge, in a note to one of her father's letters, "will ever have her special votaries in the world of letters, who collect into their focus, by a kind of burning-glass, the feelings of the day. Amongst such Kotzebue holds a high rank. Those 'dyed rags' of his once formed gorgeous banners, and flaunted in the eyes of refined companies from London to Madrid, from Paris to Moscow." Coleridge's 'Biographia Literaria' (1847), ii. 227.] [Footnote 9: A translation of Christopher Meiner's 'History of the Female Sex', in four volumes, was published in London in 1808. Lapland wizards, not witches, were said to raise storms by knotting pieces of string, which they exposed to the wind.] [Footnote 10: Richard Franz Philippe Brunck (1729-1803). His editions of the 'Anthologia Græca', and of the Greek dramatists are among his best known works. Compare Sheridan's doggerel-- "Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck, Perhaps is the paper that lined my poor 'Trunk'."] [Footnote 11: Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729-1812) published editions of 'Virgil' (1767-1775), 'Pindar' (1773), and 'Opuscula Academica', in six vols. (1785-1812).] [Footnote 12: A lively dance for one couple, characterized by a peculiar jumping step. It probably originated in Provence.] [Footnote 13: Dancing girls--who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis. [The Romaika is a modern Greek dance, characterized by serpentining figures and handkerchief-throwing among the dancers. The Fandango (Spaniards use the word "seguidilla") was of Moorish origin. The Bolero was brought from Provence, circ. 1780. "The Bolero intoxicates, the Fandango inflames" ('Hist. of Dancing', by G. Vuillier-Heinemann, 1898).]] [Footnote 14: For Morier, see note to line 211. Galt has a paragraph descriptive of the waltzing Dervishes ('Voyages and Travels' (1812), p.190).] [Footnote 15: It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussière's time, of the "Sieur de la Croix," that there be "no whiskers;" but how far these are indications of valour in the field, or elsewhere, may still be questionable. Much may be, and hath been;[A] avouched on both sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers none--Scipio himself was shaven--Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even the courtiers could abide)--Turenne had whiskers, Marlborough none--Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent whiskered; "'argal'" greatness of mind and whiskers may or may not go together; but certainly the different occurrences, since the growth of the last mentioned, go further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did 'against' long hair in the reign of Henry I.--Formerly, 'red' was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Barrey's comedy of 'Ram Alley', 1661; Act I. Scene I. 'Taffeta'. Now for a wager--What coloured beard comes next by the window? 'Adriana'. A black man's, I think. 'Taffeta'. I think not so: I think a 'red', for that is most in fashion. There is "nothing new under the sun:" but 'red', then a 'favourite', has now subsided into a favourite's colour. [This is, doubtless, an allusion to Lord Yarmouth, whose fiery whiskers gained him the nickname of "Red Herrings."] [Sub-Footnote A: The paragraph "Much may be" down to "reign of Henry I." was added in Revise 1, and the remainder of the note in Revise 2.]] [Footnote 16: Madame Genlis (Stephanie Félicité Ducrest, Marquise de Sillery), commenting on the waltz, writes, "As a foreigner, I shall not take the liberty to censure this kind of dance; but this I can say, that it appears intolerable to German writers of superior merits who are not accused of severity of manners," and by way of example instances M. Jacobi, who affirms that "Werther ('Sorrows of Werther', Letter ix.), the lover of Charlotte, swears that, were he to perish for it, never should a girl for whom he entertained any affection, and on whom he had honourable views, dance the waltz with any other man besides himself."--'Selections from the Works of Madame de Genlis' (1806), p. 65. Compare, too, "Faulkland" on country-dances in 'The Rivals', act ii. sc. I, "Country-dances! jigs and reels! ... A minuet I could have forgiven ... Zounds! had she made one in a cotillon--I believe I could have forgiven even that--but to be monkey-led for a night! to run the gauntlet through a string of amorous palming puppies ... Oh, Jack, there never can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and delicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance; and even then, the rest of the couples should be her great-uncles and aunts!"] [Footnote 17: An anachronism--Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are before said to have opened the ball together; the bard means (if he means anything), Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent attained the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about the same time: of these the comet only has disappeared; the other three continue to astonish us still.--'Printers Devil'. [As the 'Printer's Devil' intimates, the various novelties of the age of "Waltz" are somewhat loosely enumerated. The Comet, which signalized 1811, the year of the restricted Regency, had disappeared before the Prince and his satellites burst into full blaze in 1812. It was (see 'Historical Record of the Life Guards', 1835, p.177) in 1812 that the Prince Regent commanded the following alterations to be made in the equipments of the regiment of Life Guards: "Cocked hats with feathers to be discontinued, and brass helmets with black horsehair crests substituted. Long coats, trimmed with gold lace across the front. Shirts and cuffs to be replaced by short coatees," etc., etc. In the same branch of the service, whiskers were already in vogue. The "new laws" were those embodied in the "Frame-work Bill," which Byron denounced in his speech in the House of Lords, Feb. 27, 1812. Formerly the breaking of frames had been treated "as a minor felony, punishable by transportation for fourteen years," and the object of the bill was to make such offences capital. The bill passed into law on March 5, and as a result we read ('Annual Register', 1812, pp. 38, 39) that on May 24 a special commission for the rioters of Cheshire was opened by Judge Dallas at Chester. "His lordship passed the awful sentence of death upon sixteen, and in a most impressioned address, held out not the smallest hope of mercy." Of these five 'only' were hanged. Owing to the scarcity of silver coinage, the Bank of England was empowered to issue bank-tokens for various sums (Mr. Hornem bought his motto for 'The Waltz' with a three-shilling bank-token; see 'note' to Preface) which came into circulation on July 9, 1811. The "new ninepences" which were said to be forthcoming never passed into circulation at all. A single "pattern" coin (on the obverse, 'Bank Token, Ninepence, 1812') is preserved in the British Museum (see privately printed 'Catalogue', by W. Boyne (1866), p.11). The "new victories" were the fall of Ciudad Rodrigo (Jan. 17), the capture of Badajoz (April 7), and the Battle of Salamanca (July 12, 1812). By way of "new wars," the President of the United States declared war with Great Britain on June 18, and Great Britain with the United States, Oct. 13, 1812. As to "new mistresses," for a reference to "'Our' Sultan's" "she-promotions" of "those only plump and sage, Who've reached the regulation age," see 'Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post-bag', by Thomas Brown the Younger, 1813, and for "gold sticks," etc., see "Promotions" in the 'Annual Register' for March, 1812, in which a long list of Household appointments is duly recorded.]] [Footnote 18: Amongst others a new ninepence--a creditable coin now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation.] [Footnote 19: Robert Banks Jenkinson, second Earl of Liverpool, was Secretary at War and for the Colonies from 1809 to 1812, in Spencer Perceval's administration, and, on the assassination of the premier, undertook the government. Both as Secretary at War and as Prime Minister his chief efforts were devoted to the support of Wellington in the Peninsula.] [Footnote 20: "Oh that 'right' should thus overcome 'might!'" Who does not remember the "delicate investigation" in the 'Merry Wives of Windsor'?-- 'Ford'. Pray you, come near; if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now? whither bear you this? 'Mrs. Ford'. What have you to do whither they bear it?--You were best meddle with buck-washing." [Act iii. sc. 3.] [Footnote 21: The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as he pleases--there are several dissyllabic names at 'his' service (being already in the Regent's): it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the list now entered for the sweep-stakes;--a distinguished consonant is said to be the favourite, much against the wishes of the 'knowing ones'.--['Revise'] [In the Revise the line, which is not in the MS., ran, "So saith the Muse; my M----what say you?" The name intended to be supplied is "Moira." On Perceval's death (May 11 1812), Lord Liverpool became Prime Minister, but was unable to carry on the government. Accordingly the Prince Regent desired the Marquis Wellesley and Canning to approach Lords Grey and Grenville with regard to the formation of a coalition ministry. They were unsuccessful, and as a next step Lord Moira (Francis Rawdon, first Marquis of Hastings, 1754-1826) was empowered to make overtures in the same quarter. The Whig Lords stipulated that the regulation of the Household should rest with ministers, and to this Moira would not consent, possibly because the Prince's favourite, Lord Yarmouth, was Vice-Chamberlain. Negotiations were again broken off, and on June 9 Liverpool began his long term of office as Prime Minister. "I sate," writes Byron, "in the debate or rather discussion in the House of Lords on that question (the second negotiation) immediately behind Moira, who, while Grey was speaking, turned round to me repeatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward question to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to me, 'It is 'not' so; it is so and so,'" etc. (Letter to W. Bankes (undated), 'Life', p. 162). Hence the question, "My Moira, what say you?"] [Footnote 22: "We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor--'tis all gone--Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned in natural history; viz. a mass of solid stone--only to be opened by force--and when divided, you discover a _toad_ in the centre, lively, and with the reputation of being venomous." [In the MS. the last sentence stood: "In this country there is _one man_ with a heart so thoroughly bad that it reminds us of those unaccountable petrifactions often mentioned in natural history," etc. The couplet-- "Such things we know are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the Devil they got there," which was affixed to the note, was subsequently erased.]] [Footnote 23: Compare Sheridan's lines on waltzing, which Moore heard him "repeat in a drawing-room"-- "With tranquil step, and timid downcast glance, Behold the well-pair'd couple now advance. In such sweet posture our first parents moved, While, hand in hand, through Eden's bower they roved. Ere yet the devil, with promise fine and false, Turned their poor heads, and taught them how to waltz. One hand grasps hers, the other holds her hip. ... For so the law's laid down by Baron Trip."] [Footnote 24: Lines 204-207 are not in the MS., but were added in a revise.] [Footnote 25: In Turkey a pertinent--here an impertinent and superfluous question--literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on seeing a Waltz in Pera. [See 'A Journey through Persia', etc. By James Morier, London (1812), p. 365.] [Footnote 26: Richard Fitzpatrick (1747-1813), second son of John, first Earl of Ossory, served in the first American War at the battles of Brandywine and Germanstown. He sat as M.P. for Tavistock for thirty-three years. The chosen friend and companion of Fox, he was a prominent member of the opposition during the close of the eighteenth century. In the ministry of "All the Talents" he was Secretary at War. He dabbled in literature, was one of the authors of the 'Rolliad', and in 1775 published 'Dorinda: A Town Eclogue'. He was noted for his social gifts, and in recognition, it is said, of his "fine manners and polite address," inherited a handsome annuity from the Duke of Queensberry. Byron associates him with Sheridan as 'un homme galant' and leader of 'ton' of the past generation.] [Footnote 27: William Douglas, third Earl of March and fourth Duke of Queensberry (1724-1810), otherwise "old Q.," was conspicuous as a "blood" and evil liver from youth to extreme old age. He was a patron of the turf, a connoisseur of Italian Opera, and 'surtout' an inveterate libertine. As a Whig, he held office in the Household during North's Coalition Ministry, but throughout George the Third's first illness in 1788, displayed such indecent partisanship with the Prince of Wales, that, when the king recovered, he lost his post. His dukedom died with him, and his immense fortune was divided between the heirs to his other titles and his friends. Lord Yarmouth, whose wife, Maria Fagniani, he believed to be his natural daughter, was one of the principal legatees.] [Footnote i: 'Henceforth with due unblushing brightness shine'. ['MS. M'.] ] [Footnote ii: 'And weave a couplet worthy them and you.' ['Proof'.] ] [Footnote iii: 'To make Heligoland the mart for lies'. ['MS. M'.] [Footnote iv: 'As much of Heyne as should not sink the packet'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote v: 'Who in your daughters' daughters yet survive Like Banquo's spirit be yourselves alive.' ['MS. M.']] [Footnote vi: 'Elysium's ill exchanged for that you lost'. ['MS. M.']] [Footnote vii: 'No stiff-starched stays make meddling lovers ache'. ['MS. M'.]] [Footnote viii: 'New caps and Jackets for the royal Guards'. ['MS. M.']] [Footnote ix: 'With K--t's gay grace, or silly-Billy's mien'. ['MS. M.'] 'With K--t's gay grace, or G--r's booby mien'. ['MS. erased'.] [Footnote x: 'Sir--Such a one--with Mrs.--Miss So-so'. ['Revise'.]] [Footnote xi: 'And thou my Prince whose undisputed will'. [MS. M.]] [Footnote xii: 'From this abominable contact warm'. ['MS. M.']] [Footnote xiii: 'Some generations hence our Pedigree Will never look the worse for him or me.' ['MS, erased'.]] END OF VOL. I. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. 
21700	----	DON JUAN By Lord Byron [Illustration: Frontispiece] [Illustration: Titlepage] [Illustration: Dedication] [Note: Stanza and Line numbers have not been included.] DEDICATION Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate, And representative of all the race. Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at Last, yours has lately been a common case. And now my epic renegade, what are ye at With all the lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like four and twenty blackbirds in a pye, Which pye being opened they began to sing' (This old song and new simile holds good), 'A dainty dish to set before the King' Or Regent, who admires such kind of food. And Coleridge too has lately taken wing, But like a hawk encumbered with his hood, Explaining metaphysics to the nation. I wish he would explain his explanation. You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know, At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below, And be the only blackbird in the dish. And then you overstrain yourself, or so, And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall for lack of moisture quite a dry Bob. And Wordsworth in a rather long Excursion (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages) Has given a sample from the vasty version Of his new system to perplex the sages. 'Tis poetry, at least by his assertion, And may appear so when the Dog Star rages, And he who understands it would be able To add a story to the tower of Babel. You gentlemen, by dint of long seclusion From better company, have kept your own At Keswick, and through still continued fusion Of one another's minds at last have grown To deem, as a most logical conclusion, That poesy has wreaths for you alone. There is a narrowness in such a notion, Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean. I would not imitate the petty thought, Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought, Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary; was't for that you wrought? And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still And duly seated on the immortal hill. Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows, Perhaps some virtuous blushes; let them go. To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs, And for the fame you would engross below, The field is universal and allows Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow. Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try 'Gainst you the question with posterity. For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, Contend not with you on the winged' steed, I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, The fame you envy and the skill you need. And recollect a poet nothing loses In giving to his brethren their full meed Of merit, and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise. He that reserves his laurels for posterity (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) Has generally no great crop to spare it, he Being only injured by his own assertion. And although here and there some glorious rarity Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, The major part of such appellants go To--God knows where--for no one else can know. If fallen in evil days on evil tongues, Milton appealed to the avenger, Time, If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs And makes the word Miltonic mean sublime, He deigned not to belie his soul in songs, Nor turn his very talent to a crime. He did not loathe the sire to laud the son, But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. Think'st thou, could he, the blind old man, arise Like Samuel from the grave to freeze once more The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, Or be alive again--again all hoar With time and trials, and those helpless eyes And heartless daughters--worn and pale and poor, Would he adore a sultan? He obey The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore, The vulgarest tool that tyranny could want, With just enough of talent and no more, To lengthen fetters by another fixed And offer poison long already mixed. An orator of such set trash of phrase, Ineffably, legitimately vile, That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile. Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion. A bungler even in its disgusting trade, And botching, patching, leaving still behind Something of which its masters are afraid, States to be curbed and thoughts to be confined, Conspiracy or congress to be made, Cobbling at manacles for all mankind, A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. If we may judge of matter by the mind, Emasculated to the marrow, it Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind, Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, Eutropius of its many masters, blind To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, Fearless, because no feeling dwells in ice; Its very courage stagnates to a vice. Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, For I will never feel them. Italy, Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this state-thing breathed o'er thee. Thy clanking chain and Erin's yet green wounds Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me. Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill. Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate In honest simple verse this song to you. And if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 'Tis that I still retain my buff and blue; My politics as yet are all to educate. Apostasy's so fashionable too, To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian? CANTO THE FIRST I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends forth a new one, Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one; Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan-- We all have seen him, in the pantomime, Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe, Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now; Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, Followers of fame, 'nine farrow' of that sow: France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, Were French, and famous people, as we know: And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau, With many of the military set, Exceedingly remarkable at times, But not at all adapted to my rhymes. Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd; There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd; Because the army 's grown more popular, At which the naval people are concern'd; Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. Brave men were living before Agamemnon And since, exceeding valorous and sage, A good deal like him too, though quite the same none; But then they shone not on the poet's page, And so have been forgotten:--I condemn none, But can't find any in the present age Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one); So, as I said, I 'll take my friend Don Juan. Most epic poets plunge 'in medias res' (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, What went before--by way of episode, While seated after dinner at his ease, Beside his mistress in some soft abode, Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. That is the usual method, but not mine-- My way is to begin with the beginning; The regularity of my design Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, And therefore I shall open with a line (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, Famous for oranges and women--he Who has not seen it will be much to pity, So says the proverb--and I quite agree; Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, Cadiz perhaps--but that you soon may see; Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. His father's name was Jose--Don, of course,-- A true Hidalgo, free from every stain Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, Than Jose, who begot our hero, who Begot--but that 's to come--Well, to renew: His mother was a learned lady, famed For every branch of every science known In every Christian language ever named, With virtues equall'd by her wit alone, She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded In their own way by all the things that she did. Her memory was a mine: she knew by heart All Calderon and greater part of Lope, So that if any actor miss'd his part She could have served him for the prompter's copy; For her Feinagle's were an useless art, And he himself obliged to shut up shop--he Could never make a memory so fine as That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. Her favourite science was the mathematical, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy--her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. She knew the Latin--that is, 'the Lord's prayer,' And Greek--the alphabet--I 'm nearly sure; She read some French romances here and there, Although her mode of speaking was not pure; For native Spanish she had no great care, At least her conversation was obscure; Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, And said there was analogy between 'em; She proved it somehow out of sacred song, But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em; But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em, ''T is strange--the Hebrew noun which means "I am," The English always use to govern d--n.' Some women use their tongues--she look'd a lecture, Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, An all-in-all sufficient self-director, Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, Whose suicide was almost an anomaly-- One sad example more, that 'All is vanity' (The jury brought their verdict in 'Insanity'). In short, she was a walking calculation, Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, Or 'Coelebs' Wife' set out in quest of lovers, Morality's prim personification, In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; To others' share let 'female errors fall,' For she had not even one--the worst of all. O! she was perfect past all parallel-- Of any modern female saint's comparison; So far above the cunning powers of hell, Her guardian angel had given up his garrison; Even her minutest motions went as well As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison: In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, Save thine 'incomparable oil,' Macassar! Perfect she was, but as perfection is Insipid in this naughty world of ours, Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, Went plucking various fruit without her leave. He was a mortal of the careless kind, With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, And never dream'd his lady was concern'd; The world, as usual, wickedly inclined To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, Whisper'd 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 mix'd 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. 'T is 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-peck'd you all? Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd--why, Not any of the many could divine, Though several thousand people chose to try, 'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine; I loathe that low vice--curiosity; But if there 's anything in which I shine, 'T is 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 possess'd, For neither of them could I ever find, Although their porter afterwards confess'd-- 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 curly-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 whipp'd 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 smother'd fire broke out, And put the business past all kind of doubt. For Inez call'd 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 ask'd her for her depositions, No sort of explanation could be had, Save that her duty both to man and God Required this conduct--which seem'd very odd. She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, And open'd 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. And then this best and weakest woman bore With such serenity her husband's woes, Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose Never to say a word about them more-- Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, And saw his agonies with such sublimity, That all the world exclaim'd, 'What magnanimity!' No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us, Is philosophic in our former friends; 'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, The more so in obtaining our own ends; And what the lawyers call a 'malus animus' Conduct like this by no means comprehends; Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, But then 't is not my fault, if others hurt you. And if your quarrels should rip up old stories, And help them with a lie or two additional, I 'm not to blame, as you well know--no more is Any one else--they were become traditional; Besides, their resurrection aids our glories By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all: And science profits by this resurrection-- Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. Their friends had tried at reconciliation, Then their relations, who made matters worse. ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion To whom it may be best to have recourse-- I can't say much for friend or yet relation): The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, But scarce a fee was paid on either side Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. He died: and most unluckily, because, According to all hints I could collect From counsel learned in those kinds of laws (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect), His death contrived to spoil a charming cause; A thousand pities also with respect To public feeling, which on this occasion Was manifested in a great sensation. But, ah! he died; and buried with him lay The public feeling and the lawyers' fees: His house was sold, his servants sent away, A Jew took one of his two mistresses, A priest the other--at least so they say: I ask'd the doctors after his disease-- He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, And left his widow to her own aversion. Yet Jose was an honourable man, That I must say who knew him very well; Therefore his frailties I 'll no further scan Indeed there were not many more to tell; And if his passions now and then outran Discretion, and were not so peaceable As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, Poor fellow! he had many things to wound him. Let 's own--since it can do no good on earth-- It was a trying moment that which found him Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him: No choice was left his feelings or his pride, Save death or Doctors' Commons--so he died. Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands, Which, with a long minority and care, Promised to turn out well in proper hands: Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, And answer'd but to nature's just demands; An only son left with an only mother Is brought up much more wisely than another. Sagest of women, even of widows, she Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, And worthy of the noblest pedigree (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon): Then for accomplishments of chivalry, In case our lord the king should go to war again, He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress--or a nunnery. But that which Donna Inez most desired, And saw into herself each day before all The learned tutors whom for him she hired, Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral; Much into all his studies she inquired, And so they were submitted first to her, all, Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. The languages, especially the dead, The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, The arts, at least all such as could be said To be the most remote from common use, In all these he was much and deeply read; But not a page of any thing that 's loose, Or hints continuation of the species, Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. His classic studies made a little puzzle, Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, But never put on pantaloons or bodices; His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, And for their AEneids, Iliads, and Odysseys, Were forced to make an odd sort! of apology, For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him, Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample: But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one Beginning with 'Formosum Pastor Corydon.' Lucretius' irreligion is too strong, For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food; I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, Although no doubt his real intent was good, For speaking out so plainly in his song, So much indeed as to be downright rude; And then what proper person can be partial To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? Juan was taught from out the best edition, Expurgated by learned men, who place Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, The grosser parts; but, fearful to deface Too much their modest bard by this omission, And pitying sore his mutilated case, They only add them all in an appendix, Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index; For there we have them all 'at one fell swoop,' Instead of being scatter'd through the Pages; They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, Till some less rigid editor shall stoop To call them back into their separate cages, Instead of standing staring all together, Like garden gods--and not so decent either. The Missal too (it was the family Missal) Was ornamented in a sort of way Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they, Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, Could turn their optics to the text and pray, Is more than I know--But Don Juan's mother Kept this herself, and gave her son another. Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, And homilies, and lives of all the saints; To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, He did not take such studies for restraints; But how faith is acquired, and then ensured, So well not one of the aforesaid paints As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, Which make the reader envy his transgressions. This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan-- I can't but say that his mamma was right, If such an education was the true one. She scarcely trusted him from out her sight; Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, You might be sure she was a perfect fright; She did this during even her husband's life-- I recommend as much to every wife. Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace; At six a charming child, and at eleven With all the promise of as fine a face As e'er to man's maturer growth was given: He studied steadily, and grew apace, And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven, For half his days were pass'd at church, the other Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. At six, I said, he was a charming child, At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy; Although in infancy a little wild, They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd, At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, Her young philosopher was grown already. I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, But what I say is neither here nor there: I knew his father well, and have some skill In character--but it would not be fair From sire to son to augur good or ill: He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair-- But scandal 's my aversion--I protest Against all evil speaking, even in jest. For my part I say nothing--nothing--but This I will say--my reasons are my own-- That if I had an only son to put To school (as God be praised that I have none), 'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut Him up to learn his catechism alone, No--no--I 'd send him out betimes to college, For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. For there one learns--'t is not for me to boast, Though I acquired--but I pass over that, As well as all the Greek I since have lost: I say that there 's the place--but 'Verbum sat.' I think I pick'd up too, as well as most, Knowledge of matters--but no matter what-- I never married--but, I think, I know That sons should not be educated so. Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; And everybody but his mother deem'd Him almost man; but she flew in a rage And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) If any said so, for to be precocious Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all Selected for discretion and devotion, There was the Donna Julia, whom to call Pretty were but to give a feeble notion Of many charms in her as natural As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid (But this last simile is trite and stupid). The darkness of her Oriental eye Accorded with her Moorish origin (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin); When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain. She married (I forget the pedigree) With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down His blood less noble than such blood should be; At such alliances his sires would frown, In that point so precise in each degree That they bred in and in, as might be shown, Marrying their cousins--nay, their aunts, and nieces, Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. This heathenish cross restored the breed again, Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh; For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh; The sons no more were short, the daughters plain: But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush, 'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. However this might be, the race went on Improving still through every generation, Until it centred in an only son, Who left an only daughter; my narration May have suggested that this single one Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion I shall have much to speak about), and she Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either; and there would arise A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole. Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like th' aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting at times to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: Her stature tall--I hate a dumpy woman. Wedded she was some years, and to a man Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty; And yet, I think, instead of such a ONE 'T were better to have TWO of five-and-twenty, Especially in countries near the sun: And now I think on 't, 'mi vien in mente,' Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, And all the fault of that indecent sun, Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, That howsoever people fast and pray, The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. Happy the nations of the moral North! Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, By laying whate'er sum in mulct they please on The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Because it is a marketable vice. Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, A man well looking for his years, and who Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd: They lived together, as most people do, Suffering each other's foibles by accord, And not exactly either one or two; Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. Julia was--yet I never could see why-- With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; Between their tastes there was small sympathy, For not a line had Julia ever penn'd: Some people whisper but no doubt they lie, For malice still imputes some private end, That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; And that still keeping up the old connection, Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, She took his lady also in affection, And certainly this course was much the best: She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal, At least she left it a more slender handle. I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair With other people's eyes, or if her own Discoveries made, but none could be aware Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, Indifferent from the first or callous grown: I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, She kept her counsel in so close a way. Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, Caress'd him often--such a thing might be Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, When she had twenty years, and thirteen he; But I am not so sure I should have smiled When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three; These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. Whate'er the cause might be, they had become Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, And much embarrassment in either eye; There surely will be little doubt with some That Donna Julia knew the reason why, But as for Juan, he had no more notion Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gentle her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 'T was but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish'd more the while For that compression in its burning core; Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. But passion most dissembles, yet betrays Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, And in whatever aspect it arrays Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late. Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, And burning blushes, though for no transgression, Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; All these are little preludes to possession, Of which young passion cannot be bereft, And merely tend to show how greatly love is Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; She felt it going, and resolved to make The noblest efforts for herself and mate, For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake; Her resolutions were most truly great, And almost might have made a Tarquin quake: She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, As being the best judge of a lady's case. She vow'd she never would see Juan more, And next day paid a visit to his mother, And look'd extremely at the opening door, Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; Grateful she was, and yet a little sore-- Again it opens, it can be no other, 'T is surely Juan now--No! I 'm afraid That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. She now determined that a virtuous woman Should rather face and overcome temptation, That flight was base and dastardly, and no man Should ever give her heart the least sensation; That is to say, a thought beyond the common Preference, that we must feel upon occasion For people who are pleasanter than others, But then they only seem so many brothers. And even if by chance--and who can tell? The devil 's so very sly--she should discover That all within was not so very well, And, if still free, that such or such a lover Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over; And if the man should ask, 't is but denial: I recommend young ladies to make trial. And then there are such things as love divine, Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, Such as the angels think so very fine, And matrons who would be no less secure, Platonic, perfect, 'just such love as mine;' Thus Julia said--and thought so, to be sure; And so I 'd have her think, were I the man On whom her reveries celestial ran. Such love is innocent, and may exist Between young persons without any danger. A hand may first, and then a lip be kist; For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger, But hear these freedoms form the utmost list Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, But not my fault--I tell them all in time. Love, then, but love within its proper limits, Was Julia's innocent determination In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its Exertion might be useful on occasion; And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion He might be taught, by love and her together-- I really don't know what, nor Julia either. Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced In mail of proof--her purity of soul-- She, for the future of her strength convinced. And that her honour was a rock, or mole, Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed With any kind of troublesome control; But whether Julia to the task was equal Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable, Or if they did so, satisfied to mean Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable-- A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did. And if in the mean time her husband died, But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she sigh'd) Never could she survive that common loss; But just suppose that moment should betide, I only say suppose it--inter nos. (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) I only say suppose this supposition: Juan being then grown up to man's estate Would fully suit a widow of condition, Even seven years hence it would not be too late; And in the interim (to pursue this vision) The mischief, after all, could not be great, For he would learn the rudiments of love, I mean the seraph way of those above. So much for Julia. Now we 'll turn to Juan. Poor little fellow! he had no idea Of his own case, and never hit the true one; In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, He puzzled over what he found a new one, But not as yet imagined it could be Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, His home deserted for the lonely wood, Tormented with a wound he could not know, His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, But then, I beg it may be understood, By solitude I mean a sultan's, not A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 'Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god indeed divine.' The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, With the exception of the second line, For that same twining 'transport and security' Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals To the good sense and senses of mankind, The very thing which every body feels, As all have found on trial, or may find, That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals Or love.--I won't say more about 'entwined' Or 'transport,' as we knew all that before, But beg 'Security' will bolt the door. Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, Thinking unutterable things; he threw Himself at length within the leafy nooks Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew; There poets find materials for their books, And every now and then we read them through, So that their plan and prosody are eligible, Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued His self-communion with his own high soul, Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, Had mitigated part, though not the whole Of its disease; he did the best he could With things not very subject to control, And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. He thought about himself, and the whole earth Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, And how the deuce they ever could have birth; And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, How many miles the moon might have in girth, Of air-balloons, and of the many bars To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies;-- And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern Longings sublime, and aspirations high, Which some are born with, but the most part learn To plague themselves withal, they know not why: 'T was strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 't was philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted. He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, And heard a voice in all the winds; and then He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, And how the goddesses came down to men: He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, And when he look'd upon his watch again, He found how much old Time had been a winner-- He also found that he had lost his dinner. Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, Boscan, or Garcilasso;--by the wind Even as the page is rustled while we look, So by the poesy of his own mind Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, As if 't were one whereon magicians bind Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, According to some good old woman's tale. Thus would he while his lonely hours away Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, A bosom whereon he his head might lay, And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, With--several other things, which I forget, Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes; She saw that Juan was not at his ease; But that which chiefly may, and must surprise, Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease Her only son with question or surmise: Whether it was she did not see, or would not, Or, like all very clever people, could not. This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common; For instance--gentlemen, whose ladies take Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, And break the--Which commandment is 't they break? (I have forgot the number, and think no man Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. A real husband always is suspicious, But still no less suspects in the wrong place, Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; The last indeed 's infallibly the case: And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. Thus parents also are at times short-sighted; Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, The while the wicked world beholds delighted, Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, Till some confounded escapade has blighted The plan of twenty years, and all is over; And then the mother cries, the father swears, And wonders why the devil he got heirs. But Inez was so anxious, and so clear Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, She had some other motive much more near For leaving Juan to this new temptation; But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here; Perhaps to finish Juan's education, Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, In case he thought his wife too great a prize. It was upon a day, a summer's day;- Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, And so is spring about the end of May; The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, And stand convicted of more truth than treason, That there are months which nature grows more merry in,-- March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 'T was on a summer's day--the sixth of June:-- I like to be particular in dates, Not only of the age, and year, but moon; They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates Change horses, making history change its tune, Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, Leaving at last not much besides chronology, Excepting the post-obits of theology. 'T was on the sixth of June, about the hour Of half-past six--perhaps still nearer seven-- When Julia sate within as pretty a bower As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, With all the trophies of triumphant song-- He won them well, and may he wear them long! She sate, but not alone; I know not well How this same interview had taken place, And even if I knew, I should not tell-- People should hold their tongues in any case; No matter how or why the thing befell, But there were she and Juan, face to face-- When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, But very difficult, to shut their eyes. How beautiful she look'd! her conscious heart Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. O Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong, How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along-- The precipice she stood on was immense, So was her creed in her own innocence. She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, And of the folly of all prudish fears, Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, Because that number rarely much endears, And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. When people say, 'I've told you fifty times,' They mean to scold, and very often do; When poets say, 'I've written fifty rhymes,' They make you dread that they 'll recite them too; In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; At fifty love for love is rare, 't is true, But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, By all the vows below to powers above, She never would disgrace the ring she wore, Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, Quite by mistake--she thought it was her own; Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, Which play'd within the tangles of her hair: And to contend with thoughts she could not smother She seem'd by the distraction of her air. 'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother To leave together this imprudent pair, She who for many years had watch'd her son so-- I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp, As if it said, 'Detain me, if you please;' Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze: She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, Had she imagined such a thing could rouse A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. I cannot know what Juan thought of this, But what he did, is much what you would do; His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew In deep despair, lest he had done amiss,-- Love is so very timid when 't is new: She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon: The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they Who call'd her CHASTE, methinks, began too soon Their nomenclature; there is not a day, The longest, not the twenty-first of June, Sees half the business in a wicked way On which three single hours of moonshine smile-- And then she looks so modest all the while. There is a dangerous silence in that hour, A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power Of calling wholly back its self-control; The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws A loving languor, which is not repose. And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced And half retiring from the glowing arm, Which trembled like the bosom where 't was placed; Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist; But then the situation had its charm, And then--God knows what next--I can't go on; I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. O Plato! Plato! you have paved the way, With your confounded fantasies, to more Immoral conduct by the fancied sway Your system feigns o'er the controulless core Of human hearts, than all the long array Of poets and romancers:--You 're a bore, A charlatan, a coxcomb--and have been, At best, no better than a go-between. And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, Until too late for useful conversation; The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, I wish indeed they had not had occasion, But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? Not that remorse did not oppose temptation; A little still she strove, and much repented And whispering 'I will ne'er consent'--consented. 'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward To those who could invent him a new pleasure: Methinks the requisition 's rather hard, And must have cost his majesty a treasure: For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard, Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); I care not for new pleasures, as the old Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. O Pleasure! you are indeed a pleasant thing, Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt: I make a resolution every spring Of reformation, ere the year run out, But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, Yet still, I trust it may be kept throughout: I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed, And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take-- Start not! still chaster reader--she 'll be nice hence-- Forward, and there is no great cause to quake; This liberty is a poetic licence, Which some irregularity may make In the design, and as I have a high sense Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit To beg his pardon when I err a bit. This licence is to hope the reader will Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, Without whose epoch my poetic skill For want of facts would all be thrown away), But keeping Julia and Don Juan still In sight, that several months have pass'd; we 'll say 'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure About the day--the era 's more obscure. We 'll talk of that anon.--'T is sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'T is sweet to see the evening star appear; 'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, Sweet is revenge--especially to women, Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who 've made 'us youth' wait too--too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat, Still breaking, but with stamina so steady That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, Particularly with a tiresome friend: Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love--it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall; The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd--all 's known-- And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use Of his own nature, and the various arts, And likes particularly to produce Some new experiment to show his parts; This is the age of oddities let loose, Where different talents find their different marts; You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost your Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. What opposite discoveries we have seen! (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) One makes new noses, one a guillotine, One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, By borrowing a new one from an ox. Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes; And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning! I said the small-pox has gone out of late; Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great. 'T is said the great came from America; Perhaps it may set out on its return,-- The population there so spreads, they say 'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn, With war, or plague, or famine, any way, So that civilisation they may learn; And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is-- Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions; Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what, And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; 'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure; Few mortals know what end they would be at, But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, The path is through perplexing ways, and when The goal is gain'd, we die, you know--and then-- What then?--I do not know, no more do you-- And so good night.--Return we to our story: 'T was in November, when fine days are few, And the far mountains wax a little hoary, And clap a white cape on their mantles blue; And the sea dashes round the promontory, And the loud breaker boils against the rock, And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright With the piled wood, round which the family crowd; There 's something cheerful in that sort of light, Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud: I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 'T was midnight--Donna Julia was in bed, Sleeping, most probably,--when at her door Arose a clatter might awake the dead, If they had never been awoke before, And that they have been so we all have read, And are to be so, at the least, once more;-- The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then 'Madam--Madam--hist! 'For God's sake, Madam--Madam--here 's my master, With more than half the city at his back-- Was ever heard of such a curst disaster! 'T is not my fault--I kept good watch--Alack! Do pray undo the bolt a little faster-- They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly-- Surely the window 's not so very high!' By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, With torches, friends, and servants in great number; The major part of them had long been wived, And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Of any wicked woman, who contrived By stealth her husband's temples to encumber: Examples of this kind are so contagious, Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; But for a cavalier of his condition It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, Without a word of previous admonition, To hold a levee round his lady's bed, And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep (Mind--that I do not say--she had not slept), Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, As if she had just now from out them crept: I can't tell why she should take all this trouble To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who Of goblins, but still more of men afraid, Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, And therefore side by side were gently laid, Until the hours of absence should run through, And truant husband should return, and say, 'My dear, I was the first who came away.' Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 'In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? Has madness seized you? would that I had died Ere such a monster's victim I had been! What may this midnight violence betide, A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? Search, then, the room!'--Alfonso said, 'I will.' He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everywhere, Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat, And found much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, With other articles of ladies fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, And wounded several shutters, and some boards. Under the bed they search'd, and there they found-- No matter what--it was not that they sought; They open'd windows, gazing if the ground Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; And then they stared each other's faces round: 'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought, And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, Of looking in the bed as well as under. During this inquisition, Julia's tongue Was not asleep--'Yes, search and search,' she cried, 'Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! It was for this that I became a bride! For this in silence I have suffer'd long A husband like Alfonso at my side; But now I 'll bear no more, nor here remain, If there be law or lawyers in all Spain. 'Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more, If ever you indeed deserved the name, Is 't worthy of your years?--you have threescore-- Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same-- Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, How dare you think your lady would go on so? 'Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold The common privileges of my sex? That I have chosen a confessor so old And deaf, that any other it would vex, And never once he has had cause to scold, But found my very innocence perplex So much, he always doubted I was married-- How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried! 'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? Is it for this I scarce went anywhere, Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, I favor'd none--nay, was almost uncivil? Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? 'Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? Were there not also Russians, English, many? The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 'Have I not had two bishops at my feet, The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez? And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: I praise your vast forbearance not to beat Me also, since the time so opportune is-- O, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? 'Was it for this you took your sudden journey. Under pretence of business indispensable With that sublime of rascals your attorney, Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible, Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee, And not from any love to you nor me. 'If he comes here to take a deposition, By all means let the gentleman proceed; You 've made the apartment in a fit condition: There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need-- Let every thing be noted with precision, I would not you for nothing should be fee'd-- But, as my maid 's undrest, pray turn your spies out.' 'Oh!' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out.' 'There is the closet, there the toilet, there The antechamber--search them under, over; There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, The chimney--which would really hold a lover. I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care And make no further noise, till you discover The secret cavern of this lurking treasure-- And when 't is found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown Doubt upon me, confusion over all, Pray have the courtesy to make it known Who is the man you search for? how d' ye cal Him? what 's his lineage? let him but be shown-- I hope he 's young and handsome--is he tall? Tell me--and be assured, that since you stain My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 'At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years, At that age he would be too old for slaughter, Or for so young a husband's jealous fears (Antonia! let me have a glass of water). I am ashamed of having shed these tears, They are unworthy of my father's daughter; My mother dream'd not in my natal hour That I should fall into a monster's power. 'Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous, You saw that she was sleeping by my side When you broke in upon us with your fellows: Look where you please--we 've nothing, sir, to hide; Only another time, I trust, you 'll tell us, Or for the sake of decency abide A moment at the door, that we may be Drest to receive so much good company. 'And now, sir, I have done, and say no more; The little I have said may serve to show The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow: I leave you to your conscience as before, 'T will one day ask you why you used me so? God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief!- Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?' She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil, Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail, To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears Its snow through all;--her soft lips lie apart, And louder than her breathing beats her heart. The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused; Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, And, turning up her nose, with looks abused Her master and his myrmidons, of whom Not one, except the attorney, was amused; He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, Knowing they must be settled by the laws. With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, Following Antonia's motions here and there, With much suspicion in his attitude; For reputations he had little care; So that a suit or action were made good, Small pity had he for the young and fair, And ne'er believed in negatives, till these Were proved by competent false witnesses. But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure; When, after searching in five hundred nooks, And treating a young wife with so much rigour, He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, Added to those his lady with such vigour Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour, Quick, thick, and heavy--as a thunder-shower. At first he tried to hammer an excuse, To which the sole reply was tears and sobs, And indications of hysterics, whose Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose: Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; He saw too, in perspective, her relations, And then he tried to muster all his patience. He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, But sage Antonia cut him short before The anvil of his speech received the hammer, With 'Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, Or madam dies.'--Alfonso mutter'd, 'D--n her,' But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; He cast a rueful look or two, and did, He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. With him retired his 'posse comitatus,' The attorney last, who linger'd near the door Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as Antonia let him--not a little sore At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus' In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore An awkward look; as he revolved the case, The door was fasten'd in his legal face. No sooner was it bolted, than--Oh shame! O sin! Oh sorrow! and oh womankind! How can you do such things and keep your fame, Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind? Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name! But to proceed--for there is more behind: With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, Young Juan slipp'd half-smother'd, from the bed. He had been hid--I don't pretend to say How, nor can I indeed describe the where-- Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, No doubt, in little compass, round or square; But pity him I neither must nor may His suffocation by that pretty pair; 'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. And, secondly, I pity not, because He had no business to commit a sin, Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, At least 't was rather early to begin; But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil. Of his position I can give no notion: 'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, And that the medicine answer'd very well; Perhaps 't was in a different way applied, For David lived, but Juan nearly died. What 's to be done? Alfonso will be back The moment he has sent his fools away. Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, But no device could be brought into play-- And how to parry the renew'd attack? Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; Even then their love they could not all command, And half forgot their danger and despair: Antonia's patience now was at a stand-- 'Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there,' She whisper'd, in great wrath--'I must deposit This pretty gentleman within the closet: 'Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night-- Who can have put my master in this mood? What will become on 't--I 'm in such a fright, The devil 's in the urchin, and no good-- Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? You 'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place, My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 'Had it but been for a stout cavalier Of twenty-five or thirty (come, make haste)-- But for a child, what piece of work is here! I really, madam, wonder at your taste (Come, sir, get in)--my master must be near: There, for the present, at the least, he's fast, And if we can but till the morning keep Our counsel--(Juan, mind, you must not sleep).' Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, Closed the oration of the trusty maid: She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, An order somewhat sullenly obey'd; However, present remedy was none, And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd: Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. Alfonso paused a minute--then begun Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; He would not justify what he had done, To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding; But there were ample reasons for it, none Of which he specified in this his pleading: His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call 'rigmarole.' Julia said nought; though all the while there rose A ready answer, which at once enables A matron, who her husband's foible knows, By a few timely words to turn the tables, Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,-- Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; 'T is to retort with firmness, and when he Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,-- Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known, But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds-- But that can't be, as has been often shown, A lady with apologies abounds;-- It might be that her silence sprang alone From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. There might be one more motive, which makes two; Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded,-- Mention'd his jealousy but never who Had been the happy lover, he concluded, Conceal'd amongst his premises; 't is true, His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded; To speak of Inez now were, one may say, Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. A hint, in tender cases, is enough; Silence is best, besides there is a tact (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, But it will serve to keep my verse compact)- Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, A lady always distant from the fact: The charming creatures lie with such a grace, There 's nothing so becoming to the face. They blush, and we believe them; at least I Have always done so; 't is of no great use, In any case, attempting a reply, For then their eloquence grows quite profuse; And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh, And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose A tear or two, and then we make it up; And then--and then--and then--sit down and sup. Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, And laid conditions he thought very hard on, Denying several little things he wanted: He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, Beseeching she no further would refuse, When, lo! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. A pair of shoes!--what then? not much, if they Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) Were masculine; to see them, and to seize, Was but a moment's act.--Ah! well-a-day! My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze-- Alfonso first examined well their fashion, And then flew out into another passion. He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, And Julia instant to the closet flew. 'Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake--not a word-- The door is open--you may yet slip through The passage you so often have explored-- Here is the garden-key--Fly--fly--Adieu! Haste--haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet-- Day has not broke--there 's no one in the street: None can say that this was not good advice, The only mischief was, it came too late; Of all experience 't is the usual price, A sort of income-tax laid on by fate: Juan had reach'd the room-door in a. trice, And might have done so by the garden-gate, But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, Who threaten'd death--so Juan knock'd him down. Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; Antonia cried out 'Rape!' and Julia 'Fire!' But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night; And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; His blood was up: though young, he was a Tartar, And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, And they continued battling hand to hand, For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it; His temper not being under great command, If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, Alfonso's days had not been in the land Much longer.--Think of husbands', lovers' lives! And how ye may be doubly widows--wives! Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, And Juan throttled him to get away, And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow; At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, And then his only garment quite gave way; He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found An awkward spectacle their eyes before; Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more: Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. Here ends this canto.--Need I sing, or say, How Juan naked, favour'd by the night, Who favours what she should not, found his way, And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight? The pleasant scandal which arose next day, The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, Were in the English newspapers, of course. If you would like to see the whole proceedings, The depositions, and the cause at full, The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, There 's more than one edition, and the readings Are various, but they none of them are dull; The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney, Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. But Donna Inez, to divert the train Of one of the most circulating scandals That had for centuries been known in Spain, At least since the retirement of the Vandals, First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles; And then, by the advice of some old ladies, She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. She had resolved that he should travel through All European climes, by land or sea, To mend his former morals, and get new, Especially in France and Italy (At least this is the thing most people do). Julia was sent into a convent: she Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better Shown in the following copy of her Letter:-- 'They tell me 't is decided; you depart: 'T is wise--'t is well, but not the less a pain; I have no further claim on your young heart, Mine is the victim, and would be again; To love too much has been the only art I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears; My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, And yet can not regret what it hath cost, So dear is still the memory of that dream; Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast, None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-- I 've nothing to reproach, or to request. 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'T is woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone. 'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, Beloved and loving many; all is o'er For me on earth, except some years to hide My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core; These I could bear, but cannot cast aside The passion which still rages as before-- And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No, That word is idle now--but let it go. 'My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; But still I think I can collect my mind; My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, As roll the waves before the settled wind; My heart is feminine, nor can forget-- To all, except one image, madly blind; So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 'I have no more to say, but linger still, And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, And yet I may as well the task fulfil, My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you!' This note was written upon gilt-edged paper With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new: Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, It trembled as magnetic needles do, And yet she did not let one tear escape her; The seal a sun-flower; 'Elle vous suit partout,' The motto cut upon a white cornelian; The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether I shall proceed with his adventures is Dependent on the public altogether; We 'll see, however, what they say to this: Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, And no great mischief 's done by their caprice; And if their approbation we experience, Perhaps they 'll have some more about a year hence. My poem 's epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books; each book containing, With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, New characters; the episodes are three: A panoramic view of hell 's in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. All these things will be specified in time, With strict regard to Aristotle's rules, The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, Which makes so many poets, and some fools: Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme, Good workmen never quarrel with their tools; I 've got new mythological machinery, And very handsome supernatural scenery. There 's only one slight difference between Me and my epic brethren gone before, And here the advantage is my own, I ween (Not that I have not several merits more, But this will more peculiarly be seen); They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, Whereas this story 's actually true. If any person doubt it, I appeal To history, tradition, and to facts, To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, To plays in five, and operas in three acts; All these confirm my statement a good deal, But that which more completely faith exacts Is that myself, and several now in Seville, Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. If ever I should condescend to prose, I 'll write poetical commandments, which Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those That went before; in these I shall enrich My text with many things that no one knows, And carry precept to the highest pitch: I 'll call the work 'Longinus o'er a Bottle, Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.' Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy: With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy: Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit--flirtation with the muse of Moore. Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his; Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues' (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this); Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose: This is true criticism, and you may kiss-- Exactly as you please, or not,--the rod; If any person should presume to assert This story is not moral, first, I pray, That they will not cry out before they 're hurt, Then that they 'll read it o'er again, and say (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) That this is not a moral tale, though gay; Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show The very place where wicked people go. If, after all, there should be some so blind To their own good this warning to despise, Led by some tortuosity of mind, Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,' I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; Should captains the remark, or critics, make, They also lie too--under a mistake. The public approbation I expect, And beg they 'll take my word about the moral, Which I with their amusement will connect (So children cutting teeth receive a coral); Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect My epical pretensions to the laurel: For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, I 've bribed my grandmother's review--the British. I sent it in a letter to the Editor, Who thank'd me duly by return of post-- I 'm for a handsome article his creditor; Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, And break a promise after having made it her, Denying the receipt of what it cost, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, All I can say is--that he had the money. I think that with this holy new alliance I may ensure the public, and defy All other magazines of art or science, Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so Say I; by which quotation there is meant a Hint that some six or seven good years ago (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) I was most ready to return a blow, And would not brook at all this sort of thing In my hot youth--when George the Third was King. But now at thirty years my hair is grey (I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day)-- My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May, And feel no more the spirit to retort; I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. No more--no more--Oh! never more on me The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, Which out of all the lovely things we see Extracts emotions beautiful and new, Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee: Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew? Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power To double even the sweetness of a flower. No more--no more--Oh! never more, my heart, Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! Once all in all, but now a thing apart, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. My days of love are over; me no more The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, Can make the fool of which they made before,-- In short, I must not lead the life I did do; The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, The copious use of claret is forbid too, So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. Ambition was my idol, which was broken Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure; And the two last have left me many a token O'er which reflection may be made at leisure: Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'--a chymic treasure Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes-- My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,' To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King Cheops erected the first pyramid And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes, Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. But I being fond of true philosophy, Say very often to myself, 'Alas! All things that have been born were born to die, And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, And if you had it o'er again--'t would pass-- So thank your stars that matters are no worse, And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.' But for the present, gentle reader! and Still gentler purchaser! the bard--that 's I-- Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!' We meet again, if we should understand Each other; and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample-- 'T were well if others follow'd my example. 'Go, little book, from this my solitude! I cast thee on the waters--go thy ways! And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days.' When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, I can't help putting in my claim to praise-- The four first rhymes are Southey's every line: For God's sake, reader! take them not for mine. [Illustration: Canto 2] CANTO THE SECOND. O ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain: The best of mothers and of educations In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain, Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he Became divested of his native modesty. Had he but been placed at a public school, In the third form, or even in the fourth, His daily task had kept his fancy cool, At least, had he been nurtured in the north; Spain may prove an exception to the rule, But then exceptions always prove its worth-- A lad of sixteen causing a divorce Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. I can't say that it puzzles me at all, If all things be consider'd: first, there was His lady--mother, mathematical, A--never mind; his tutor, an old ass; A pretty woman (that 's quite natural, Or else the thing had hardly come to pass); A husband rather old, not much in unity With his young wife--a time, and opportunity. Well--well, the world must turn upon its axis, And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, Fighting, devotion, dust,--perhaps a name. I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz-- A pretty town, I recollect it well-- 'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel), And such sweet girls--I mean, such graceful ladies, Their very walk would make your bosom swell; I can't describe it, though so much it strike, Nor liken it--I never saw the like: An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, No--none of these will do;--and then their garb! Their veil and petticoat--Alas! to dwell Upon such things would very near absorb A canto--then their feet and ankles,--well, Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready (And so, my sober Muse--come, let 's be steady-- Chaste Muse!--well, if you must, you must)--the veil Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, Flashes into the heart:--All sunny land Of love! when I forget you, may I fail To--say my prayers--but never was there plann'd A dress through which the eyes give such a volley, Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. But to our tale: the Donna Inez sent Her son to Cadiz only to embark; To stay there had not answer'd her intent, But why?--we leave the reader in the dark-- 'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, To wean him from the wickedness of earth, And send him like a dove of promise forth. Don Juan bade his valet pack his things According to direction, then received A lecture and some money: for four springs He was to travel; and though Inez grieved (As every kind of parting has its stings), She hoped he would improve--perhaps believed: A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) Of good advice--and two or three of credit. In the mean time, to pass her hours away, Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school For naughty children, who would rather play (Like truant rogues) the devil, or the fool; Infants of three years old were taught that day, Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool: The great success of Juan's education, Spurr'd her to teach another generation. Juan embark'd--the ship got under way, The wind was fair, the water passing rough: A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough; And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough: And there he stood to take, and take again, His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain. I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new: I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, But almost every other country 's blue, When gazing on them, mystified by distance, We enter on our nautical existence. So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck: The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, From which away so fair and fast they bore. The best of remedies is a beef-steak Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer--so may you. Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, Beheld his native Spain receding far: First partings form a lesson hard to learn, Even nations feel this when they go to war; There is a sort of unexprest concern, A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: At leaving even the most unpleasant people And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. But Juan had got many things to leave, His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, So that he had much better cause to grieve Than many persons more advanced in life; And if we now and then a sigh must heave At quitting even those we quit in strife, No doubt we weep for those the heart endears-- That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion: I 'd weep,--but mine is not a weeping Muse, And such light griefs are not a thing to die on; Young men should travel, if but to amuse Themselves; and the next time their servants tie on Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought, While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 'Sweets to the sweet' (I like so much to quote; You must excuse this extract, 't is where she, The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought Flowers to the grave); and, sobbing often, he Reflected on his present situation, And seriously resolved on reformation. 'Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell!' he cried, 'Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, Of its own thirst to see again thy shore: Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, Farewell, too, dearest Julia!--(Here he drew Her letter out again, and read it through.) 'And, oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear-- But that 's impossible, and cannot be-- Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! Or think of any thing excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick). 'Sooner shall heaven kiss earth (here he fell sicker), O, Julia! what is every other wo? (For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor; Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)-- O, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)-- Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!' (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary's art, The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends: No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic. I Love 's a capricious power: I 've known it hold Out through a fever caused by its own heat, But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, And find a quincy very hard to treat; Against all noble maladies he 's bold, But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. But worst of all is nausea, or a pain About the lower region of the bowels; Love, who heroically breathes a vein, Shrinks from the application of hot towels, And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, how else Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? The ship, call'd the most holy 'Trinidada,' Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; For there the Spanish family Moncada Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born: They were relations, and for them he had a Letter of introduction, which the morn Of his departure had been sent him by His Spanish friends for those in Italy. His suite consisted of three servants and A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, Who several languages did understand, But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, And rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, His headache being increased by every billow; And the waves oozing through the port-hole made His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 'T was not without some reason, for the wind Increased at night, until it blew a gale; And though 't was not much to a naval mind, Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: At sunset they began to take in sail, For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift Herself from out her present jeopardy, The rudder tore away: 't was time to sound The pumps, and there were four feet water found. One gang of people instantly was put Upon the pumps and the remainder set To get up part of the cargo, and what not; But they could not come at the leak as yet; At last they did get at it really, but Still their salvation was an even bet: The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, Into the opening; but all such ingredients Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, Despite of all their efforts and expedients, But for the pumps: I 'm glad to make them known To all the brother tars who may have need hence, For fifty tons of water were upthrown By them per hour, and they had all been undone, But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in use. The wind blew fresh again: as it grew late A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, A gust--which all descriptive power transcends-- Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends. There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset; The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, And made a scene men do not soon forget; For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, Or any other thing that brings regret, Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. Immediately the masts were cut away, Both main and mizen; first the mizen went, The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they Eased her at last (although we never meant To part with all till every hope was blighted), And then with violence the old ship righted. It may be easily supposed, while this Was going on, some people were unquiet, That passengers would find it much amiss To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet; That even the able seaman, deeming his Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, As upon such occasions tars will ask For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion: thus it was, Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, The high wind made the treble, and as bas The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws: Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, Got to the spirit-room, and stood before It with a pair of pistols; and their fears, As if Death were more dreadful by his door Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 'Give us more grog,' they cried, 'for it will be All one an hour hence.' Juan answer'd, 'No! 'T is true that death awaits both you and me, But let us die like men, not sink below Like brutes;'--and thus his dangerous post kept he, And none liked to anticipate the blow; And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. The good old gentleman was quite aghast, And made a loud and pious lamentation; Repented all his sins, and made a last Irrevocable vow of reformation; Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) To quit his academic occupation, In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. But now there came a flash of hope once more; Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the masts were gone, The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore, The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. They tried the pumps again, and though before Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale-- The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. Under the vessel's keel the sail was past, And for the moment it had some effect; But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect? But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd: And though 't is true that man can only die once, 'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence, Without their will, they carried them away; For they were forced with steering to dispense, And never had as yet a quiet day On which they might repose, or even commence A jurymast or rudder, or could say The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, Still swam--though not exactly like a duck. The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope To weather out much longer; the distress Was also great with which they had to cope For want of water, and their solid mess Was scant enough: in vain the telescope Was used--nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. Again the weather threaten'd,--again blew A gale, and in the fore and after hold Water appear'd; yet, though the people knew All this, the most were patient, and some bold, Until the chains and leathers were worn through Of all our pumps:--a wreck complete she roll'd, At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are Like human beings during civil war. Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears In his rough eyes, and told the captain he Could do no more: he was a man in years, And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, And if he wept at length, they were not fears That made his eyelids as a woman's be, But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children,-- Two things for dying people quite bewildering. The ship was evidently settling now Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone, Some went to prayers again, and made a vow Of candles to their saints--but there were none To pay them with; and some look'd o'er the bow; Some hoisted out the boats; and there was one That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, Who told him to be damn'd--in his confusion. Some lash'd them in their hammocks; some put on Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair; And others went on as they had begun, Getting the boats out, being well aware That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. The worst of all was, that in their condition, Having been several days in great distress, 'T was difficult to get out such provision As now might render their long suffering less: Men, even when dying, dislike inanition; Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress: Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. But in the long-boat they contrived to stow Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet; Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so; Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get A portion of their beef up from below, And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon-- Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had Been stove in the beginning of the gale; And the long-boat's condition was but bad, As there were but two blankets for a sail, And one oar for a mast, which a young lad Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, To save one half the people then on board. 'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail, Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here. Some trial had been making at a raft, With little hope in such a rolling sea, A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, If any laughter at such times could be, Unless with people who too much have quaff'd, And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, Half epileptical and half hysterical:-- Their preservation would have been a miracle. At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, For yet they strove, although of no great use: There was no light in heaven but a few stars, The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And, going down head foremost--sunk, in short. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell-- Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony. The boats, as stated, had got off before, And in them crowded several of the crew; And yet their present hope was hardly more Than what it had been, for so strong it blew There was slight chance of reaching any shore; And then they were too many, though so few-- Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, Were counted in them when they got afloat. All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas! When over Catholics the ocean rolls, They must wait several weeks before a mass Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, Because, till people know what 's come to pass, They won't lay out their money on the dead-- It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. Juan got into the long-boat, and there Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, For Juan wore the magisterial face Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair Of eyes were crying for their owner's case: Battista; though (a name call'd shortly Tita), Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, But the same cause, conducive to his loss, Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, And so he found a wine-and-watery grave; They could not rescue him although so close, Because the sea ran higher every minute, And for the boat--the crew kept crowding in it. A small old spaniel,--which had been Don Jose's, His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, For on such things the memory reposes With tenderness--stood howling on the brink, Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!), No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. He also stuff'd his money where he could About his person, and Pedrillo's too, Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, Not knowing what himself to say, or do, As every rising wave his dread renew'd; But Juan, trusting they might still get through, And deeming there were remedies for any ill, Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, Though on the wave's high top too much to set, They dared not take it in for all the breeze: Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, And made them bale without a moment's ease, So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still Kept above water, with an oar for mast, Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast: Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, And present peril all before surpass'd, They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign Of the continuance of the gale: to run Before the sea until it should grow fine, Was all that for the present could be done: A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine Were served out to the people, who begun To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, And most of them had little clothes but rags. They counted thirty, crowded in a space Which left scarce room for motion or exertion; They did their best to modify their case, One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion, While t'other half were laid down in their place At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 'T is very certain the desire of life Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians, When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, Survive through very desperate conditions, Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife Nor shears of Atropos before their visions: Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, And makes men miseries miseries of alarming brevity. 'T is said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others,--God knows why, Unless to plague the grantors,--yet so true it is, That some, I really think, do never die; Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, And that 's their mode of furnishing supply: In my young days they lent me cash that way, Which I found very troublesome to pay. 'T is thus with people in an open boat, They live upon the love of life, and bear More than can be believed, or even thought, And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear; And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there; She had a curious crew as well as cargo, Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. But man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your labouring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. And thus it was with this our hapless crew; For on the third day there came on a calm, And though at first their strength it might renew, And lying on their weariness like balm, Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, And fell all ravenously on their provision, Instead of hoarding it with due precision. The consequence was easily foreseen-- They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, In spite of all remonstrances, and then On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! And carry them to shore; these hopes were fine, But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, It would have been more wise to save their victual. The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child: The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild-- With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild: So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating. On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, And Juan, who had still refused, because The creature was his father's dog that died, Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, With some remorse received (though first denied) As a great favour one of the fore-paws, Which he divided with Pedrillo, who Devour'd it, longing for the other too. The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, Save in the breeze that came not; savagely They glared upon each other--all was done, Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. At length one whisper'd his companion, who Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, And then into a hoarser murmur grew, An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound; And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, And who should die to be his fellow's food. But ere they came to this, they that day shared Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes; And then they look'd around them and despair'd, And none to be the sacrifice would choose; At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, But of materials that much shock the Muse-- Having no paper, for the want of better, They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed, In silent horror, and their distribution Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, By which none were permitted to be neuter-- And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. He but requested to be bled to death: The surgeon had his instruments, and bled Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, You hardly could perceive when he was dead. He died as born, a Catholic in faith, Like most in the belief in which they 're bred, And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, And then held out his jugular and wrist. The surgeon, as there was no other fee, Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; But being thirstiest at the moment, he Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins: Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, And such things as the entrails and the brains Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow-- The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. The sailors ate him, all save three or four, Who were not quite so fond of animal food; To these was added Juan, who, before Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could Feel now his appetite increased much more; 'T was not to be expected that he should, Even in extremity of their disaster, Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 'T was better that he did not; for, in fact, The consequence was awful in the extreme; For they, who were most ravenous in the act, Went raging mad--Lord! how they did blaspheme! And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven knows; And some of them had lost their recollection, Happier than they who still perceived their woes; But others ponder'd on a new dissection, As if not warn'd sufficiently by those Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, For having used their appetites so sadly. And next they thought upon the master's mate, As fattest; but he saved himself, because, Besides being much averse from such a fate, There were some other reasons: the first was, He had been rather indisposed of late; And that which chiefly proved his saving clause Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, By general subscription of the ladies. Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, But was used sparingly,--some were afraid, And others still their appetites constrain'd, Or but at times a little supper made; All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, Chewing a piece of bamboo and some lead: At length they caught two boobies and a noddy, And then they left off eating the dead body. And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, Remember Ugolino condescends To eat the head of his arch-enemy The moment after he politely ends His tale: if foes be food in hell, at sea 'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, Without being much more horrible than Dante. And the same night there fell a shower of rain, For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain Men really know not what good water 's worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth, Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, You 'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well. It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, And when they deem'd its moisture was complete They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet As a full pot of porter, to their thinking They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd; Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black, As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd To beg the beggar, who could not rain back A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd To taste of heaven--If this be true, indeed Some Christians have a comfortable creed. There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, And with them their two sons, of whom the one Was more robust and hardy to the view, But he died early; and when he was gone, His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw One glance at him, and said, 'Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing,' and he saw him thrown Into the deep without a tear or groan. The other father had a weaklier child, Of a soft cheek and aspect delicate; But the boy bore up long, and with a mild And patient spirit held aloof his fate; Little he said, and now and then he smiled, As if to win a part from off the weight He saw increasing on his father's heart, With the deep deadly thought that they must part. And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed, And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth--but in vain. The boy expired--the father held the clay, And look'd upon it long, and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watch'd it wistfully, until away 'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; And all within its arch appear'd to be Clearer than that without, and its wide hue Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. It changed, of course; a heavenly chameleon, The airy child of vapour and the sun, Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, And blending every colour into one, Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle (For sometimes we must box without the muffle). Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen-- It is as well to think so, now and then; 'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, And may become of great advantage when Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men Had greater need to nerve themselves again Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope-- Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. About this time a beautiful white bird, Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size And plumage (probably it might have err'd Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, And tried to perch, although it saw and heard The men within the boat, and in this guise It came and went, and flutter'd round them till Night fell: this seem'd a better omen still. But in this case I also must remark, 'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark Was not so safe for roosting as a church; And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, Returning there from her successful search, Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. With twilight it again came on to blow, But not with violence; the stars shone out, The boat made way; yet now they were so low, They knew not where nor what they were about; Some fancied they saw land, and some said 'No!' The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt-- Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, And all mistook about the latter once. As morning broke, the light wind died away, When he who had the watch sung out and swore, If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray, He wish'd that land he never might see more; And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay, Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore; For shore it was, and gradually grew Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. And then of these some part burst into tears, And others, looking with a stupid stare, Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, And seem'd as if they had no further care; While a few pray'd (the first time for some years)-- And at the bottom of the boat three were Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head, And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. The day before, fast sleeping on the water, They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind Proved even still a more nutritious matter, Because it left encouragement behind: They thought that in such perils, more than chance Had sent them this for their deliverance. The land appear'd a high and rocky coast, And higher grew the mountains as they drew, Set by a current, toward it: they were lost In various conjectures, for none knew To what part of the earth they had been tost, So changeable had been the winds that blew; Some thought it was Mount AEtna, some the highlands, Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. Meantime the current, with a rising gale, Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: Their living freight was now reduced to four, And three dead, whom their strength could not avail To heave into the deep with those before, Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd The spray into their faces as they splash'd. Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to Such things a mother had not known her son Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew; By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen Unequal in its aspect here and there, They felt the freshness of its growing green, That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air, And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare-- Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man, And girt by formidable waves; but they Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay: A reef between them also now began To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, But finding no place for their landing better, They ran the boat for shore,--and overset her. But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, Had often turn'd the art to some account: A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, The beach which lay before him, high and dry: The greatest danger here was from a shark, That carried off his neighbour by the thigh; As for the other two, they could not swim, So nobody arrived on shore but him. Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, Which, providentially for him, was wash'd Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd; At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea: There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: And there he lay, full length, where he was flung, Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, With just enough of life to feel its pain, And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. With slow and staggering effort he arose, But sunk again upon his bleeding knee And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those Who long had been his mates upon the sea; But none of them appear'd to share his woes, Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three, Who died two days before, and now had found An unknown barren beach for burial ground. And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, And down he sunk; and as he sunk, the sand Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd: He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jurymast), And, like a wither'd lily, on the land His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. How long in his damp trance young Juan lay He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, And Time had nothing more of night nor day For his congealing blood, and senses dim; And how this heavy faintness pass'd away He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought He still was in the boat and had but dozed, And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; And then once more his feelings back were brought, And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen A lovely female face of seventeen. 'T was bending dose o'er his, and the small mouth Seem'd almost prying into his for breath; And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth Recall'd his answering spirits back from death; And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe Each pulse to animation, till beneath Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh To these kind efforts made a low reply. Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung; And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm; And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew A sigh from his heaved bosom--and hers, too. And lifting him with care into the cave, The gentle girl and her attendant,--one Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, And more robust of figure,--then begun To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair-- Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould, They nearly reach'd her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land. Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew; 'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength. Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye Like twilight rosy still with the set sun; Short upper lip--sweet lips! that make us sigh Ever to have seen such; for she was one Fit for the model of a statuary (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done-- I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). I 'll tell you why I say so, for 't is just One should not rail without a decent cause: There was an Irish lady, to whose bust I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was A frequent model; and if e'er she must Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, They will destroy a face which mortal thought Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. And such was she, the lady of the cave: Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish) The basquina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay. But with our damsel this was not the case: Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun; Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, But through them gold and gems profusely shone: Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone Flash'd on her little hand; but, what was shocking, Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. The other female's dress was not unlike, But of inferior materials: she Had not so many ornaments to strike, Her hair had silver only, bound to be Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free; Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, Which are (as I must own) of female growth, And have ten thousand delicate inventions: They made a most superior mess of broth, A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's Achilles ordered dinner for new comers. I 'll tell you who they were, this female pair, Lest they should seem princesses in disguise; Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air Of clap-trap which your recent poets prize; And so, in short, the girls they really were They shall appear before your curious eyes, Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter Of an old man who lived upon the water. A fisherman he had been in his youth, And still a sort of fisherman was he; But other speculations were, in sooth, Added to his connection with the sea, Perhaps not so respectable, in truth: A little smuggling, and some piracy, Left him, at last, the sole of many masters Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. A fisher, therefore, was he,--though of men, Like Peter the Apostle,--and he fish'd For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd; The cargoes he confiscated, and gain He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. He was a Greek, and on his isle had built (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) A very handsome house from out his guilt, And there he lived exceedingly at ease; Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he spilt, A sad old fellow was he, if you please; But this I know, it was a spacious building, Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles; Besides, so very beautiful was she, Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree She grew to womanhood, and between whiles Rejected several suitors, just to learn How to accept a better in his turn. And walking out upon the beach, below The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, Insensible,--not dead, but nearly so,-- Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd; But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, As far as in her lay, 'to take him in, A stranger' dying, with so white a skin. But taking him into her father's house Was not exactly the best way to save, But like conveying to the cat the mouse, Or people in a trance into their grave; Because the good old man had so much 'nous,' Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, He would have hospitably cured the stranger, And sold him instantly when out of danger. And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best (A virgin always on her maid relies) To place him in the cave for present rest: And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, Their charity increased about their guest; And their compassion grew to such a size, It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven (St. Paul says, 't is the toll which must be given). They made a fire,--but such a fire as they Upon the moment could contrive with such Materials as were cast up round the bay,-- Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch; But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse, For Haidee stripped her sables off to make His couch; and, that he might be more at ease, And warm, in case by chance he should awake, They also gave a petticoat apiece, She and her maid--and promised by daybreak To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. And thus they left him to his lone repose: Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows), Just for the present; and in his lull'd head Not even a vision of his former woes Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread Unwelcome visions of our former years, Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. Young Juan slept all dreamless:--but the maid, Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. He slumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen), He had pronounced her name--but she forgot That at this moment Juan knew it not. And pensive to her father's house she went, Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, She being wiser by a year or two: A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge Which is acquired in Nature's good old college. The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon His rest; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, And the young beams of the excluded sun, Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; And need he had of slumber yet, for none Had suffer'd more--his hardships were comparative To those related in my grand-dad's 'Narrative.' Not so Haidee: she sadly toss'd and tumbled, And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore; And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore In several oaths--Armenian, Turk, and Greek-- They knew not what to think of such a freak. But up she got, and up she made them get, With some pretence about the sun, that makes Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet With mist, and every bird with him awakes, And night is flung off like a mourning suit Worn for a husband,--or some other brute. I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late I have sat up on purpose all the night, Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; And so all ye, who would be in the right In health and purse, begin your day to date From daybreak, and when coffin'd at fourscore, Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. And Haidee met the morning face to face; Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; Or the Red Sea--but the sea is not red. And down the cliff the island virgin came, And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, Taking her for a sister; just the same Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw That like an infant Juan sweetly slept; And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death Bent with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath. And thus like to an angel o'er the dying Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, As o'er him the calm and stirless air: But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair Must breakfast--and betimes, lest they should ask it, She drew out her provision from the basket. She knew that the best feelings must have victual, And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be; Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea; And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle; I can't say that she gave them any tea, But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, With Scio wine,--and all for love, not money. And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan; But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, And without word, a sign her finger drew on Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand; And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a new one, Because her mistress would not let her break That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek A purple hectic play'd like dying day On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak; And his black curls were dewy with the spray, Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; In short, he was a very pretty fellow, Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, But the fair face which met his eyes forbade Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain Had further sleep a further pleasure made; For woman's face was never form'd in vain For Juan, so that even when he pray'd He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. And thus upon his elbow he arose, And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek The pale contended with the purple rose, As with an effort she began to speak; Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, Although she told him, in good modern Greek, With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. Now Juan could not understand a word, Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird, So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; The sort of sound we echo with a tear, Without knowing why--an overpowering tone, Whence Melody descends as from a throne. And Juan gazed as one who is awoke By a distant organ, doubting if he be Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke By the watchman, or some such reality, Or by one's early valet's cursed knock; At least it is a heavy sound to me, Who like a morning slumber--for the night Shows stars and women in a better light. And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, Or sleep, or whatso'er it was, by feeling A most prodigious appetite: the steam Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing Upon his senses, and the kindling beam Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling To stir her viands, made him quite awake And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on: But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on; Others are fair and fertile, among which This, though not large, was one of the most rich. I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking That the old fable of the Minotaur-- From which our modern morals rightly shrinking Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore A cow's shape for a mask--was only (sinking The allegory) a mere type, no more, That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. For we all know that English people are Fed upon beef--I won't say much of beer, Because 't is liquor only, and being far From this my subject, has no business here; We know, too, they very fond of war, A pleasure--like all pleasures--rather dear; So were the Cretans--from which I infer That beef and battles both were owing to her. But to resume. The languid Juan raised His head upon his elbow, and he saw A sight on which he had not lately gazed, As all his latter meals had been quite raw, Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised, And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. He ate, and he was well supplied: and she, Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead; But Zoe, being older than Haidee, Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. And so she took the liberty to state, Rather by deeds than words, because the case Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, Unless he wish'd to die upon the place-- She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. Next they--he being naked, save a tatter'd Pair of scarce decent trowsers--went to work, And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, Or Greek--that is, although it not much matter'd, Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk,-- They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches, With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, But not a word could Juan comprehend, Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; And, as he interrupted not, went eking Her speech out to her protege and friend, Till pausing at the last her breath to take, She saw he did not understand Romaic. And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, And read (the only book she could) the lines Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, The answer eloquent, where soul shines And darts in one quick glance a long reply; And thus in every look she saw exprest A world of words, and things at which she guess'd. And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, And words repeated after her, he took A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise, No doubt, less of her language than her look: As he who studies fervently the skies Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been; They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong They smile still more, and then there intervene Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss;-- I learn'd the little that I know by this: That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, Italian not at all, having no teachers; Much English I cannot pretend to speak, Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week I study, also Blair, the highest reachers Of eloquence in piety and prose-- I hate your poets, so read none of those. As for the ladies, I have nought to say, A wanderer from the British world of fashion, Where I, like other 'dogs, have had my day,' Like other men, too, may have had my passion-- But that, like other things, has pass'd away, And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on: Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me But dreams of what has been, no more to be. Return we to Don Juan. He begun To hear new words, and to repeat them; but Some feelings, universal as the sun, Were such as could not in his breast be shut More than within the bosom of a nun: He was in love,--as you would be, no doubt, With a young benefactress,--so was she, Just in the way we very often see. And every day by daybreak--rather early For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest-- She came into the cave, but it was merely To see her bird reposing in his nest; And she would softly stir his locks so curly, Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. And every morn his colour freshlier came, And every day help'd on his convalescence; 'T was well, because health in the human frame Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, For health and idleness to passion's flame Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, Without whom Venus will not long attack us. While Venus fills the heart (without heart really Love, though good always, is not quite so good), Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli,-- For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood,-- While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food; But who is their purveyor from above Heaven knows,--it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. When Juan woke he found some good things ready, A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes That ever made a youthful heart less steady, Besides her maid's as pretty for their size; But I have spoken of all this already-- And repetition 's tiresome and unwise,-- Well--Juan, after bathing in the sea, Came always back to coffee and Haidee. Both were so young, and one so innocent, That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, A something to be loved, a creature meant To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd To render happy; all who joy would win Must share it,--Happiness was born a twin. It was such pleasure to behold him, such Enlargement of existence to partake Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: To live with him forever were too much; But then the thought of parting made her quake; He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast Like a rich wreck--her first love, and her last. And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee Paid daily visits to her boy, and took Such plentiful precautions, that still he Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook; At last her father's prows put out to sea For certain merchantmen upon the look, Not as of yore to carry off an Io, But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, So that, her father being at sea, she was Free as a married woman, or such other Female, as where she likes may freely pass, Without even the incumbrance of a brother, The freest she that ever gazed on glass; I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk (For they must talk), and he had learnt to say So much as to propose to take a walk,-- For little had he wander'd since the day On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay,-- And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, And saw the sun set opposite the moon. It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host, With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore A better welcome to the tempest-tost; And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar, Save on the dead long summer days, which make The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. And the small ripple spilt upon the beach Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please,--the more because they preach in vain,-- Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return,--Get very drunk; and when You wake with headache, you shall see what then. Ring for your valet--bid him quickly bring Some hock and soda-water, then you 'll know A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king; For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow, Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow, After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. The coast--I think it was the coast that Was just describing--Yes, it was the coast-- Lay at this period quiet as the sky, The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost, And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret Against the boundary it scarcely wet. And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, As I have said, upon an expedition; And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, Save Zoe, who, although with due precision She waited on her lady with the sun, Thought daily service was her only mission, Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill Upon the other, and the rosy sky, With one star sparkling through it like an eye. And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, Over the shining pebbles and the shells, Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, And in the worn and wild receptacles Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm, Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the wave's splash, and the wind so low, And saw each other's dark eyes darting light Into each other--and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss; A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, And beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,--for a kiss's strength, I think, it must be reckon'd by its length. By length I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long--no doubt they never reckon'd; And if they had, they could not have secured The sum of their sensations to a second: They had not spoken; but they felt allured, As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung-- Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. They were alone, but not alone as they Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, The twilight glow which momently grew less, The voiceless sands and dropping caves, that lay Around them, made them to each other press, As if there were no life beneath the sky Save theirs, and that their life could never die. They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, They felt no terrors from the night, they were All in all to each other: though their speech Was broken words, they thought a language there,-- And all the burning tongues the passions teach Found in one sigh the best interpreter Of nature's oracle--first love,--that all Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. Haidde spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, Nor offer'd any; she had never heard Of plight and promises to be a spouse, Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; She was all which pure ignorance allows, And flew to her young mate like a young bird; And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she Had not one word to say of constancy. She loved, and was beloved--she adored, And she was worshipp'd; after nature's fashion, Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,-- But by degrees their senses were restored, Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on; And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart Felt as if never more to beat apart. Alas! they were so young, so beautiful, So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour Was that in which the heart is always full, And, having o'er itself no further power, Prompts deeds eternity can not annul, But pays off moments in an endless shower Of hell-fire--all prepared for people giving Pleasure or pain to one another living. Alas! for Juan and Haidee! they were So loving and so lovely--till then never, Excepting our first parents, such a pair Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, And hell and purgatory--but forgot Just in the very crisis she should not. They look upon each other, and their eyes Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps Round Juan's head, and his around her lies Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, He hers, until they end in broken gasps; And thus they form a group that 's quite antique, Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms; And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants With all it granted, and with all it grants. An infant when it gazes on a light, A child the moment when it drains the breast, A devotee when soars the Host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest, A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, All that it hath of life with us is living; So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving; All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving: There lies the thing we love with all its errors And all its charms, like death without its terrors. The lady watch'd her lover--and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, Where nought upon their passion could intrude, And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. Alas! the love of women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage--and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares, Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; Few changes e'er can better their affairs, Theirs being an unnatural situation, From the dull palace to the dirty hovel: Some play the devil, and then write a novel. Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this; Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one Made but to love, to feel that she was his Who was her chosen: what was said or done Elsewhere was nothing. She had naught to fear, Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat here. And oh! that quickening of the heart, that beat! How much it costs us! yet each rising throb Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat Fine truths; even Conscience, too, has a tough job To make us understand each good old maxim, So good--I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. And now 't was done--on the lone shore were plighted Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted: Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, By their own feelings hallow'd and united, Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed: And they were happy, for to their young eyes Each was an angel, and earth paradise. O, Love! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, Titus the master, Antony the slave, Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave All those may leap who rather would be neuter (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave)-- O, Love! thou art the very god of evil, For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen; Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, Such worthies Time will never see again; Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. Thou mak'st philosophers; there 's Epicurus And Aristippus, a material crew! Who to immoral courses would allure us By theories quite practicable too; If only from the devil they would insure us, How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), 'Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?' So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. But Juan! had he quite forgotten Julia? And should he have forgotten her so soon? I can't but say it seems to me most truly Perplexing question; but, no doubt, the moon Does these things for us, and whenever newly Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon, Else how the devil is it that fresh features Have such a charm for us poor human creatures? I hate inconstancy--I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast No permanent foundation can be laid; Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, And yet last night, being at a masquerade, I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, Which gave me some sensations like a villain. But soon Philosophy came to my aid, And whisper'd, 'Think of every sacred tie!' 'I will, my dear Philosophy!' I said, 'But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye! I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, Or neither--out of curiosity.' 'Stop!' cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian (Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian); 'Stop!' so I stopp'd.--But to return: that which Men call inconstancy is nothing more Than admiration due where nature's rich Profusion with young beauty covers o'er Some favour'd object; and as in the niche A lovely statue we almost adore, This sort of adoration of the real Is but a heightening of the 'beau ideal.' 'T is the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull; In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, For surely if we always could perceive In the same object graces quite as killing As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 'T would save us many a heartache, many a shilling (For we must get them any how or grieve), Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart as well as liver! The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, But changes night and day, too, like the sky; Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, And darkness and destruction as on high: But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, Which make the English climate of our years. The liver is the lazaret of bile, But very rarely executes its function, For the first passion stays there such a while, That all the rest creep in and form a junction, Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,-- Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction,-- So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central,' In the mean time, without proceeding more In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, That being about the number I 'll allow Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead For them and theirs with all who deign to read. [Illustration: Canto 3] CANTO THE THIRD. Hail, Muse! et cetera.--We left Juan sleeping, Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears! O, Love! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou Wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast--but place to die-- Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others all she loves is love, Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, And fits her loosely--like an easy glove, As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her: One man alone at first her heart can move; She then prefers him in the plural number, Not finding that the additions much encumber. I know not if the fault be men's or theirs; But one thing 's pretty sure; a woman planted (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) After a decent time must be gallanted; Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, But those who have ne'er end with only one. 'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign Of human frailty, folly, also crime, That love and marriage rarely can combine, Although they both are born in the same clime; Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour, sober beverage--by time Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour Down to a very homely household savour. There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, Between their present and their future state; A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair Is used until the truth arrives too late-- Yet what can people do, except despair? The same things change their names at such a rate; For instance--passion in a lover 's glorious, But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; They sometimes also get a little tired (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: The same things cannot always be admired, Yet 't is 'so nominated in the bond,' That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. There 's doubtless something in domestic doings Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis; Romances paint at full length people's wooings, But only give a bust of marriages; For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life? All tragedies are finish'd by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage; The future states of both are left to faith, For authors fear description might disparage The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady. The only two that in my recollection Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are Dante and Milton, and of both the affection Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar): But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. Some persons say that Dante meant theology By Beatrice, and not a mistress--I, Although my opinion may require apology, Deem this a commentator's fantasy, Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he Decided thus, and show'd good reason why; I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics Meant to personify the mathematics. Haidee and Juan were not married, but The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair, Chaste reader, then, in any way to put The blame on me, unless you wish they were; Then if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut The book which treats of this erroneous pair, Before the consequences grow too awful; 'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. Yet they were happy,--happy in the illicit Indulgence of their innocent desires; But more imprudent grown with every visit, Haidee forgot the island was her sire's; When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it, At least in the beginning, ere one tires; Thus she came often, not a moment losing, Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 't is nothing but taxation; But he, more modest, took an humbler range Of life, and in an honester vocation Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, And merely practised as a sea-attorney. The good old gentleman had been detain'd By winds and waves, and some important captures; And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures, By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd His prisoners, dividing them like chapters In number'd lots; they all had cuffs and collars, And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, Among his friends the Mainots; some he sold To his Tunis correspondents, save one man Toss'd overboard unsaleable (being old); The rest--save here and there some richer one, Reserved for future ransom--in the hold Were link'd alike, as for the common people he Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. The merchandise was served in the same way, Pieced out for different marts in the Levant; Except some certain portions of the prey, Light classic articles of female want, French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray, Guitars and castanets from Alicant, All which selected from the spoil he gathers, Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, He chose from several animals he saw-- A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance; These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper altogether. Then having settled his marine affairs, Despatching single cruisers here and there, His vessel having need of some repairs, He shaped his course to where his daughter fair Continued still her hospitable cares; But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, His port lay on the other side o' the isle. And there he went ashore without delay, Having no custom-house nor quarantine To ask him awkward questions on the way About the time and place where he had been: He left his ship to be hove down next day, With orders to the people to careen; So that all hands were busy beyond measure, In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. Arriving at the summit of a hill Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, He stopp'd.--What singular emotions fill Their bosoms who have been induced to roam! With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill-- With love for many, and with fears for some; All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. The approach of home to husbands and to sires, After long travelling by land or water, Most naturally some small doubt inspires-- A female family 's a serious matter (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires-- But they hate flattery, so I never flatter); Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. An honest gentleman at his return May not have the good fortune of Ulysses; Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses; The odds are that he finds a handsome urn To his memory--and two or three young misses Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches,-- And that his Argus--bites him by the breeches. If single, probably his plighted fair Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; But all the better, for the happy pair May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care As cavalier servente, or despise her; And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. And oh! ye gentlemen who have already Some chaste liaison of the kind--I mean An honest friendship with a married lady-- The only thing of this sort ever seen To last--of all connections the most steady, And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen)-- Yet for all that keep not too long away, I 've known the absent wrong'd four times a day. Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad, Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. He saw his white walls shining in the sun, His garden trees all shadowy and green; He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, The distant dog-bark; and perceived between The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen Of arms (in the East all arm)--and various dyes Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. And as the spot where they appear he nears, Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, He hears--alas! no music of the spheres, But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! A melody which made him doubt his ears, The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, A most unoriental roar of laughter. And still more nearly to the place advancing, Descending rather quickly the declivity, Through the waved branches o'er the greensward glancing, 'Midst other indications of festivity, Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, To which the Levantines are very partial. And further on a group of Grecian girls, The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, Were strung together like a row of pearls, Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too having Down her white neck long floating auburn curls (The least of which would set ten poets raving); Their leader sang--and bounded to her song, With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, Small social parties just begun to dine; Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; Above them their dessert grew on its vine, The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store. A band of children, round a snow-white ram, There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers His sober head, majestically tame, Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers His brow, as if in act to butt, and then Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, The innocence which happy childhood blesses, Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; So that the philosophical beholder Sigh'd for their sakes--that they should e'er grow older. Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales To a sedate grey circle of old smokers, Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact). Here was no lack of innocent diversion For the imagination or the senses, Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, Perceiving in his absence such expenses, Dreading that climax of all human ills, The inflammation of his weekly bills. Ah! what is man? what perils still environ The happiest mortals even after dinner-- A day of gold from out an age of iron Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner; Lambro's reception at his people's banquet Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. He--being a man who seldom used a word Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise (In general he surprised men with the sword) His daughter--had not sent before to advise Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd; And long he paused to re-assure his eyes In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, To find so much good company invited. He did not know (alas! how men will lie) That a report (especially the Greeks) Avouch'd his death (such people never die), And put his house in mourning several weeks,-- But now their eyes and also lips were dry; The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's cheeks, Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, She now kept house upon her own account. Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; The servants all were getting drunk or idling, A life which made them happy beyond measure. Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure; 'T was wonderful how things went on improving, While she had not one hour to spare from loving. Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast He flew into a passion, and in fact There was no mighty reason to be pleased; Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, To teach his people to be more exact, And that, proceeding at a very high rate, He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. You 're wrong.--He was the mildest manner'd man That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat: With such true breeding of a gentleman, You never could divine his real thought; No courtier could, and scarcely woman can Gird more deceit within a petticoat; Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, He was so great a loss to good society. Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, Boded no good, whatever it express'd, He ask'd the meaning of this holiday; The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd His question, much too merry to divine The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, And without turning his facetious head, Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 'Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare.' A second hiccup'd, 'Our old master 's dead, You 'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir.' 'Our mistress!' quoth a third: 'Our mistress!--pooh!- You mean our master--not the old, but new.' These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom They thus address'd--and Lambro's visage fell-- And o'er his eye a momentary gloom Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell The expression, and endeavouring to resume His smile, requested one of them to tell The name and quality of his new patron, Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 'I know not,' quoth the fellow, 'who or what He is, nor whence he came--and little care; But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat, And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare; And if you are not satisfied with that, Direct your questions to my neighbour there; He 'll answer all for better or for worse, For none likes more to hear himself converse.' I said that Lambro was a man of patience, And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations, E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; He bore these sneers against his near relations, His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, The insults, too, of every servile glutton, Who all the time was eating up his mutton. Now in a person used to much command-- To bid men come, and go, and come again-- To see his orders done, too, out of hand-- Whether the word was death, or but the chain-- It may seem strange to find his manners bland; Yet such things are, which I can not explain, Though doubtless he who can command himself Is good to govern--almost as a Guelf. Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, But never in his real and serious mood; Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood; With him it never was a word and blow, His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, But in his silence there was much to rue, And his one blow left little work for two. He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded On to the house, but by a private way, So that the few who met him hardly heeded, So little they expected him that day; If love paternal in his bosom pleaded For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, But certainly to one deem'd dead, returning, This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. If all the dead could now return to life (Which God forbid!) or some, or a great many, For instance, if a husband or his wife (Nuptial examples are as good as any), No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, The present weather would be much more rainy-- Tears shed into the grave of the connection Would share most probably its resurrection. He enter'd in the house no more his home, A thing to human feelings the most trying, And harder for the heart to overcome, Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, And round its once warm precincts palely lying The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, Beyond a single gentleman's belief. He enter'd in the house--his home no more, For without hearts there is no home; and felt The solitude of passing his own door Without a welcome; there he long had dwelt, There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt Over the innocence of that sweet child, His only shrine of feelings undefiled. He was a man of a strange temperament, Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, Moderate in all his habits, and content With temperance in pleasure, as in food, Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant For something better, if not wholly good; His country's wrongs and his despair to save her Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, The hardness by long habitude produced, The dangerous life in which he had grown old, The mercy he had granted oft abused, The sights he was accustom'd to behold, The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised, Had cost his enemies a long repentance, And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. But something of the spirit of old Greece Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece His predecessors in the Colchian days; T is true he had no ardent love for peace-- Alas! his country show'd no path to praise: Hate to the world and war with every nation He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd Its power unconsciously full many a time,-- A taste seen in the choice of his abode, A love of music and of scenes sublime, A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed On that beloved daughter; she had been The only thing which kept his heart unclosed Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen; A lonely pure affection unopposed: There wanted but the loss of this to wean His feelings from all milk of human kindness, And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness. The cubless tigress in her jungle raging Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock; The ocean when its yeasty war is waging Is awful to the vessel near the rock; But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, Their fury being spent by its own shock, Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. It is a hard although a common case To find our children running restive--they In whom our brightest days we would retrace, Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay, Just as old age is creeping on apace, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone. Yet a fine family is a fine thing (Provided they don't come in after dinner); 'T is beautiful to see a matron bring Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her); Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shines like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, And stood within his hall at eventide; Meantime the lady and her lover sate At wassail in their beauty and their pride: An ivory inlaid table spread with state Before them, and fair slaves on every side; Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. The dinner made about a hundred dishes; Lamb and pistachio nuts--in short, all meats, And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes; The beverage was various sherbets Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use. These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast, And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine China cups, came in at last; Gold cups of filigree made to secure The hand from burning underneath them placed, Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. The hangings of the room were tapestry, made Of velvet panels, each of different hue, And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid; And round them ran a yellow border too; The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, From poets, or the moralists their betters. These Oriental writings on the wall, Quite common in those countries, are a kind Of monitors adapted to recall, Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, And took his kingdom from him: You will find, Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, A genius who has drunk himself to death, A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic (For that 's the name they like to pray beneath)-- But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, Are things that really take away the breath,-- And show that late hours, wine, and love are able To do not much less damage than the table. Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue; Their sofa occupied three parts complete Of the apartment--and appear'd quite new; The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, Over the floors were spread; gazelles and cats, And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain Their bread as ministers and favourites (that 's To say, by degradation) mingled there As plentiful as in a court, or fair. There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The tables, most of ebony inlaid With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, Fretted with gold or silver:--by command, The greater part of these were ready spread With viands and sherbets in ice--and wine-- Kept for all comers at all hours to dine. Of all the dresses I select Haidee's: She wore two jelicks--one was of pale yellow; Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise-- 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow; With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, Lockless--so pliable from the pure gold That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, The limb which it adorn'd its only mould; So beautiful--its very shape would charm; And, clinging as if loath to lose its hold, The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin That e'er by precious metal was held in. Around, as princess of her father's land, A like gold bar above her instep roll'd Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand; Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold Below her breast was fasten'd with a band Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd About the prettiest ankle in the world. Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun Dyes with his morning light,--and would conceal Her person if allow'd at large to run, And still they seem resentfully to feel The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan. Round her she made an atmosphere of life, The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, They were so soft and beautiful, and rife With all we can imagine of the skies, And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife-- Too pure even for the purest human ties; Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged (It is the country's custom), but in vain; For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, And in their native beauty stood avenged: Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for They could not look more rosy than before. The henna should be deeply dyed to make The skin relieved appear more fairly fair; She had no need of this, day ne'er will break On mountain tops more heavenly white than her: The eye might doubt if it were well awake, She was so like a vision; I might err, But Shakspeare also says, 't is very silly 'To gild refined gold, or paint the lily' Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, But a white baracan, and so transparent The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, Like small stars through the milky way apparent; His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't Surmounted as its clasp--a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, Which made their new establishment complete; The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: His verses rarely wanted their due feet; And for his theme--he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirize or flatter, As the psalm says, 'inditing a good matter.' He praised the present, and abused the past, Reversing the good custom of old days, An Eastern anti-jacobin at last He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise-- For some few years his lot had been o'ercast By his seeming independent in his lays, But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw. He was a man who had seen many changes, And always changed as true as any needle; His polar star being one which rather ranges, And not the fix'd--he knew the way to wheedle: So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges; And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill), He lied with such a fervour of intention-- There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. But he had genius,--when a turncoat has it, The 'Vates irritabilis' takes care That without notice few full moons shall pass it; Even good men like to make the public stare:-- But to my subject--let me see--what was it?- O!--the third canto--and the pretty pair-- Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode Of living in their insular abode. Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less In company a very pleasant fellow, Had been the favourite of full many a mess Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; And though his meaning they could rarely guess, Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow The glorious meed of popular applause, Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. But now being lifted into high society, And having pick'd up several odds and ends Of free thoughts in his travels for variety, He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends, That, without any danger of a riot, he Might for long lying make himself amends; And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, Agree to a short armistice with truth. He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, And knew the self-loves of the different nations; And having lived with people of all ranks, Had something ready upon most occasions-- Which got him a few presents and some thanks. He varied with some skill his adulations; To 'do at Rome as Romans do,' a piece Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, He gave the different nations something national; 'T was all the same to him--'God save the king,' Or 'Ca ira,' according to the fashion all: His muse made increment of any thing, From the high lyric down to the low rational: If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? In France, for instance, he would write a chanson; In England a six canto quarto tale; In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on The last war--much the same in Portugal; In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on Would be old Goethe's (see what says De Stael); In Italy he 'd ape the 'Trecentisti;' In Greece, he sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye: THE ISLES OF GREECE. The isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.' The mountains look on Marathon-- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;--all were his! He counted them at break of day-- And when the sun set where were they? And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now-- The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'T is something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush?--Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;--the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, 'Let one living head, But one arise,--we come, we come!' 'T is but the living who are dumb. In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- How answers each bold Bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave-- Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served--but served Polycrates-- A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, The modern Greek, in tolerable verse; If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, Yet in these times he might have done much worse: His strain display'd some feeling--right or wrong; And feeling, in a poet, is the source Of others' feeling; but they are such liars, And take all colours--like the hands of dyers. But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think; 'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper--even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, His station, generation, even his nation, Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank In chronological commemoration, Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, Or graven stone found in a barrack's station In digging the foundation of a closet, May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. And glory long has made the sages smile; 'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind-- Depending more upon the historian's style Than on the name a person leaves behind: Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle: The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, Until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe. Milton 's the prince of poets--so we say; A little heavy, but no less divine: An independent being in his day-- Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; But, his life falling into Johnson's way, We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college--a harsh sire--odd spouse, For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. All these are, certes, entertaining facts, Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts; Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); Like Cromwell's pranks;--but although truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes, As most essential to their hero's story, They do not much contribute to his glory. All are not moralists, like Southey, when He prated to the world of 'Pantisocracy;' Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy; Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). Such names at present cut a convict figure, The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, Are good manure for their more bare biography. Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger Than any since the birthday of typography; A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the 'Excursion.' Writ in a manner which is my aversion. He there builds up a formidable dyke Between his own and others' intellect; But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect, Are things which in this century don't strike The public mind,--so few are the elect; And the new births of both their stale virginities Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. But let me to my story: I must own, If I have any fault, it is digression-- Leaving my people to proceed alone, While I soliloquize beyond expression; But these are my addresses from the throne, Which put off business to the ensuing session: Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. I know that what our neighbours call 'longueurs' (We 've not so good a word, but have the thing In that complete perfection which ensures An epic from Bob Southey every spring), Form not the true temptation which allures The reader; but 't would not be hard to bring Some fine examples of the epopee, To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. We learn from Horace, 'Homer sometimes sleeps;' We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes,-- To show with what complacency he creeps, With his dear 'Waggoners,' around his lakes. He wishes for 'a boat' to sail the deeps-- Of ocean?--No, of air; and then he makes Another outcry for 'a little boat,' And drivels seas to set it well afloat. If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, And Pegasus runs restive in his 'Waggon,' Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? Or pray Medea for a single dragon? Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 'Pedlars,' and 'Boats,' and 'Waggons!' Oh! ye shades Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hiss-- The 'little boatman' and his 'Peter Bell' Can sneer at him who drew 'Achitophel'! T' our tale.--The feast was over, the slaves gone, The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; The Arab lore and poet's song were done, And every sound of revelry expired; The lady and her lover, left alone, The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired;-- Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee! Ave Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove-- What though 't is but a pictured image?--strike-- That painting is no idol,--'t is too like. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, In nameless print--that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray, And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way; My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars,--all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. Sweet hour of twilight!--in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! The shrill cicadas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover,--shadow'd my mind's eye. O, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-- Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns! When Nero perish'd by the justest doom Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb: Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, Or any such like sovereign buffoons, To do with the transactions of my hero, More than such madmen's fellow man--the moon's? Sure my invention must be down at zero, And I grown one of many 'wooden spoons' Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please To dub the last of honours in degrees). I feel this tediousness will never do-- 'T is being too epic, and I must cut down (In copying) this long canto into two; They 'll never find it out, unless I own The fact, excepting some experienced few; And then as an improvement 't will be shown: I 'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is From Aristotle passim.--See poietikes. CANTO THE FOURTH. Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man,--and, as we would hope,--perhaps the devil, That neither of their intellects are vast: While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, We know not this--the blood flows on too fast; But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion. As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, And wish'd that others held the same opinion; They took it up when my days grew more mellow, And other minds acknowledged my dominion: Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'T is that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, for we must steep Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep: Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. Some have accused me of a strange design Against the creed and morals of the land, And trace it in this poem every line: I don't pretend that I quite understand My own meaning when I would be very fine; But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it were to be a moment merry, A novel word in my vocabulary. To the kind reader of our sober clime This way of writing will appear exotic; Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, And revell'd in the fancies of the time, True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic: But all these, save the last, being obsolete, I chose a modern subject as more meet. How I have treated it, I do not know; Perhaps no better than they have treated me Who have imputed such designs as show Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see: But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free: Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, And tells me to resume my story here. Young Juan and his lady-love were left To their own hearts' most sweet society; Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, Though foe to love; and yet they could not be Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, Before one charm or hope had taken wing. Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; The blank grey was not made to blast their hair, But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail They were all summer: lightning might assail And shiver them to ashes, but to trail A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them--they had too little day. They were alone once more; for them to be Thus was another Eden; they were never Weary, unless when separate: the tree Cut from its forest root of years--the river Damm'd from its fountain--the child from the knee And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,-- Would wither less than these two torn apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart-- The heart--which may be broken: happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay, Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold The long year link'd with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told; While life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die. 'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this: The death of friends, and that which slays even more-- The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save. Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead-- The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: Each was the other's mirror, and but read Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection. The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, The least glance better understood than words, Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much; A language, too, but like to that of birds, Known but to them, at least appearing such As but to lovers a true sense affords; Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard,-- All these were theirs, for they were children still, And children still they should have ever been; They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill, A nymph and her beloved, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours. Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys As rarely they beheld throughout their round; And these were not of the vain kind which cloys, For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound By the mere senses; and that which destroys Most love, possession, unto them appear'd A thing which each endearment more endear'd. O beautiful! and rare as beautiful But theirs was love in which the mind delights To lose itself when the old world grows dull, And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, Intrigues, adventures of the common school, Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, Whose husband only knows her not a wh--re. Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know. Enough.--The faithful and the fairy pair, Who never found a single hour too slow, What was it made them thus exempt from care? Young innate feelings all have felt below, Which perish in the rest, but in them were Inherent--what we mortals call romantic, And always envy, though we deem it frantic. This is in others a factitious state, An opium dream of too much youth and reading, But was in them their nature or their fate: No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding; So that there was no reason for their loves More than for those of nightingales or doves. They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, For it had made them what they were: the power Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, When happiness had been their only dower, And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties; Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought The past still welcome as the present thought. I know not why, but in that hour to-night, Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, When one is shook in sound, and one in sight; And thus some boding flash'd through either frame, And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate And follow far the disappearing sun, As if their last day! of a happy date With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone; Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate-- He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, His glance inquired of hers for some excuse For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside: Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, And master'd by her wisdom or her pride; When Juan spoke, too--it might be in sport-- Of this their mutual feeling, she replied-- 'If it should be so,--but--it cannot be-- Or I at least shall not survive to see.' Juan would question further, but she press'd His lip to hers, and silenced him with this, And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, Defying augury with that fond kiss; And no doubt of all methods 't is the best: Some people prefer wine--'t is not amiss; I have tried both; so those who would a part take May choose between the headache and the heartache. One of the two, according to your choice, Woman or wine, you 'll have to undergo; Both maladies are taxes on our joys: But which to choose, I really hardly know; And if I had to give a casting voice, For both sides I could many reasons show, And then decide, without great wrong to either, It were much better to have both than neither. Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, All that the best can mingle and express When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, And love too much, and yet can not love less; But almost sanctify the sweet excess By the immortal wish and power to bless. Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, Why did they not then die?--they had lived too long Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong; The world was not for them, nor the world's art For beings passionate as Sappho's song; Love was born with them, in them, so intense, It was their very spirit--not a sense. They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care: How lonely every freeborn creature broods! The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, Haidee and Juan their siesta took, A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, For ever and anon a something shook Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep; And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook A wordless music, and her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air. Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, The mystical usurper of the mind-- O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem Good to the soul which we no more can bind; Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be) Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir She could not from the spot, and the loud roar Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high-- Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. Anon--she was released, and then she stray'd O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, And stumbled almost every step she made; And something roll'd before her in a sheet, Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid: 'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd, And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. The dream changed:--in a cave she stood, its walls Were hung with marble icicles, the work Of ages on its water-fretted halls, Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk; Her hair was dripping, and the very balls Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell,--she thought. And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!), Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. And gazing on the dead, she thought his face Faded, or alter'd into something new-- Like to her father's features, till each trace-- More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew-- With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; And starting, she awoke, and what to view? O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there? 'T is--'t is her father's--fix'd upon the pair! Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be Perchance the death of one she loved too well: Dear as her father had been to Haidee, It was a moment of that awful kind-- I have seen such--but must not call to mind. Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, And caught her falling, and from off the wall Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak Vengeance on him who was the cause of all: Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call, A thousand scimitars await the word; Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.' And Haidee clung around him; 'Juan, 't is-- 'T is Lambro--'t is my father! Kneel with me-- He will forgive us--yes--it must be--yes. O! dearest father, in this agony Of pleasure and of pain--even while I kiss Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.' High and inscrutable the old man stood, Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye-- Not always signs with him of calmest mood: He look'd upon her, but gave no reply; Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood Oft came and went, as there resolved to die; In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 'Young man, your sword;' so Lambro once more said: Juan replied, 'Not while this arm is free.' The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, And drawing from his belt a pistol, he Replied, 'Your blood be then on your own head.' Then look'd dose at the flint, as if to see 'T was fresh--for he had lately used the lock-- And next proceeded quietly to cock. It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, That cocking of a pistol, when you know A moment more will bring the sight to bear Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; A gentlemanly distance, not too near, If you have got a former friend for foe; But after being fired at once or twice, The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. Lambro presented, and one instant more Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath, When Haidee threw herself her boy before; Stern as her sire: 'On me,' she cried, 'let death Descend--the fault is mine; this fatal shore He found--but sought not. I have pledged my faith; I love him--I will die with him: I knew Your nature's firmness--know your daughter's too.' A minute past, and she had been all tears, And tenderness, and infancy; but now She stood as one who champion'd human fears-- Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow; And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, She drew up to her height, as if to show A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd Her father's face--but never stopp'd his hand. He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange How like they look'd! the expression was the same; Serenely savage, with a little change In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame; For she, too, was as one who could avenge, If cause should be--a lioness, though tame. Her father's blood before her father's face Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. I said they were alike, their features and Their stature, differing but in sex and years; Even to the delicacy of their hand There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; And now to see them, thus divided, stand In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears And sweet sensations should have welcomed both, Show what the passions are in their full growth. The father paused a moment, then withdrew His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still, And looking on her, as to look her through, 'Not I,' he said, 'have sought this stranger's ill; Not I have made this desolation: few Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; But I must do my duty--how thou hast Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 'Let him disarm; or, by my father's head, His own shall roll before you like a ball!' He raised his whistle, as the word he said, And blew; another answer'd to the call, And rushing in disorderly, though led, And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; He gave the word,--'Arrest or slay the Frank.' Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew His daughter; while compress'd within his clasp, 'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew; In vain she struggled in her father's grasp-- His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, The file of pirates; save the foremost, who Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. The second had his cheek laid open; but The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took The blows upon his cutlass, and then put His own well in; so well, ere you could look, His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, With the blood running like a little brook From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red-- One on the arm, the other on the head. And then they bound him where he fell, and bore Juan from the apartment: with a sign Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; On board of one of these, and under hatches, They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. The world is full of strange vicissitudes, And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, Just at the very time when he least broods On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent, Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, And all because a lady fell in love. Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; For if my pure libations exceed three, I feel my heart become so sympathetic, That I must have recourse to black Bohea: 'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac! Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill! Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack (In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, Wakes me next morning with its synonym. I leave Don Juan for the present, safe-- Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded? She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, And then give way, subdued because surrounded; Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. There the large olive rains its amber store In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er; But there, too, many a poison-tree has root, And midnight listens to the lion's roar, And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan; And as the soil is, so the heart of man. Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth Her human day is kindled; full of power For good or evil, burning from its birth, The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And like the soil beneath it will bring forth: Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower; But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source. Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder they display Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, Had held till now her soft and milky way; But overwrought with passion and despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; His blood was running on the very floor Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own; Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,-- Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; And her head droop'd as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, But she defied all means they could employ, Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill-- With nothing livid, still her lips were red; She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still; No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead; Corruption came not in each mind to kill All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul-- She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. The ruling passion, such as marble shows When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, A strange sensation which she must partake Perforce, since whatsoever met her view Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause. She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, On many a token without knowing what; She saw them watch her without asking why, And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away; She recognized no being, and no spot, However dear or cherish'd in their day; They changed from room to room--but all forgot-- Gentle, but without memory she lay; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. And then a slave bethought her of a harp; The harper came, and tuned his instrument; At the first notes, irregular and sharp, On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent; And he begun a long low island song Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being; in a gushing stream The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. Short solace, vain relief!--thought came too quick, And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, And flew at all she met, as on her foes; But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Although her paroxysm drew towards its dose;-- Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave, Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense; Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence Avail'd for either; neither change of place, Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep--the power seem'd gone for ever. Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last, Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show A parting pang, the spirit from her past: And they who watch'd her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes--the beautiful, the black-- O! to possess such lustre--and then lack! She died, but not alone; she held within A second principle of life, which might Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin; But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight; In vain the dews of Heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth: her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful--such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, No stone is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. But many a Greek maid in a loving song Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander With her sire's story makes the night less long; Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her: If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong-- A heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, For soon or late Love is his own avenger. But let me change this theme which grows too sad, And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; I don't much like describing people mad, For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself-- Besides, I 've no more on this head to add; And as my Muse is a capricious elf, We 'll put about, and try another tack With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. Wounded and fetter'd, 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,' Some days and nights elapsed before that he Could altogether call the past to mind; And when he did, he found himself at sea, Sailing six knots an hour before the wind; The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee-- Another time he might have liked to see 'em, But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum. There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles; They say so (Bryant says the contrary): And further downward, tall and towering still, is The tumulus--of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus-- All heroes, who if living still would slay us. High barrows, without marble or a name, A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, And Ida in the distance, still the same, And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain; The situation seems still form'd for fame-- A hundred thousand men might fight again With case; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls; Troops of untended horses; here and there Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare A moment at the European youth Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear; A turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, Extremely taken with his own religion, Are what I found there--but the devil a Phrygian. Don Juan, here permitted to emerge From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave; Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge A few brief questions; and the answers gave No very satisfactory information About his past or present situation. He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd To be Italians, as they were in fact; From them, at least, their destiny he heard, Which was an odd one; a troop going to act In Sicily (all singers, duly rear'd In their vocation) had not been attack'd In sailing from Livorno by the pirate, But sold by the impresario at no high rate. By one of these, the buffo of the party, Juan was told about their curious case; For although destined to the Turkish mart, he Still kept his spirits up--at least his face; The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, And bore him with some gaiety and grace, Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, Than did the prima donna and the tenor. In a few words he told their hapless story, Saying, 'Our Machiavellian impresario, Making a signal off some promontory, Hail'd a strange brig--Corpo di Caio Mario! We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, Without a Single scudo of salario; But if the Sultan has a taste for song, We will revive our fortunes before long. 'The prima donna, though a little old, And haggard with a dissipated life, And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife, With no great voice, is pleasing to behold; Last carnival she made a deal of strife By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 'And then there are the dancers; there 's the Nini, With more than one profession, gains by all; Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, She, too, was fortunate last carnival, And made at least five hundred good zecchini, But spends so fast, she has not now a paul; And then there 's the Grotesca--such a dancer! Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. 'As for the figuranti, they are like The rest of all that tribe; with here and there A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, Yet has a sentimental kind of air Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour; The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 'As for the men, they are a middling set; The musico is but a crack'd old basin, But being qualified in one way yet, May the seraglio do to set his face in, And as a servant some preferment get; His singing I no further trust can place in: From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 'The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow; But being the prima donna's near relation, Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe An ass was practising recitative. ''T would not become myself to dwell upon My own merits, and though young--I see, Sir--you Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one To whom the opera is by no means new: You 've heard of Raucocanti?--I 'm the man; The time may come when you may hear me too; You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there--do go. 'Our baritone I almost had forgot, A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; With graceful action, science not a jot, A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, He always is complaining of his lot, Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.' Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital Was interrupted by the pirate crew, Who came at stated moments to invite all The captives back to their sad berths; each threw A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all From the blue skies derived a double blue, Dancing all free and happy in the sun), And then went down the hatchway one by one. They heard next day--that in the Dardanelles, Waiting for his Sublimity's firman, The most imperative of sovereign spells, Which every body does without who can, More to secure them in their naval cells, Lady to lady, well as man to man, Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple, For the slave market of Constantinople. It seems when this allotment was made out, There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, Who (after some discussion and some doubt, If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, They placed him o'er the women as a scout) Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male Was Juan,--who, an awkward thing at his age, Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage. With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd The tenor; these two hated with a hate Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, Instead of bearing up without debate, That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, 'Arcades ambo,' id est--blackguards both. Juan's companion was a Romagnole, But bred within the March of old Ancona, With eyes that look'd into the very soul (And other chief points of a 'bella donna'), Bright--and as black and burning as a coal; And through her dear brunette complexion shone Great wish to please--a most attractive dower, Especially when added to the power. But all that power was wasted upon him, For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command; Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand Touch'd his, nor that--nor any handsome limb (And she had some not easy to withstand) Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. No matter; we should ne'er too much enquire, But facts are facts: no knight could be more true, And firmer faith no ladye--love desire; We will omit the proofs, save one or two: 'T is said no one in hand 'can hold a fire By thought of frosty Caucasus;' but few, I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal Was more triumphant, and not much less real. Here I might enter on a chaste description, Having withstood temptation in my youth, But hear that several people take exception At the first two books having too much truth; Therefore I 'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon, Because the publisher declares, in sooth, Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is To pass, than those two cantos into families. 'T is all the same to me; I 'm fond of yielding, And therefore leave them to the purer page Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, Who say strange things for so correct an age; I once had great alacrity in wielding My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, And recollect the time when all this cant Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; But at this hour I wish to part in peace, Leaving such to the literary rabble: Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease While the right hand which wrote it still is able, Or of some centuries to take a lease, The grass upon my grave will grow as long, And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. Of poets who come down to us through distance Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, Life seems the smallest portion of existence; Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 'T is as a snowball which derives assistance From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow. And so great names are nothing more than nominal, And love of glory 's but an airy lust, Too often in its fury overcoming all Who would as 't were identify their dust From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, Leaves nothing till 'the coming of the just'- Save change: I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome. The very generations of the dead Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, Until the memory of an age is fled, And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, And lose their own in universal death. I canter by the spot each afternoon Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, Who lived too long for men, but died too soon For human vanity, the young De Foix! A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, But which neglect is hastening to destroy, Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid: A little cupola, more neat than solemn, Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column. The time must come, when both alike decay'd, The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume, Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. With human blood that column was cemented, With human filth that column is defiled, As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd: Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild Instinct of gore and glory earth has known Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoke, Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; And the unquiet feelings, which first woke Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; As on the beach the waves at last are broke, Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought Dash into poetry, which is but passion, Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. If in the course of such a life as was At once adventurous and contemplative, Men, who partake all passions as they pass, Acquire the deep and bitter power to give Their images again as in a glass, And in such colours that they seem to live; You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. O! ye, who make the fortunes of all books! Benign Ceruleans of the second sex! Who advertise new poems by your looks, Your 'imprimatur' will ye not annex? What! must I go to the oblivious cooks, Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? Ah! must I then the only minstrel be, Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea! What! can I prove 'a lion' then no more? A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? To bear the compliments of many a bore, And sigh, 'I can't get out,' like Yorick's starling; Why then I 'll swear, as poet Wordy swore (Because the world won't read him, always snarling), That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. O! 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,' As some one somewhere sings about the sky, And I, ye learned ladies, say of you; They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why, I have examined few pair of that hue); Blue as the garters which serenely lie Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn The festal midnight, and the levee morn. Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures-- But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, You read my stanzas, and I read your features: And--but no matter, all those things are over; Still I have no dislike to learned natures, For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; I knew one woman of that purple school, The loveliest, chastest, best, but--quite a fool. Humboldt, 'the first of travellers,' but not The last, if late accounts be accurate, Invented, by some name I have forgot, As well as the sublime discovery's date, An airy instrument, with which he sought To ascertain the atmospheric state, By measuring 'the intensity of blue:' O, Lady Daphne! let me measure you! But to the narrative:--The vessel bound With slaves to sell off in the capital, After the usual process, might be found At anchor under the seraglio wall; Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, Were landed in the market, one and all, And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, Bought up for different purposes and passions. Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven: Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven; But when the offer went beyond, they knew 'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew. Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price Which the West Indian market scarce would bring; Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice What 't was ere Abolition; and the thing Need not seem very wonderful, for vice Is always much more splendid than a king: The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, Are saving--vice spares nothing for a rarity. But for the destiny of this young troop, How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, And others rose to the command of crews As renegadoes; while in hapless group, Hoping no very old vizier might choose, The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim: All this must be reserved for further song; Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant (Because this Canto has become too long), Must be postponed discreetly for the present; I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong, But could not for the muse of me put less in 't: And now delay the progress of Don Juan, Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Juan. [Illustration: Canto 5] CANTO THE FIFTH. When amatory poets sing their loves In liquid lines mellifluously bland, And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, They little think what mischief is in hand; The greater their success the worse it proves, As Ovid's verse may give to understand; Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, Except in such a way as not to attract; Plain--simple--short, and by no means inviting, But with a moral to each error tack'd, Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, And with all passions in their turn attack'd; Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, This poem will become a moral model. The European with the Asian shore Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream Here and there studded with a seventy-four; Sophia's cupola with golden gleam; The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar; The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, Far less describe, present the very view Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. I have a passion for the name of 'Mary,' For once it was a magic sound to me; And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be; All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: But I grow sad--and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told. The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades; 'T is a grand sight from off 'the Giant's Grave To watch the progress of those rolling seas Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, When nights are equal, but not so the days; The Parcae then cut short the further spinning Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise The waters, and repentance for past sinning In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways: They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't; Because if drown'd, they can't--if spared, they won't. A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, And age, and sex, were in the market ranged; Each bevy with the merchant in his station: Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changed. All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged; The negroes more philosophy display'd,-- Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, As most at his age are, of hope and health; Yet I must own he looked a little dull, And now and then a tear stole down by stealth; Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth, A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, Were things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless, Upon the whole his carriage was serene: His figure, and the splendour of his dress, Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess He was above the vulgar by his mien; And then, though pale, he was so very handsome; And then--they calculated on his ransom. Like a backgammon board the place was dotted With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, Though rather more irregularly spotted: Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. It chanced amongst the other people lotted, A man of thirty rather stout and hale, With resolution in his dark grey eye, Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. He had an English look; that is, was square In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, And, it might be from thought or toil or study, An open brow a little mark'd with care: One arm had on a bandage rather bloody; And there he stood with such sang-froid, that greater Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, Of a high spirit evidently, though At present weigh'd down by a doom which had O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show A kind of blunt compassion for the sad Lot of so young a partner in the woe, Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 'My boy!' said he, 'amidst this motley crew Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, All ragamuffins differing but in hue, With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, The only gentlemen seem I and you; So let us be acquainted, as we ought: If I could yield you any consolation, 'T would give me pleasure.--Pray, what is your nation?' When Juan answer'd--'Spanish!' he replied, 'I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek; Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak, But that 's her way with all men, till they 're tried; But never mind,--she 'll turn, perhaps, next week; She has served me also much the same as you, Except that I have found it nothing new.' 'Pray, sir,' said Juan, 'if I may presume, What brought you here?'--'Oh! nothing very rare-- Six Tartars and a drag-chain.'--'To this doom But what conducted, if the question's fair, Is that which I would learn.'--'I served for some Months with the Russian army here and there, And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin.' 'Have you no friends?'--'I had--but, by God's blessing, Have not been troubled with them lately. Now I have answer'd all your questions without pressing, And you an equal courtesy should show.' 'Alas!' said Juan, ''t were a tale distressing, And long besides.'--'Oh! if 't is really so, You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue; A sad tale saddens doubly, when 't is long. 'But droop not: Fortune at your time of life, Although a female moderately fickle, Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) For any length of days in such a pickle. To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: Men are the sport of circumstances, when The circumstances seem the sport of men.' ''T is not,' said Juan, 'for my present doom I mourn, but for the past;--I loved a maid:'- He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom; A single tear upon his eyelash staid A moment, and then dropp'd; 'but to resume, 'T is not my present lot, as I have said, Which I deplore so much; for I have borne Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 'On the rough deep. But this last blow-' and here He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 'Ay,' quoth his friend, 'I thought it would appear That there had been a lady in the case; And these are things which ask a tender tear, Such as I, too, would shed if in your place: I cried upon my first wife's dying day, And also when my second ran away: 'My third-'--'Your third!' quoth Juan, turning round; 'You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?' 'No--only two at present above ground: Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!' 'Well, then, your third,' said Juan; 'what did she? She did not run away, too,--did she, sir?' 'No, faith.'--'What then?'--'I ran away from her.' 'You take things coolly, sir,' said Juan. 'Why,' Replied the other, 'what can a man do? There still are many rainbows in your sky, But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; But time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. ''T is true, it gets another bright and fresh, Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through, This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, Or sometimes only wear a week or two;-- Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh; Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, Where still we flutter on for pence or praise.' 'All this is very fine, and may be true,' Said Juan; 'but I really don't see how It betters present times with me or you.' 'No?' quoth the other; 'yet you will allow By setting things in their right point of view, Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, now, We know what slavery is, and our disasters May teach us better to behave when masters.' 'Would we were masters now, if but to try Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here,' Said Juan,--swallowing a heart-burning sigh: 'Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!' 'Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by,' Rejoin'd the other, when our bad luck mends here; Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 'But after all, what is our present state? 'T is bad, and may be better--all men's lot: Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, To their own whims and passions, and what not; Society itself, which should create Kindness, destroys what little we had got: To feel for none is the true social art Of the world's stoics--men without a heart.' Just now a black old neutral personage Of the third sex stept up, and peering over The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age, And capabilities, as to discover If they were fitted for the purposed cage: No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, As is a slave by his intended bidder. 'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care, Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid First but for one, and after for the pair; They haggled, wrangled, swore, too--so they did! As though they were in a mere Christian fair Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; So that their bargain sounded like a battle For this superior yoke of human cattle. At last they settled into simple grumbling, And pulling out reluctant purses, and Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling Some down, and weighing others in their hand, And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, Until the sum was accurately scann'd, And then the merchant giving change, and signing Receipts in full, began to think of dining. I wonder if his appetite was good? Or, if it were, if also his digestion? Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, And conscience ask a curious sort of question, About the right divine how far we should Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. Voltaire says 'No:' he tells you that Candide Found life most tolerable after meals; He 's wrong--unless man were a pig, indeed, Repletion rather adds to what he feels, Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed From his own brain's oppression while it reels. Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father); I think with Alexander, that the act Of eating, with another act or two, Makes us feel our mortality in fact Redoubled; when a roast and a ragout, And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd, Can give us either pain or pleasure, who Would pique himself on intellects, whose use Depends so much upon the gastric juice? The other evening ('t was on Friday last)-- This is a fact and no poetic fable-- Just as my great coat was about me cast, My hat and gloves still lying on the table, I heard a shot--'t was eight o'clock scarce past-- And, running out as fast as I was able, I found the military commandant Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. Poor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, They had slain him with five slugs; and left him there To perish on the pavement: so I had Him borne into the house and up the stair, And stripp'd and look'd to--But why should I ad More circumstances? vain was every care; The man was gone: in some Italian quarrel Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; And though I have seen many corpses, never Saw one, whom such an accident befell, So calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and liver, He seem'd to sleep,--for you could scarcely tell (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: So as I gazed on him, I thought or said-- 'Can this be death? then what is life or death? Speak!' but he spoke not: 'Wake!' but still he slept:-- 'But yesterday and who had mightier breath? A thousand warriors by his word were kept In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, "Go," and he goeth; "come," and forth he stepp'd. The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb-- And now nought left him but the muffled drum.' And they who waited once and worshipp'd--they With their rough faces throng'd about the bed To gaze once more on the commanding clay Which for the last, though not the first, time bled: And such an end! that he who many a day Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled,-- The foremost in the charge or in the sally, Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. The scars of his old wounds were near his new, Those honourable scars which brought him fame; And horrid was the contrast to the view-- But let me quit the theme; as such things claim Perhaps even more attention than is due From me: I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) To try if I could wrench aught out of death Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith; But it was all a mystery. Here we are, And there we go:--but where? five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far! And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air--earth--water--fire live--and we dead? We whose minds comprehend all things? No more; But let us to the story as before. The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence As fast as oars could pull and water float; They look'd like persons being led to sentence, Wondering what next, till the caique was brought Up in a little creek below a wall O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. Here their conductor tapping at the wicket Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and He led them onward, first through a low thicket Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on either hand: They almost lost their way, and had to pick it-- For night was dosing ere they came to land. The eunuch made a sign to those on board, Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. As they were plodding on their winding way Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth (Of which I might have a good deal to say, There being no such profusion in the North Of oriental plants, 'et cetera,' But that of late your scribblers think it worth Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks)-- As they were threading on their way, there came Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he Whisper'd to his companion:--'t was the same Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 'Methinks,' said he, 'it would be no great shame If we should strike a stroke to set us free; Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head, And march away--'t were easier done than said.' 'Yes,' said the other, 'and when done, what then? How get out? how the devil got we in? And when we once were fairly out, and when From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, And worse off than we hitherto have been; Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take, Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 'We must be near some place of man's abode;-- For the old negro's confidence in creeping, With his two captives, by so queer a road, Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; A single cry would bring them all abroad: 'T is therefore better looking before leaping-- And there, you see, this turn has brought us through, By Jove, a noble palace!--lighted too.' It was indeed a wide extensive building Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,-- A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in The arts of which these lands were once the font: Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. And nearer as they came, a genial savour Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, And put himself upon his good behaviour: His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, Said, 'In Heaven's name let's get some supper now, And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row.' Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, Some to men's feelings, others to their reason; The last of these was never much the fashion, For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, But more or less continue still to tease on, With arguments according to their 'forte;' But no one dreams of ever being short.- But I digress: of all appeals,--although I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,--no Method 's more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell. Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard No Christian knoll to table, saw no line Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, And gazed around them to the left and right With the prophetic eye of appetite. And giving up all notions of resistance, They follow'd close behind their sable guide, Who little thought that his own crack'd existence Was on the point of being set aside: He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, And a magnificent large hall display'd The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. I won't describe; description is my forte, But every fool describes in these bright days His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise-- Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport; While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, Resigns herself with exemplary patience To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; Others in monosyllable talk chatted, And some seem'd much in love with their own dress. And divers smoked superb pipes decorated With amber mouths of greater price or less; And several strutted, others slept, and some Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes A moment without slackening from their pace; But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in anywise: One or two stared the captives in the face, Just as one views a horse to guess his price; Some nodded to the negro from their station, But no one troubled him with conversation. He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, On through a farther range of goodly rooms, Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, A marble fountain echoes through the glooms Of night which robe the chamber, or where popping Some female head most curiously presumes To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, As wondering what the devil a noise that is. Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls Gave light enough to hint their farther way, But not enough to show the imperial halls, In all the flashing of their full array; Perhaps there 's nothing--I 'll not say appals, But saddens more by night as well as day, Than an enormous room without a soul To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, There solitude, we know, has her full growth in The spots which were her realms for evermore; But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in More modern buildings and those built of yore, A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. A neat, snug study on a winter's night, A book, friend, single lady, or a glass Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, Are things which make an English evening pass; Though certes by no means so grand a sight As is a theatre lit up by gas. I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. Alas! man makes that great which makes him little: I grant you in a church 't is very well: What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill-- And huge tombs worse--mankind, since Adam fell: Methinks the story of the tower of Babel Might teach them this much better than I 'm able. Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, The people's awe and admiration raising; 'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, And the calumniated queen Semiramis. That injured Queen by chroniclers so coarse Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) Of an improper friendship for her horse (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy): This monstrous tale had probably its source (For such exaggerations here and there I see) In writing 'Courser' by mistake for 'Courier:' I wish the case could come before a jury here. But to resume,--should there be (what may not Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't, Because they can't find out the very spot Of that same Babel, or because they won't (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got, And written lately two memoirs upon't), Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who Must be believed, though they believe not you, Yet let them think that Horace has exprest Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, Who give themselves to architecture wholly; We know where things and men must end at best: A moral (like all morals) melancholy, And 'Et sepulchri immemor struis domos' Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; Though full of all things which could be desired, One wonder'd what to do with such a number Of articles which nobody required; Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber With furniture an exquisite apartment, Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant. It seem'd, however, but to open on A range or suite of further chambers, which Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one The movables were prodigally rich: Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon, So costly were they; carpets every stitch Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. The black, however, without hardly deigning A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder, Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, As if the milky way their feet was under With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder-- In that remote recess which you may see-- Or if you don't the fault is not in me,-- I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth A quantity of clothes fit for the back Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth; And of variety there was no lack-- And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, He chose himself to point out what he thought Most proper for the Christians he had bought. The suit he thought most suitable to each Was, for the elder and the stouter, first A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, And trousers not so tight that they would burst, But such as fit an Asiatic breech; A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, Hinted the vast advantages which they Might probably attain both in the end, If they would but pursue the proper way Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend; And then he added, that he needs must say, ''T would greatly tend to better their condition, If they would condescend to circumcision. 'For his own part, he really should rejoice To see them true believers, but no less Would leave his proposition to their choice.' The other, thanking him for this excess Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice In such a trifle, scarcely could express 'Sufficiently' (he said) 'his approbation Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 'For his own share--he saw but small objection To so respectable an ancient rite; And, after swallowing down a slight refection, For which he own'd a present appetite, He doubted not a few hours of reflection Would reconcile him to the business quite.' 'Will it?' said Juan, sharply: 'Strike me dead, But they as soon shall circumcise my head! 'Cut off a thousand heads, before-'--'Now, pray,' Replied the other, 'do not interrupt: You put me out in what I had to say. Sir!--as I said, as soon as I have supt, I shall perpend if your proposal may Be such as I can properly accept; Provided always your great goodness still Remits the matter to our own free-will.' Baba eyed Juan, and said, 'Be so good As dress yourself-' and pointed out a suit In which a Princess with great pleasure would Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, As not being in a masquerading mood, Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot; And when the old negro told him to 'Get ready,' Replied, 'Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady.' 'What you may be, I neither know nor care,' Said Baba; 'but pray do as I desire: I have no more time nor many words to spare.' 'At least,' said Juan, 'sure I may enquire The cause of this odd travesty?'--'Forbear,' Said Baba, 'to be curious; 't will transpire, No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: I have no authority to tell the reason.' 'Then if I do,' said Juan, 'I 'll be-'--'Hold!' Rejoin'd the negro, 'pray be not provoking; This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold, And you will find us not top fond of joking.' 'What, sir!' said Juan, 'shall it e'er be told That I unsex'd my dress?' But Baba, stroking The things down, said, 'Incense me, and I call Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 'I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: A woman's, true; but then there is a cause Why you should wear them.'--'What, though my soul loathes The effeminate garb?'--thus, after a short pause, Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 'What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?' Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd A pair of trousers of flesh-colour'd silk; Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd, Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk; But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, Which--as we say--or, as the Scotch say, whilk (The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes)-- Whilk, which (or what you please), was owing to His garment's novelty, and his being awkward: And yet at last he managed to get through His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: The negro Baba help'd a little too, When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard; And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, He paused, and took a survey up and down. One difficulty still remain'd--his hair Was hardly long enough; but Baba found So many false long tresses all to spare, That soon his head was most completely crown'd, After the manner then in fashion there; And this addition with such gems was bound As suited the ensemble of his toilet, While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. And now being femininely all array'd, With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers, He look'd in almost all respects a maid, And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, 'You see, sirs, A perfect transformation here display'd; And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, That is--the Lady:' clapping his hands twice, Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 'You, sir,' said Baba, nodding to the one, 'Will please to accompany those gentlemen To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun, Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when I say a thing, it must at once be done. What fear you? think you this a lion's den? Why, 't is a palace; where the truly wise Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 'You fool! I tell you no one means you harm.' 'So much the better,' Juan said, 'for them; Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, Which is not quite so light as you may deem. I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm If any take me for that which I seem: So that I trust for everybody's sake, That this disguise may lead to no mistake.' 'Blockhead! come on, and see,' quoth Baba; while Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile Upon the metamorphosis in view,-- 'Farewell!' they mutually exclaim'd: 'this soil Seems fertile in adventures strange and new; One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, By this old black enchanter's unsought aid.' 'Farewell!' said Juan: 'should we meet no more, I wish you a good appetite.'--'Farewell!' Replied the other; 'though it grieves me sore; When we next meet we 'll have a tale to tell: We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. Keep your good name; though Eve herself once fell.' 'Nay,' quoth the maid, 'the Sultan's self shan't carry me, Unless his highness promises to marry me. And thus they parted, each by separate doors; Baba led Juan onward room by room Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers; And wafted far arose a rich perfume: It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. The giant door was broad, and bright, and high, Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; Warriors thereon were battling furiously; Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies; There captives led in triumph droop the eye, And in perspective many a squadron flies: It seems the work of times before the line Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. This massy portal stood at the wide close Of a huge hall, and on its either side Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied In mockery to the enormous gate which rose O'er them in almost pyramidic pride: The gate so splendid was in all its features, You never thought about those little creatures, Until you nearly trod on them, and then You started back in horror to survey The wondrous hideousness of those small men, Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor grey, But an extraneous mixture, which no pen Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb-- Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. Their duty was--for they were strong, and though They look'd so little, did strong things at times-- To ope this door, which they could really do, The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes; And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, As is the custom of those Eastern climes, To give some rebel Pacha a cravat; For mutes are generally used for that. They spoke by signs--that is, not spoke at all; And looking like two incubi, they glared As Baba with his fingers made them fall To heaving back the portal folds: it scared Juan a moment, as this pair so small With shrinking serpent optics on him stared; It was as if their little looks could poison Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: 'If you could just contrive,' he said, 'to stint That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 'T would be as well, and (though there 's not much in 't) To swing a little less from side to side, Which has at times an aspect of the oddest;-- And also could you look a little modest, ''T would be convenient; for these mutes have eyes Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats; And if they should discover your disguise, You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats; And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, To find our way to Marmora without boats, Stitch'd up in sacks--a mode of navigation A good deal practised here upon occasion.' With this encouragement, he led the way Into a room still nobler than the last; A rich confusion form'd a disarray In such sort, that the eye along it cast Could hardly carry anything away, Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, Magnificently mingled in a litter. Wealth had done wonders--taste not much; such things Occur in Orient palaces, and even In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings (Of which I have also seen some six or seven), Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven; Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. In this imperial hall, at distance lay Under a canopy, and there reclined Quite in a confidential queenly way, A lady; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd To Juan, who though not much used to pray, Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind, What all this meant: while Baba bow'd and bended His head, until the ceremony ended. The lady rising up with such an air As Venus rose with from the wave, on them Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem; And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, Pointed to Juan who remain'd below. Her presence was as lofty as her state; Her beauty of that overpowering kind, Whose force description only would abate: I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind, Than lessen it by what I could relate Of forms and features; it would strike you blind Could I do justice to the full detail; So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. Thus much however I may add,--her years Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs; But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots; true--tears And love destroy; and sapping sorrow wrings Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow Ugly; for instance--Ninon de l'Enclos. She spake some words to her attendants, who Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, And were all clad alike; like Juan, too, Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen; They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 'cousin,' As far as outward show may correspond; I won't be bail for anything beyond. They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, But not by the same door through which came in Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, At some small distance, all he saw within This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring Marvel and praise; for both or none things win; And I must say, I ne'er could see the very Great happiness of the 'Nil Admirari.' 'Not to admire is all the art I know (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) To make men happy, or to keep them so' (So take it in the very words of Creech)-- Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired? Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then A second time desired him to kneel down, And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim when He heard repeated, Juan with a frown Drew himself up to his full height again, And said, 'It grieved him, but he could not stoop To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.' Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) About a bow-string--quite in vain; not yet Would Juan bend, though 't were to Mahomet's bride: There 's nothing in the world like etiquette In kingly chambers or imperial halls, As also at the race and county balls. He stood like Atlas, with a world of words About his ears, and nathless would not bend: The blood of all his line 's Castilian lords Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend To stain his pedigree a thousand swords A thousand times of him had made an end; At length perceiving the 'foot' could not stand, Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. Here was an honourable compromise, A half-way house of diplomatic rest, Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise; And Juan now his willingness exprest To use all fit and proper courtesies, Adding, that this was commonest and best, For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers No lips e'er left their transitory trace; On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers In contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger's An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, As if well used to the retreating trade; And taking hints in good part all the while, He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, And looking on him with a sort of smile, Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. When he was gone, there was a sudden change: I know not what might be the lady's thought, But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, And into her dear cheek the blood was brought, Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range The verge of Heaven; and in her large eyes wrought, A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, Of half voluptuousness and half command. Her form had all the softness of her sex, Her features all the sweetness of the devil, When he put on the cherub to perplex Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil; The sun himself was scarce more free from specks Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil; Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting, As if she rather order'd than was granting. Something imperial, or imperious, threw A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain Was thrown as 't were about the neck of you,-- And rapture's self will seem almost a pain With aught which looks like despotism in view: Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain We would against them make the flesh obey-- The spirit in the end will have its way. Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; Her very nod was not an inclination; There was a self-will even in her small feet, As though they were quite conscious of her station-- They trod as upon necks; and to complete Her state (it is the custom of her nation), A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine!). 'To hear and to obey' had been from birth The law of all around her; to fulfill All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will; Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth: Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion We should have found out the 'perpetual motion.' Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought; Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed It might be seen, with diligence was sought, And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed; There was no end unto the things she bought, Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused; Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardon'd all except her face. Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught Her eye in passing on his way to sale; She order'd him directly to be bought, And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail In any kind of mischief to be wrought, At all such auctions knew how to prevail: She had no prudence, but he had; and this Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. His youth and features favour'd the disguise, And, should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, This I must leave sultanas to decide: Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, And kings and consorts oft are mystified, As we may ascertain with due precision, Some by experience, others by tradition. But to the main point, where we have been tending:-- She now conceived all difficulties past, And deem'd herself extremely condescending When, being made her property at last, Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, And merely saying, 'Christian, canst thou love?' Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move And so it was, in proper time and place; But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace, And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing; These words went through his soul like Arab-spears, So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at tears, For women shed and use them at their liking; But there is something when man's eye appears Wet, still more disagreeable and striking; A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) To them 't is a relief, to us a torture. And she would have consoled, but knew not how: Having no equals, nothing which had e'er Infected her with sympathy till now, And never having dreamt what 't was to bear Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although There might arise some pouting petty care To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. But nature teaches more than power can spoil, And, when a strong although a strange sensation Moves--female hearts are such a genial soil For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, They naturally pour the 'wine and oil,' Samaritans in every situation; And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. But tears must stop like all things else; and soon Juan, who for an instant had been moved To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone Of one who dared to ask if 'he had loved,' Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone Bright with the very weakness he reproved; And although sensitive to beauty, he Felt most indignant still at not being free. Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, Was much embarrass'd, never having met In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; And as she also risk'd her life to get Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, And they had wasted now almost a quarter. I also would suggest the fitting time To gentlemen in any such like case, That is to say in a meridian clime-- With us there is more law given to the chase, But here a small delay forms a great crime: So recollect that the extremest grace Is just two minutes for your declaration-- A moment more would hurt your reputation. Juan's was good; and might have been still better, But he had got Haidee into his head: However strange, he could not yet forget her, Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor For having had him to her palace led, Began to blush up to the eyes, and then Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. At length, in an imperial way, she laid Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes Which needed not an empire to persuade, Look'd into his for love, where none replies: Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, That being the last thing a proud woman tries; She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. This was an awkward test, as Juan found, But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride: With gentle force her white arms he unwound, And seated her all drooping by his side, Then rising haughtily he glanced around, And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 'The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor Serve a Sultana's sensual phantasy. 'Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof How much I have loved--that I love not thee! In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, Were fitter for me: Love is for the free! I am not dazzled by this splendid roof, Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be; Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, And hands obey--our hearts are still our own.' This was a truth to us extremely trite; Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things: She deem'd her least command must yield delight, Earth being only made for queens and kings. If hearts lay on the left side or the right She hardly knew, to such perfection brings Legitimacy its born votaries, when Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. Besides, as has been said, she was so fair As even in a much humbler lot had made A kingdom or confusion anywhere, And also, as may be presumed, she laid Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er, By their possessors thrown into the shade: She thought hers gave a double 'right divine;' And half of that opinion 's also mine. Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, Ye, who have kept your chastity when young, While some more desperate dowager has been waging Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung By your refusal, recollect her raging! Or recollect all that was said or sung On such a subject; then suppose the face Of a young downright beauty in this case. Suppose,--but you already have supposed, The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed Of good examples; pity that so few by Poets and private tutors are exposed, To educate--ye youth of Europe--you by! But when you have supposed the few we know, You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, Or any interesting beast of prey, Are similes at hand for the distress Of ladies who can not have their own way; But though my turn will not be served with less, These don't express one half what I should say: For what is stealing young ones, few or many, To cutting short their hopes of having any? The love of offspring 's nature's general law, From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings; And all who have seen a human nursery, saw How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings; This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 'T were nothing--for her eyes flash'd always fire; Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, So supernatural was her passion's rise; For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire: Even ye who know what a check'd woman is (Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this. Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well-- A moment's more had slain her; but the while It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell: Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile, Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle; And the deep passions flashing through her form Made her a beautiful embodied storm. A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon To match a common fury with her rage, And yet she did not want to reach the moon, Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age-- Her wish was but to 'kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's, And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, Pass'd without words--in fact she could not speak; And then her sex's shame broke in at last, A sentiment till then in her but weak, But now it flow'd in natural and fast, As water through an unexpected leak; For she felt humbled--and humiliation Is sometimes good for people in her station It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, It also gently hints to them that others, Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud; That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, And works of the same pottery, bad or good, Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: It teaches--Heaven knows only what it teaches, But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head; Her second, to cut only his--acquaintance; Her third, to ask him where he had been bred; Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed; Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence The lash to Baba:--but her grand resource Was to sit down again, and cry of course. She thought to stab herself, but then she had The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward; For Eastern stays are little made to pad, So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard: She thought of killing Juan--but, poor lad! Though he deserved it well for being so backward, The cutting off his head was not the art Most likely to attain her aim--his heart. Juan was moved; he had made up his mind To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, And thus heroically stood resign'd, Rather than sin--except to his own wish: But all his great preparatives for dying Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed, So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; And first he wonder'd why he had refused; And then, if matters could be made up now; And next his savage virtue he accused, Just as a friar may accuse his vow, Or as a dame repents her of her oath, Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. So he began to stammer some excuses; But words are not enough in such a matter, Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses; Just as a languid smile began to flatter His peace was making, but before he ventured Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 'Bride of the Sun! and Sister of the Moon!' ('T was thus he spake) 'and Empress of the Earth! Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, Your slave brings tidings--he hopes not too soon-- Which your sublime attention may be worth: The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, To hint that he is coming up this way.' 'Is it,' exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, 'as you say? I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning! But bid my women form the milky way. Hence, my old comet! give the stars due warning-- And, Christian! mingle with them as you may, And as you 'd have me pardon your past scorning-' Here they were interrupted by a humming Sound, and then by a cry, 'The Sultan 's coming!' First came her damsels, a decorous file, And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white; The train might reach a quarter of a mile: His majesty was always so polite As to announce his visits a long while Before he came, especially at night; For being the last wife of the Emperour, She was of course the favorite of the four. His Highness was a man of solemn port, Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; He was as good a sovereign of the sort As any mention'd in the histories Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine Save Solyman, the glory of their line. He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers With more than 'Oriental scrupulosity;' He left to his vizier all state affairs, And show'd but little royal curiosity: I know not if he had domestic cares-- No process proved connubial animosity; Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, Little was heard of criminal or crime; The story scarcely pass'd a single lip-- The sack and sea had settled all in time, From which the secret nobody could rip: The Public knew no more than does this rhyme; No scandals made the daily press a curse-- Morals were better, and the fish no worse. He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, Was also certain that the earth was square, Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found No sign that it was circular anywhere; His empire also was without a bound: 'T is true, a little troubled here and there, By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, But then they never came to 'the Seven Towers;' Except in shape of envoys, who were sent To lodge there when a war broke out, according To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or The singeing of a single inky whisker. He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, The former in a palace, where like nuns They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once, Sometimes at six years old--though it seems odd, 'T is true; the reason is, that the Bashaw Must make a present to his sire in law. His sons were kept in prison, till they grew Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, One or the other, but which of the two Could yet be known unto the fates alone; Meantime the education they went through Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: So that the heir apparent still was found No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. His majesty saluted his fourth spouse With all the ceremonies of his rank, Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, As suits a matron who has play'd a prank; These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, To save the credit of their breaking bank: To no men are such cordial greetings given As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. His Highness cast around his great black eyes, And looking, as he always look'd, perceived Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved, But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 'I see you 've bought another girl; 't is pity That a mere Christian should be half so pretty.' This compliment, which drew all eyes upon The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone: O! Mahomet! that his majesty should take Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one Of them his lips imperial ever spake! There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. The Turks do well to shut--at least, sometimes-- The women up, because, in sad reality, Their chastity in these unhappy climes Is not a thing of that astringent quality Which in the North prevents precocious crimes, And makes our snow less pure than our morality; The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, Has quite the contrary effect on vice. Thus in the East they are extremely strict, And Wedlock and a Padlock mean the same; Excepting only when the former 's pick'd It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame; Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd: But then their own Polygamy 's to blame; Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life Into that moral centaur, man and wife? Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause, Though not for want of matter; but 't is time According to the ancient epic laws, To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime; Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps You 'll pardon to my muse a few short naps. CANTO THE SIXTH. 'There is a tide in the affairs of men Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest, And most of us have found it now and then; At least we think so, though but few have guess'd The moment, till too late to come again. But no doubt every thing is for the best-- Of which the surest sign is in the end: When things are at the worst they sometimes mend. There is a tide in the affairs of women Which, taken at the flood, leads--God knows where: Those navigators must be able seamen Whose charts lay down its current to a hair; Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen With its strange whirls and eddies can compare: Men with their heads reflect on this and that-- But women with their hearts on heaven knows what! And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, Young, beautiful, and daring--who would risk A throne, the world, the universe, to be Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk The stars from out the sky, than not be free As are the billows when the breeze is brisk-- Though such a she 's a devil (if that there be one), Yet she would make full many a Manichean. Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset By commonest ambition, that when passion O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. If Antony be well remember'd yet, 'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion, But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, Outbalances all Caesar's victories. He died at fifty for a queen of forty; I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport--I Remember when, though I had no great plenty Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I Gave what I had--a heart: as the world went, I Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever. 'Twas the boy's 'mite,' and, like the 'widow's,' may Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now; But whether such things do or do not weigh, All who have loved, or love, will still allow Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, And Love 's a god, or was before the brow Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears Of--but Chronology best knows the years. We left our hero and third heroine in A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman: Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; But I detest all fiction even in song, And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. Her reason being weak, her passions strong, She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) Was scarce enough; for he had fifty-nine Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. I am not, like Cassio, 'an arithmetician,' But by 'the bookish theoric' it appears, If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision, That, adding to the account his Highness' years, The fair Sultana err'd from inanition; For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part Of what should be monopoly--the heart. It is observed that ladies are litigious Upon all legal objects of possession, And not the least so when they are religious, Which doubles what they think of the transgression: With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, As the tribunals show through many a session, When they suspect that any one goes shares In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, Are apt to carry things with a high hand, And take what kings call 'an imposing attitude,' And for their rights connubial make a stand, When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude: And as four wives must have quadruple claims, The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) The favourite; but what 's favour amongst four? Polygamy may well be held in dread, Not only as a sin, but as a bore: Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, Will scarcely find philosophy for more; And all (except Mahometans) forbear To make the nuptial couch a 'Bed of Ware.' His Highness, the sublimest of mankind,-- So styled according to the usual forms Of every monarch, till they are consign'd To those sad hungry jacobins the worms, Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,-- His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, Expecting all the welcome of a lover (A 'Highland welcome' all the wide world over). Now here we should distinguish; for howe'er Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, May look like what is--neither here nor there, They are put on as easily as a hat, Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, Which form an ornament, but no more part Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind Of gentle feminine delight, and shown More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, A sincere woman's breast,--for over-warm Or over-cold annihilates the charm. For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth; If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire; For no one, save in very early youth, Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer At a sad discount: while your over chilly Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly. That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, And see a sentimental passion glow, Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, In his monastic concubine of snow;-- In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is Horatian, 'Medio tu tutissimus ibis.' The 'tu' 's too much,--but let it stand,--the verse Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme, And not the pink of old hexameters; But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time In the last line, which cannot well be worse, And was thrust in to close the octave's chime: I own no prosody can ever rate it As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, I know not--it succeeded, and success Is much in most things, not less in the heart Than other articles of female dress. Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less; And no one virtue yet, except starvation, Could stop that worst of vices--propagation. We leave this royal couple to repose: A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes: Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep As any man's day mixture undergoes. Our least of sorrows are such as we weep; 'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill, A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted, A bad old woman making a worse will, Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted As certain;--these are paltry things, and yet I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret. I 'm a philosopher; confound them all! Bills, beasts, and men, and--no! not womankind! With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, And then my stoicism leaves nought behind Which it can either pain or evil call, And I can give my whole soul up to mind; Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, Is more than I know--the deuce take them both! As after reading Athanasius' curse, Which doth your true believer so much please: I doubt if any now could make it worse O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, And decorates the book of Common Prayer, As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or At least one of them!--Oh, the heavy night, When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light Of the gray morning, and look vainly for Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite-- To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake! These are beneath the canopy of heaven, Also beneath the canopy of beds Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given For rich men and their brides to lay their heads Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 'driven Snow.' Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. Don Juan in his feminine disguise, With all the damsels in their long array, Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, And at the usual signal ta'en their way Back to their chambers, those long galleries In the seraglio, where the ladies lay Their delicate limbs; a thousand bosoms there Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse The tyrant's wish, 'that mankind only had One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce:' My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, And much more tender on the whole than fierce; It being (not now, but only while a lad) That womankind had but one rosy mouth, To kiss them all at once from North to South. O, enviable Briareus! with thy hands And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied In such proportion!--But my Muse withstands The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, Or travelling in Patagonian lands; So let us back to Lilliput, and guide Our hero through the labyrinth of love In which we left him several lines above. He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, At the given signal join'd to their array; And though he certainly ran many risks, Yet he could not at times keep, by the way (Although the consequences of such frisks Are worse than the worst damages men pay In moral England, where the thing 's a tax), From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. Still he forgot not his disguise:--along The galleries from room to room they walk'd, A virgin-like and edifying throng, By eunuchs flank'd; while at their head there stalk'd A dame who kept up discipline among The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd Without her sanction on their she-parades: Her title was 'the Mother of the Maids.' Whether she was a 'mother,' I know not, Or whether they were 'maids' who call'd her mother; But this is her seraglio title, got I know not how, but good as any other; So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: Her office was to keep aloof or smother All bad propensities in fifteen hundred Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd. A goodly sinecure, no doubt! but made More easy by the absence of all men-- Except his majesty, who, with her aid, And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then A slight example, just to cast a shade Along the rest, contrived to keep this den Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent. And what is that? Devotion, doubtless--how Could you ask such a question?--but we will Continue. As I said, this goodly row Of ladies of all countries at the will Of one good man, with stately march and slow, Like water-lilies floating down a rill-- Or rather lake, for rills do not run slowly-- Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere When freed from bonds (which are of no great use After all), or like Irish at a fair, Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce Establish'd between them and bondage, they Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer; Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything: Some thought her dress did not so much become her, Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring; Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, Others contended they were but in spring; Some thought her rather masculine in height, While others wish'd that she had been so quite. But no one doubted on the whole, that she Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, And fresh, and 'beautiful exceedingly,' Who with the brightest Georgians might compare: They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be So silly as to buy slaves who might share (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) Her throne and power, and every thing beside. But what was strangest in this virgin crew, Although her beauty was enough to vex, After the first investigating view, They all found out as few, or fewer, specks In the fair form of their companion new, Than is the custom of the gentle sex, When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, In a new face 'the ugliest creature breathing.' And yet they had their little jealousies, Like all the rest; but upon this occasion, Whether there are such things as sympathies Without our knowledge or our approbation, Although they could not see through his disguise, All felt a soft kind of concatenation, Like magnetism, or devilism, or what You please--we will not quarrel about that: But certain 'tis they all felt for their new Companion something newer still, as 'twere A sentimental friendship through and through, Extremely pure, which made them all concur In wishing her their sister, save a few Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. Of those who had most genius for this sort Of sentimental friendship, there were three, Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; in short (To save description), fair as fair can be Were they, according to the best report, Though differing in stature and degree, And clime and time, and country and complexion; They all alike admired their new connection. Lolah was dusk as India and as warm; Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, Yet very fit to 'murder sleep' in those Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose: Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose; Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. She was not violently lively, but Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut, They put beholders in a tender taking; She look'd (this simile 's quite new) just cut From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, The mortal and the marble still at strife, And timidly expanding into life. Lolah demanded the new damsel's name-- 'Juanna.'--Well, a pretty name enough. Katinka ask'd her also whence she came-- 'From Spain.'--'But where is Spain?'--'Don't ask such stuff, Nor show your Georgian ignorance--for shame!' Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, To poor Katinka: 'Spain 's an island near Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier.' Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside Juanna, playing with her veil or hair; And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, As if she pitied her for being there, A pretty stranger without friend or guide, And all abash'd, too, at the general stare Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, With, 'Ladies, it is time to go to rest. I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear,' She added to Juanna, their new guest: 'Your coming has been unexpected here, And every couch is occupied; you had best Partake of mine; but by to-morrow early We will have all things settled for you fairly.' Here Lolah interposed--'Mamma, you know You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear That anybody should disturb you so; I 'll take Juanna; we 're a slenderer pair Than you would make the half of;--don't say no; And I of your young charge will take due care.' But here Katinka interfered, and said, 'She also had compassion and a bed. 'Besides, I hate to sleep alone,' quoth she. The matron frown'd: 'Why so?'--'For fear of ghosts,' Replied Katinka; 'I am sure I see A phantom upon each of the four posts; And then I have the worst dreams that can be, Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.' The dame replied, 'Between your dreams and you, I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 'You, Lolah, must continue still to lie Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you The same, Katinka, until by and by; And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, And will not toss and chatter the night through. What say you, child?'--Dudu said nothing, as Her talents were of the more silent class; But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, Katinka, too; and with a gentle bow (Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) She took Juanna by the hand to show Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, The others pouting at the matron's preference Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference. It was a spacious chamber (Oda is The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall Were couches, toilets--and much more than this I might describe, as I have seen it all, But it suffices--little was amiss; 'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, With all things ladies want, save one or two, And even those were nearer than they knew. Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, Not very dashing, but extremely winning, With the most regulated charms of feature, Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion--the wild strokes of nature Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, And pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it Than are your mighty passions and so forth, Which some call 'the sublime:' I wish they 'd try it: I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen. But she was pensive more than melancholy, And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either--not unholy Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; She never thought about herself at all. And therefore was she kind and gentle as The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, By which its nomenclature came to pass; Thus most appropriately has been shown 'Lucus a non lucendo,' not what was, But what was not; a sort of style that 's grown Extremely common in this age, whose metal The devil may decompose, but never settle: I think it may be of 'Corinthian Brass,' Which was a mixture of all metals, but The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass This long parenthesis: I could not shut It sooner for the soul of me, and class My faults even with your own! which meaneth, Put A kind construction upon them and me: But that you won't--then don't--I am not less free. 'Tis time we should return to plain narration, And thus my narrative proceeds:--Dudu, With every kindness short of ostentation, Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through This labyrinth of females, and each station Described--what 's strange--in words extremely few: I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder, For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. And next she gave her (I say her, because The gender still was epicene, at least In outward show, which is a saving clause) An outline of the customs of the East, With all their chaste integrity of laws, By which the more a haram is increased, The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties Of any supernumerary beauties. And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss: Dudu was fond of kissing--which I 'm sure That nobody can ever take amiss, Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, And between females means no more than this-- That they have nothing better near, or newer. 'Kiss' rhymes to 'bliss' in fact as well as verse-- I wish it never led to something worse. In perfect innocence she then unmade Her toilet, which cost little, for she was A child of Nature, carelessly array'd: If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd, Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, When first she starts, and then returns to peep, Admiring this new native of the deep. And one by one her articles of dress Were laid aside; but not before she offer'd Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd: Which pass'd well off--as she could do no less; Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd, Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, Which surely were invented for our sins,-- Making a woman like a porcupine, Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, O ye! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, In early youth, to turn a lady's maid;-- I did my very boyish best to shine In tricking her out for a masquerade; The pins were placed sufficiently, but not Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. But these are foolish things to all the wise, And I love wisdom more than she loves me; My tendency is to philosophise On most things, from a tyrant to a tree; But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. What are we? and whence came we? what shall be Our ultimate existence? what 's our present? Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. There was deep silence in the chamber: dim And distant from each other burn'd the lights, And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest trim, By way of change from their sepulchral sites, And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. Many and beautiful lay those around, Like flowers of different hue, and dime, and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found, With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm; And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night All bashfully to struggle into light. This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes. A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep; White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, Or Lot's wife done in salt,--or what you will;-- My similes are gather'd in a heap, So pick and choose--perhaps you 'll be content With a carved lady on a monument. And lo! a fifth appears;--and what is she? A lady of a 'certain age,' which means Certainly aged--what her years might be I know not, never counting past their teens; But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, As ere that awful period intervenes Which lays both men and women on the shelf, To meditate upon their sins and self. But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu? With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, And scorn to add a syllable untrue; But ere the middle watch was hardly over, Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, To those who like their company, about The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out: And that so loudly, that upstarted all The Oda, in a general commotion: Matron and maids, and those whom you may call Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, One on the other, throughout the whole hall, All trembling, wondering, without the least notion More than I have myself of what could make The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. But wide awake she was, and round her bed, With floating draperies and with flying hair, With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, And bright as any meteor ever bred By the North Pole,--they sought her cause of care, For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. But what was strange--and a strong proof how great A blessing is sound sleep--Juanna lay As fast as ever husband by his mate In holy matrimony snores away. Not all the clamour broke her happy state Of slumber, ere they shook her,--so they say At least,--and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. And now commenced a strict investigation, Which, as all spoke at once and more than once, Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce To answer in a very clear oration. Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, But, being 'no orator as Brutus is,' Could not at first expound what was amiss. At length she said, that in a slumber sound She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood-- A 'wood obscure,' like that where Dante found Himself in at the age when all grow good; Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots; And in the midst a golden apple grew,-- A most prodigious pippin,--but it hung Rather too high and distant; that she threw Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung Stones and whatever she could pick up, to Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, But always at a most provoking height;-- That on a sudden, when she least had hope, It fell down of its own accord before Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop And pick it up, and bite it to the core; That just as her young lip began to ope Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, And so--she awoke with a great scream and start. All this she told with some confusion and Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand To expound their vain and visionary gleams. I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd Prophetically, or that which one deems A 'strange coincidence,' to use a phrase By which such things are settled now-a-days. The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, Began, as is the consequence of fear, To scold a little at the false alarm That broke for nothing on their sleeping car. The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, And said that she was sorry she had cried. 'I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull; But visions of an apple and a bee, To take us from our natural rest, and pull The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, Would make us think the moon is at its full. You surely are unwell, child! we must see, To-morrow, what his Highness's physician Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 'And poor Juanna, too--the child's first night Within these walls to be broke in upon With such a clamour! I had thought it right That the young stranger should not lie alone, And, as the quietest of all, she might With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known; But now I must transfer her to the charge Of Lolah--though her couch is not so large.' Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition; But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, Resulting from the scolding or the vision, Implored that present pardon might be shown For this first fault, and that on no condition (She added in a soft and piteous tone) Juanna should be taken from her, and Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. She promised never more to have a dream, At least to dream so loudly as just now; She wonder'd at herself how she could scream-- 'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, A fond hallucination, and a theme For laughter--but she felt her spirits low, And begg'd they would excuse her; she 'd get over This weakness in a few hours, and recover. And here Juanna kindly interposed, And said she felt herself extremely well Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed When all around rang like a tocsin bell: She did not find herself the least disposed To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell Apart from one who had no sin to show, Save that of dreaming once 'mal-a-propos.' As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd round And hid her face within Juanna's breast: Her neck alone was seen, but that was found The colour of a budding rose's crest. I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound The mystery of this rupture of their rest; All that I know is, that the facts I state Are true as truth has ever been of late. And so good night to them,--or, if you will, Good morrow--for the cock had crown, and light Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, And the mosque crescent struggled into sight Of the long caravan, which in the chill Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt, which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds. With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale As passion rises, with its bosom worn, Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, Which fable places in her breast of wail, Is lighter far of heart and voice than those Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. And that 's the moral of this composition, If people would but see its real drift;-- But that they will not do without suspicion, Because all gentle readers have the gift Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision; While gentle writers also love to lift Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural, The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried Aloud because his feelings were too tender To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side,-- So beautiful that art could little mend her, Though pale with conflicts between love and pride;-- So agitated was she with her error, She did not even look into the mirror. Also arose about the self-same time, Perhaps a little later, her great lord, Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd; A thing of much less import in that clime-- At least to those of incomes which afford The filling up their whole connubial cargo-- Than where two wives are under an embargo. He did not think much on the matter, nor Indeed on any other: as a man He liked to have a handsome paramour At hand, as one may like to have a fan, And therefore of Circassians had good store, As an amusement after the Divan; Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. And now he rose; and after due ablutions Exacted by the customs of the East, And prayers and other pious evolutions, He drank six cups of coffee at the least, And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, Whose victories had recently increased In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores, But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend Thine ear, if it should reach--and now rhymes wander Almost as far as Petersburgh and lend A dreadful impulse to each loud meander Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend Their roar even with the Baltic's--so you be Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. To call men love-begotten or proclaim Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, That hater of mankind, would be a shame, A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: But people's ancestors are history's game; And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on All generations, I should like to know What pedigree the best would have to show? Had Catherine and the sultan understood Their own true interests, which kings rarely know Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, There was a way to end their strife, although Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, Without the aid of prince or plenipo: She to dismiss her guards and he his haram, And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. But as it was, his Highness had to hold His daily council upon ways and means How to encounter with this martial scold, This modern Amazon and queen of queans; And the perplexity could not be told Of all the pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, And rich with all contrivances which grace Those gay recesses:--many a precious stone Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, Vied with each other on this costly spot; And singing birds without were heard to warble; And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot Varied each ray;--but all descriptions garble The true effect, and so we had better not Be too minute; an outline is the best,-- A lively reader's fancy does the rest. And here she summon'd Baba, and required Don Juan at his hands, and information Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, And whether he had occupied their station; If matters had been managed as desired, And his disguise with due consideration Kept up; and above all, the where and how He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to know. Baba, with some embarrassment, replied To this long catechism of questions, ask'd More easily than answer'd,--that he had tried His best to obey in what he had been task'd; But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd; He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource To which embarrass'd people have recourse. Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations; And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew To bode him no great good, he deprecated Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through-- He could not help the thing which he related: Then out it came at length, that to Dudu Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom The discipline of the whole haram bore, As soon as they re-enter'd their own room, For Baba's function stopt short at the door, Had settled all; nor could he then presume (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, Without exciting such suspicion as Might make the matter still worse than it was. He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact 'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, Because a foolish or imprudent act Would not alone have made him insecure, But ended in his being found out and sack'd, And thrown into the sea.--Thus Baba spoke Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. This he discreetly kept in the background, And talk'd away--and might have talk'd till now, For any further answer that he found, So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow: Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round, As if she had received a sudden blow, And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. Although she was not of the fainting sort, Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd-- It was but a convulsion, which though short Can never be described; we all have heard, And some of us have felt thus 'all amort,' When things beyond the common have occurr'd;-- Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony What she could ne'er express--then how should I? She stood a moment as a Pythones Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full Of inspiration gather'd from distress, When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull The heart asunder;--then, as more or lees Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. Her face declined and was unseen; her hair Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, A low soft ottoman), and black despair Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping Conceal'd her features better than a veil; And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, White, waxen, and as alabaster pale: Would that I were a painter! to be grouping All that a poet drags into detail O that my words were colours! but their tints May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. Baba, who knew by experience when to talk And when to hold his tongue, now held it till This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. At length she rose up, and began to walk Slowly along the room, but silent still, And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye; The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak--but paused, And then moved on again with rapid pace; Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused By deep emotion:--you may sometimes trace A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased By all the demons of all passions, show'd Their work even by the way in which he trode. Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba:--'Slave! Bring the two slaves!' she said in a low tone, But one which Baba did not like to brave, And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, For fear of any error, like the late. 'The Georgian and her paramour,' replied The imperial bride--and added, 'Let the boat Be ready by the secret portal's side: You know the rest.' The words stuck in her throat, Despite her injured love and fiery pride; And of this Baba willingly took note, And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard, She would revoke the order he had heard. 'To hear is to obey,' he said; 'but still, Sultana, think upon the consequence: It is not that I shall not all fulfil Your orders, even in their severest sense; But such precipitation may end ill, Even at your own imperative expense: I do not mean destruction and exposure, In case of any premature disclosure; 'But your own feelings. Even should all the rest Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide Already many a once love-beaten breast Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide-- You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, And if this violent remedy be tried-- Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, That killing him is not the way to cure you.' 'What dost thou know of love or feeling?--Wretch! Begone!' she cried, with kindling eyes--'and do My bidding!' Baba vanish'd, for to stretch His own remonstrance further he well knew Might end in acting as his own 'Jack Ketch;' And though he wish'd extremely to get through This awkward business without harm to others, He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. Away he went then upon his commission, Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase Against all women of whate'er condition, Especially sultanas and their ways; Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, Their never knowing their own mind two days, The trouble that they gave, their immorality, Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, And sent one on a summons to the pair, That they must instantly be well array'd, And above all be comb'd even to a hair, And brought before the empress, who had made Inquiries after them with kindest care: At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly; But go they must at once, and will I--nill I. And here I leave them at their preparation For the imperial presence, wherein whether Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, Or got rid of the parties altogether, Like other angry ladies of her nation,-- Are things the turning of a hair or feather May settle; but far be 't from me to anticipate In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. I leave them for the present with good wishes, Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange Another part of history; for the dishes Of this our banquet we must sometimes change; And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, Although his situation now seems strange And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. [Illustration: Canto 7] CANTO THE SEVENTH. O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly Around us ever, rarely to alight? There 's not a meteor in the polar sky Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high Our eyes in search of either lovely light; A thousand and a thousand colours they Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. And such as they are, such my present tale is, A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, A versified Aurora Borealis, Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. When we know what all are, we must bewail us, But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime To laugh at all things--for I wish to know What, after all, are all things--but a show? They accuse me--Me--the present writer of The present poem--of--I know not what-- A tendency to under-rate and scoff At human power and virtue, and all that; And this they say in language rather rough. Good God! I wonder what they would be at! I say no more than hath been said in Dante's Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes; By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato; By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-- For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die, But which is best, you know no more than I. Socrates said, our only knowledge was 'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas! Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only 'like a youth Picking up shells by the great ocean--Truth.' Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'- Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very soon may know it; And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, From holding up the nothingness of life? Dogs, or men!--for I flatter you in saying That ye are dogs--your betters far--ye may Read, or read not, what I am now essaying To show ye what ye are in every way. As little as the moon stops for the baying Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray From out her skies--then howl your idle wrath! While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 'Fierce loves and faithless wars'--I am not sure If this be the right reading--'t is no matter; The fact 's about the same, I am secure; I sing them both, and am about to batter A town which did a famous siege endure, And was beleaguer'd both by land and water By Souvaroff, or Anglice Suwarrow, Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, With buildings in the Oriental taste, But still a fortress of the foremost rank, Or was at least, unless 't is since defaced, Which with your conquerors is a common prank: It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, And measures round of toises thousands three. Within the extent of this fortification A borough is comprised along the height Upon the left, which from its loftier station Commands the city, and upon its site A Greek had raised around this elevation A quantity of palisades upright, So placed as to impede the fire of those Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. This circumstance may serve to give a notion Of the high talents of this new Vauban: But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang: But then there was a great want of precaution (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, To hint at least 'Here is no thoroughfare.' But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet; Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, Case-mated one, and t' other 'a barbette,' Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; While two and twenty cannon duly set Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. But from the river the town 's open quite, Because the Turks could never be persuaded A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight; And such their creed was, till they were invaded, When it grew rather late to set things right. But as the Danube could not well be waded, They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, And only shouted, 'Allah!' and 'Bis Millah!' The Russians now were ready to attack: But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory! How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque Who were immortal, could one tell their story? Alas! what to their memory can lack? Achilles' self was not more grim and gory Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, Whose names want nothing but--pronunciation. Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff, Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece, And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff, And others of twelve consonants apiece; And more might be found out, if I could poke enough Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet), It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, And cannot tune those discords of narration, Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme; Yet there were several worth commemoration, As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime; Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration Of Londonderry drawling against time, Ending in 'ischskin,' 'ousckin,' 'iffskchy,' 'ouski: Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, And no more handy substitute been near. Then there were foreigners of much renown, Of various nations, and all volunteers; Not fighting for their country or its crown, But wishing to be one day brigadiers; Also to have the sacking of a town,-- A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith. Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest Had been call'd 'Jemmy,' after the great bard; I don't know whether they had arms or crest, But such a godfather 's as good a card. Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters At Halifax;' but now he served the Tartars. The rest were jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills; But when I 've added that the elder jack Smith Was born in Cumberland among the hills, And that his father was an honest blacksmith, I 've said all I know of a name that fills Three lines of the despatch in taking 'Schmacksmith,' A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein He fell, immortal in a bulletin. I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin May make up for a bullet in his body? I hope this little question is no sin, Because, though I am but a simple noddy, I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, Which many people pass for wits by quoting. Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: But I 'm too great a patriot to record Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word Of truth;--such truths are treason; they betray Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd Who name the French in English, save to show How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. The Russians, having built two batteries on An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down The public buildings and the private too, No matter what poor souls might be undone. The city's shape suggested this, 't is true; Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. The second object was to profit by The moment of the general consternation, To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station: But a third motive was as probably To frighten them into capitulation; A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. A habit rather blamable, which is That of despising those we combat with, Common in many cases, was in this The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; One of the valorous 'Smiths' whom we shall miss Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 'pith;' But 't is a name so spread o'er 'Sir' and 'Madam,' That one would think the first who bore it 'Adam.' The Russian batteries were incomplete, Because they were constructed in a hurry; Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet, And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, When the sale of new books is not so fleet As they who print them think is necessary, May likewise put off for a time what story Sometimes calls 'murder,' and at others 'glory.' Whether it was their engineer's stupidity, Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, Or some contractor's personal cupidity, Saving his soul by cheating in the ware Of homicide, but there was no solidity In the new batteries erected there; They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, And added greatly to the missing list. A sad miscalculation about distance Made all their naval matters incorrect; Three fireships lost their amiable existence Before they reach'd a spot to take effect: The match was lit too soon, and no assistance Could remedy this lubberly defect; They blew up in the middle of the river, While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever. At seven they rose, however, and survey'd The Russ flotilla getting under way; 'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, Within a cable's length their vessels lay Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, Which was return'd with interest, I may say, And by a fire of musketry and grape, And shells and shot of every size and shape. For six hours bore they without intermission The Turkish fire, and aided by their own Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision: At length they found mere cannonade alone By no means would produce the town's submission, And made a signal to retreat at one. One bark blew up, a second near the works Running aground, was taken by the Turks. The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men; But when they saw the enemy retire, Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, And tried to make a landing on the main; But here the effect fell short of their desire: Count Damas drove them back into the water Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report All that the Russians did upon this day, I think that several volumes would fall short, And I should still have many things to say;' And so he says no more--but pays his court To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray; The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, Names great as any that the roll of Fame has. This being the case, may show us what Fame is: For out of these three 'preux Chevaliers,' how Many of common readers give a guess That such existed? (and they may live now For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss; There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. But here are men who fought in gallant actions As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions Their names are rarely found, nor often sought. Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: Of all our modern battles, I will bet You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette. In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault, And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) Most strongly recommended an assault; In which he was opposed by young and hoary, Which made a long debate; but I must halt, For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. There was a man, if that he was a man, Not that his manhood could be call'd in question, For had he not been Hercules, his span Had been as short in youth as indigestion Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on The soil of the green province he had wasted, As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. This was Potemkin--a great thing in days When homicide and harlotry made great; If stars and titles could entail long praise, His glory might half equal his estate. This fellow, being six foot high, could raise A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then sovereign of the Russian people, Who measured men as you would do a steeple. While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent A courier to the prince, and he succeeded In ordering matters after his own bent; I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, But shortly he had cause to be content. In the mean time, the batteries proceeded, And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. But on the thirteenth, when already part Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, A courier on the spur inspired new heart Into all panters for newspaper praise, As well as dilettanti in war's art, By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase; Announcing the appointment of that lover of Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff. The letter of the prince to the same marshal Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause Been one to which a good heart could be partial-- Defence of freedom, country, or of laws; But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 'You will take Ismail at whatever price.' 'Let there be light! said God, and there was light!' 'Let there be blood!' says man, and there 's a seal The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night (For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree More evil in an hour, than thirty bright Summers could renovate, though they should be Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit; For war cuts up not only branch, but root. Our friends the Turks, who with loud 'Allahs' now Began to signalise the Russ retreat, Were damnably mistaken; few are slow In thinking that their enemy is beat (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though I never think about it in a heat), But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques For some time, till they came in nearer view. They had but little baggage at their backs, For there were but three shirts between the two; But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, Till, in approaching, were at length descried In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 'Great joy to London now!' says some great fool, When London had a grand illumination, Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull, Is of all dreams the first hallucination; So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, That Sage (said john) surrenders at discretion His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 'T is strange that he should farther 'damn his eyes,' For they are damn'd; that once all-famous oath Is to the devil now no farther prize, Since John has lately lost the use of both. Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise; And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. But to the tale:--great joy unto the camp! To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque, O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, Presaging a most luminous attack; Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp, Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, He flitted to and fro a dancing light, Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. But certes matters took a different face; There was enthusiasm and much applause, The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, And all presaged good fortune to their cause. Within a cannon-shot length of the place They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws In former works, made new, prepared fascines, And all kinds of benevolent machines. 'T is thus the spirit of a single mind Makes that of multitudes take one direction, As roll the waters to the breathing wind, Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection; Or as a little dog will lead the blind, Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual; Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. The whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought That they were going to a marriage feast (This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, Since there is discord after both at least): There was not now a luggage boy but sought Danger and spoil with ardour much increased; And why? because a little--odd--old man, Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. But so it was; and every preparation Was made with all alacrity: the first Detachment of three columns took its station, And waited but the signal's voice to burst Upon the foe: the second's ordination Was also in three columns, with a thirst For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. New batteries were erected, and was held A general council, in which unanimity, That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, As sometimes happens in a great extremity; And every difficulty being dispell'd, Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it, Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet It is an actual fact, that he, commander In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill The awkward squad, and could afford to squander His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil: Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander To swallow flame, and never take it ill: He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, And made them charge with bayonet these machines, By way of lesson against actual Turks: And when well practised in these mimic scenes, He judged them proper to assail the works; At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases witty: He made no answer; but he took the city. Most things were in this posture on the eve Of the assault, and all the camp was in A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive; Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin Are very silent when they once believe That all is settled:--there was little din, For some were thinking of their home and friends, And others of themselves and latter ends. Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering; For the man was, we safely may assert, A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering; Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt, Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent to storm A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. The day before the assault, while upon drill-- For this great conqueror play'd the corporal-- Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill, Had met a party towards the twilight's fall, One of whom spoke their tongue--or well or ill, 'T was much that he was understood at all; But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, They found that he had fought beneath their banner. Whereon immediately at his request They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters; Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd That these were merely masquerading Tartars, And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes barters Her inward grace for outward show, and makes It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, And lecturing on the noble art of killing,-- For deeming human clay but common dirt, This great philosopher was thus instilling His maxims, which to martial comprehension Proved death in battle equal to a pension;-- Suwarrow, when he saw this company Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round and cast Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye:-- 'Whence come ye?'--'From Constantinople last, Captives just now escaped,' was the reply. 'What are ye?'--'What you see us.' Briefly pass'd This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 'Your names?'--'Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade 's Juan; The other two are women, and the third Is neither man nor woman.' The chief threw on The party a slight glance, then said, 'I have heard Your name before, the second is a new one: To bring the other three here was absurd: But let that pass:--I think I have heard your name In the Nikolaiew regiment?'--'The same.' 'You served at Widdin?'--'Yes.'--'You led the attack?' 'I did.'--'What next?'--'I really hardly know.' 'You were the first i' the breach?'--'I was not slack At least to follow those who might be so.' 'What follow'd?'--'A shot laid me on my back, And I became a prisoner to the foe.' 'You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 'Where will you serve?'--'Where'er you please.'--'I know You like to be the hope of the forlorn, And doubtless would be foremost on the foe After the hardships you 've already borne. And this young fellow--say what can he do? He with the beardless chin and garments torn?' 'Why, general, if he hath no greater fault In war than love, he had better lead the assault.' 'He shall if that he dare.' Here Juan bow'd Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow Continued: 'Your old regiment's allow'd, By special providence, to lead to-morrow, Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vow'd To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 'So now, my lads, for glory!'--Here he turn'd And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy Himself a favourite, ventured to address Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high In his resumed amusement. 'I confess My debt in being thus allow'd to die Among the foremost; but if you 'd express Explicitly our several posts, my friend And self would know what duty to attend.' 'Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you Will join your former regiment, which should be Now under arms. Ho! Katskoff, take him to (Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew: The stranger stripling may remain with me; He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent To the other baggage, or to the sick tent.' But here a sort of scene began to ensue: The ladies,--who by no means had been bred To be disposed of in a way so new, Although their haram education led Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, Passive obedience,--now raised up the head, With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, O'er the promoted couple of brave men Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. O, foolish mortals! Always taught in vain! O, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf Of thine imaginary deathless tree, Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea. Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd The women with their hair about their ears And natural agonies, with a slight shade Of feeling: for however habit sears Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow Will touch even heroes--and such was Suwarrow. He said,--and in the kindest Calmuck tone,-- 'Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean By bringing women here? They shall be shown All the attention possible, and seen In safety to the waggons, where alone In fact they can be safe. You should have been Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives.' 'May it please your excellency,' thus replied Our British friend, 'these are the wives of others, And not our own. I am too qualified By service with my military brothers To break the rules by bringing one's own bride Into a camp: I know that nought so bothers The hearts of the heroic on a charge, As leaving a small family at large. 'But these are but two Turkish ladies, who With their attendant aided our escape, And afterwards accompanied us through A thousand perils in this dubious shape. To me this kind of life is not so new; To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape. I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, Request that they may both be used genteelly.' Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust Their own protectors; nor was their surprise Less than their grief (and truly not less just) To see an old man, rather wild than wise In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad (That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem), With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt How power could condescend to do without. John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, Though little versed in feelings oriental, Suggested some slight comfort in his way: Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, Or that the Russian army should repent all: And, strange to say, they found some consolation In this--for females like exaggeration. And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses, They parted for the present--these to await, According to the artillery's hits or misses, What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, A mortgage on Humanity's estate)-- While their beloved friends began to arm, To burn a town which never did them harm. Suwarrow,--who but saw things in the gross, Being much too gross to see them in detail, Who calculated life as so much dross, And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, And cared as little for his army's loss (So that their efforts should at length prevail) As wife and friends did for the boils of job,-- What was 't to him to hear two women sob? Nothing.--The work of glory still went on In preparations for a cannonade As terrible as that of Ilion, If Homer had found mortars ready made; But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, We only can but talk of escalade, Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets,-- Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. O, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm All cars, though long; all ages, though so short, By merely wielding with poetic arm Arms to which men will never more resort, Unless gunpowder should be found to harm Much less than is the hope of every court, Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; But they will not find Liberty a Troy:-- O, thou eternal Homer! I have now To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; And yet, like all men else, I must allow, To vie with thee would be about as vain As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood; But still we moderns equal you in blood; If not in poetry, at least in fact; And fact is truth, the grand desideratum! Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum. But now the town is going to be attack'd; Great deeds are doing--how shall I relate 'em? Souls of immortal generals! Phoebus watches To colour up his rays from your despatches. O, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! O, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded! Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! O, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye Shadows of glory! (lest I be confounded) A portion of your fading twilight hues, So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. When I call 'fading' martial immortality, I mean, that every age and every year, And almost every day, in sad reality, Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, Who, when we come to sum up the totality Of deeds to human happiness most dear, Turns out to be a butcher in great business, Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, Are things immortal to immortal man, As purple to the Babylonian harlot: An uniform to boys is like a fan To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet But deems himself the first in Glory's van. But Glory's glory; and if you would find What that is--ask the pig who sees the wind! At least he feels it, and some say he sees, Because he runs before it like a pig; Or, if that simple sentence should displease, Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, A schooner, or--but it is time to ease This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, Like a bob-major from a village steeple. Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night, The hum of armies gathering rank on rank! Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank, Which curl in curious wreaths:--how soon the smoke Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak! Here pause we for the present--as even then That awful pause, dividing life from death, Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! A moment--and all will be life again! The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith! Hurra! and Allah! and--one moment more, The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. [Illustration: Canto 8] CANTO THE EIGHTH. O blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds! These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds: And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds At present such things, since they are her theme, So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars, Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars. All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men To wield them in their terrible array. The army, like a lion from his den, March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,-- A human Hydra, issuing from its fen To breathe destruction on its winding way, Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain Immediately in others grew again. History can only take things in the gross; But could we know them in detail, perchance In balancing the profit and the loss, War's merit it by no means might enhance, To waste so much gold for a little dross, As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. And why?--because it brings self-approbation; Whereas the other, after all its glare, Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, A higher title, or a loftier station, Though they may make Corruption gape or stare, Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles, Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. And such they are--and such they will be found: Not so Leonidas and Washington, Whose every battle-field is holy ground, Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! While the mere victor's may appal or stun The servile and the vain, such names will be A watchword till the future shall be free. The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, And in the Danube's waters shone the same-- A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes Spare, or smite rarely--man's make millions ashes! The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, Answering the Christian thunders with like voices: Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced, Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises; While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when The restless Titan hiccups in his den. And one enormous shout of 'Allah!' rose In the same moment, loud as even the roar Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore Resounded 'Allah!' and the clouds which close With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er, Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through All sounds it pierceth 'Allah! Allah! Hu!' The columns were in movement one and all, But of the portion which attack'd by water, Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter, As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 'Carnage' (so Wordsworth tells you) 'is God's daughter:' If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between His cap and head, which proves the head to be Aristocratic as was ever seen, Because it then received no injury More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean No harm unto a right legitimate head: 'Ashes to ashes'--why not lead to lead? Also the General Markow, Brigadier, Insisting on removal of the prince Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,-- All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, And shriek for water into a deaf ear,-- The General Markow, who could thus evince His sympathy for rank, by the same token, To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills; Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills Past, present, and to come;--but all may yield To the true portrait of one battle-field. There the still varying pangs, which multiply Until their very number makes men hard By the infinities of agony, Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard-- The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye Turn'd back within its socket,--these reward Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest May win perhaps a riband at the breast! Yet I love glory;--glory 's a great thing:-- Think what it is to be in your old age Maintain'd at the expense of your good king: A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, And heroes are but made for bards to sing, Which is still better; thus in verse to wage Your wars eternally, besides enjoying Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on To take a battery on the right; the others, Who landed lower down, their landing done, Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one, Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers, O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, Quite orderly, as if upon parade. And this was admirable; for so hot The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. Of officers a third fell on the spot, A thing which victory by no means boded To gentlemen engaged in the assault: Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. But here I leave the general concern, To track our hero on his path of fame: He must his laurels separately earn; For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, Though all deserving equally to turn A couplet, or an elegy to claim, Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, And what is worse still, a much longer story: And therefore we must give the greater number To the Gazette--which doubtless fairly dealt By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt Their clay for the last time their souls encumber;-- Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, And fought away with might and main, not knowing The way which they had never trod before, And still less guessing where they might be going; But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing, But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire Of dead and dying thousands,--sometimes gaining A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher To some odd angle for which all were straining; At other times, repulsed by the close fire, Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though The nightly muster and the silent march In the chill dark, when courage does not glow So much as under a triumphal arch, Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;-- Yet for all this he did not run away. Indeed he could not. But what if he had? There have been and are heroes who begun With something not much better, or as bad: Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run, For the first and last time; for, like a pad, Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one Warm bout are broken into their new tricks, And fight like fiends for pay or politics. He was what Erin calls, in her sublime Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic (The antiquarians who can settle time, Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational As any other notion, and not national);-- But Juan was quite 'a broth of a boy,' A thing of impulse and a child of song; Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong), And afterward, if he must needs destroy, In such good company as always throng To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, No less delighted to employ his leisure; But always without malice: if he warr'd Or loved, it was with what we call 'the best Intentions,' which form all mankind's trump card, To be produced when brought up to the test. The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer--ward Off each attack, when people are in quest Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 'T is pity 'that such meaning should pave hell.' I almost lately have begun to doubt Whether hell's pavement--if it be so paved-- Must not have latterly been quite worn out, Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, But by the mass who go below without Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides Warrior from warrior in their grim career, Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides Just at the close of the first bridal year, By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, When, after a good deal of heavy firing, He found himself alone, and friends retiring. I don't know how the thing occurr'd--it might Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, And that the rest had faced unto the right About; a circumstance which has confounded Caesar himself, who, in the very sight Of his whole army, which so much abounded In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, And rally back his Romans to the field. Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought He knew not why, arriving at this pass, Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought For a much longer time; then, like an as (Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought This simile enough for Ajax, Juan Perhaps may find it better than a new one)-- Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, And, what was stranger, never look'd behind; But seeing, flashing forward, like the day Over the hills, a fire enough to blind Those who dislike to look upon a fray, He stumbled on, to try if he could find A path, to add his own slight arm and forces To corps, the greater part of which were corses. Perceiving then no more the commandant Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had Quite disappear'd--the gods know howl (I can't Account for every thing which may look bad In history; but we at least may grant It was not marvellous that a mere lad, In search of glory, should look on before, Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps):-- Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, And left at large, like a young heir, to make His way to--where he knew not--single handed; As travellers follow over bog and brake An 'ignis fatuus;' or as sailors stranded Unto the nearest hut themselves betake; So Juan, following honour and his nose, Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins Fill'd as with lightning--for his spirit shared The hour, as is the case with lively brains; And where the hottest fire was seen and heard, And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains, He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon! And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he Fell in with what was late the second column, Under the orders of the General Lascy, But now reduced, as is a bulky volume Into an elegant extract (much less massy) Of heroism, and took his place with solemn Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces And levell'd weapons still against the glacis. Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, Who had 'retreated,' as the phrase is when Men run away much rather than go through Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; But Johnson was a clever fellow, who Knew when and how 'to cut and come again,' And never ran away, except when running Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose More virgin valour never dreamt of flying From ignorance of danger, which indues Its votaries, like innocence relying On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews,-- Johnson retired a little, just to rally Those who catch cold in 'shadows of Death's valley.' And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, Rampart, wall, casement, house,--for there was not In this extensive city, sore beset By Christian soldiery, a single spot Which did not combat like the devil, as yet, He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. And these he call'd on; and, what 's strange, they came Unto his call, unlike 'the spirits from The vasty deep,' to whom you may exclaim, Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon Her steady breath (which some months the same still is): Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, And could be very busy without bustle; And therefore, when he ran away, he did so Upon reflection, knowing that behind He would find others who would fain be rid so Of idle apprehensions, which like wind Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, But when they light upon immediate death, Retire a little, merely to take breath. But Johnson only ran off, to return With many other warriors, as we said, Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern: His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) Acted upon the living as on wire, And led them back into the heaviest fire. Egad! they found the second time what they The first time thought quite terrible enough To fly from, malgre all which people say Of glory, and all that immortal stuff Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)-- They found on their return the self-same welcome, Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail As any other boon for which men stickle. The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd. The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks: However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels, That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd, Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, Came mounting quickly up, for it was now All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below, So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, The gentlemen that were the first to show Their martial faces on the parapet, Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. But those who scaled, found out that their advance Was favour'd by an accident or blunder: The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder To see in forts of Netherlands or France (Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)-- Right in the middle of the parapet Just named, these palisades were primly set: So that on either side some nine or ten Paces were left, whereon you could contrive To march; a great convenience to our men, At least to all those who were left alive, Who thus could form a line and fight again; And that which farther aided them to strive Was, that they could kick down the palisades, Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. Among the first,--I will not say the first, For such precedence upon such occasions Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst Out between friends as well as allied nations: The Briton must be bold who really durst Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, As say that Wellington at Waterloo Was beaten--though the Prussians say so too;-- And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, And God knows who besides in 'au' and 'ow,' Had not come up in time to cast an awe Into the hearts of those who fought till now As tigers combat with an empty craw, The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show His orders, also to receive his pensions, Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. But never mind;--'God save the king!' and kings! For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer-- I think I hear a little bird, who sings The people by and by will be the stronger: The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings So much into the raw as quite to wrong her Beyond the rules of posting,--and the mob At last fall sick of imitating Job. At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant; At last it takes to weapons such as men Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. Then comes 'the tug of war;'--'t will come again, I rather doubt; and I would fain say 'fie on 't,' If I had not perceived that revolution Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. But to continue:--I say not the first, But of the first, our little friend Don Juan Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed Amidst such scenes--though this was quite a new one To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, Pervaded him--although a generous creature, As warm in heart as feminine in feature. And here he was--who upon woman's breast, Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er The man in all the rest might be confest, To him it was Elysium to be there; And he could even withstand that awkward test Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 'Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;' But Juan never left them, while they had charms, Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, Or near relations, who are much the same. But here he was!--where each tie that can bind Humanity must yield to steel and flame: And he whose very body was all mind, Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, Or double post and rail, where the existence Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, The lightest being the safest: at a distance He hated cruelty, as all men hate Blood, until heated--and even then his own At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, Seeing arrive an aid so opportune As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, Not reckoning him to be a 'base Bezonian' (As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew As much of German as of Sanscrit, and In answer made an inclination to The general who held him in command; For seeing one with ribands, black and blue, Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, He recognised an officer of rank. Short speeches pass between two men who speak No common language; and besides, in time Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime Is perpetrated ere a word can break Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer, There cannot be much conversation there. And therefore all we have related in Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute; But in the same small minute, every sin Contrived to get itself comprised within it. The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise Of human nature's agonising voice! The town was enter'd. Oh eternity!- 'God made the country and man made the town,' So Cowper says--and I begin to be Of his opinion, when I see cast down Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, All walls men know, and many never known; And pondering on the present and the past, To deem the woods shall be our home at last Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer, Who passes for in life and death most lucky, Of the great names which in our faces stare, The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere; For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. Crime came not near him--she is not the child Of solitude; Health shrank not from him--for Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, Where if men seek her not, and death be more Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled By habit to what their own hearts abhor-- In cities caged. The present case in point I Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety; And what 's still stranger, left behind a name For which men vainly decimate the throng, Not only famous, but of that good fame, Without which glory 's but a tavern song-- Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong; An active hermit, even in age the child Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild. 'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation, When they built up unto his darling trees,-- He moved some hundred miles off, for a station Where there were fewer houses and more ease; The inconvenience of civilisation Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please; But where he met the individual man, He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. He was not all alone: around him grew A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view A frown on Nature's or on human face; The free-born forest found and kept them free, And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, Because their thoughts had never been the prey Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions; No sinking spirits told them they grew grey, No fashion made them apes of her distortions; Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles, Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; Corruption could not make their hearts her soil; The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, With the free foresters divide no spoil; Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes Of this unsighing people of the woods. So much for Nature:--by way of variety, Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation! And the sweet consequence of large society, War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. The town was enter'd: first one column made Its sanguinary way good--then another; The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid: Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. Koutousow, he who afterward beat back (With some assistance from the frost and snow) Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, It happen'd was himself beat back just now; He was a jolly fellow, and could crack His jest alike in face of friend or foe, Though life, and death, and victory were at stake; But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take: For having thrown himself into a ditch, Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers, Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, He climb'd to where the parapet appears; But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch ('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's Was much regretted), for the Moslem men Threw them all down into the ditch again. And had it not been for some stray troops landing They knew not where, being carried by the stream To some spot, where they lost their understanding, And wander'd up and down as in a dream, Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, That which a portal to their eyes did seem,-- The great and gay Koutousow might have lain Where three parts of his column yet remain. And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, After the taking of the 'Cavalier,' Just as Koutousow's most 'forlorn' of 'hopes' Took like chameleons some slight tinge of fear, Open'd the gate call'd 'Kilia,' to the groups Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud, Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques (I don't much pique myself upon orthography, So that I do not grossly err in facts, Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)-- Having been used to serve on horses' backs, And no great dilettanti in topography Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases Their chiefs to order,--were all cut to pieces. Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart, And naturally thought they could have plunder'd The city, without being farther hamper'd; But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd-- The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners. Then being taken by the tail--a taking Fatal to bishops as to soldiers--these Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking, And found their lives were let at a short lease-- But perish'd without shivering or shaking, Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki:-- This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, But could not eat them, being in his turn Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, Without resistance, see their city burn. The walls were won, but 't was an even bet Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: 'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. Another column also suffer'd much:-- And here we may remark with the historian, You should but give few cartridges to such Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on: When matters must be carried by the touch Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, They sometimes, with a hankering for existence, Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. A junction of the General Meknop's men (Without the General, who had fallen some time Before, being badly seconded just then) Was made at length with those who dared to climb The death-disgorging rampart once again; And though the Turk's resistance was sublime, They took the bastion, which the Seraskier Defended at a price extremely dear. Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers, Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, A word which little suits with Seraskiers, Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. He died, deserving well his country's tears, A savage sort of military martyr. An English naval officer, who wish'd To make him prisoner, was also dish'd: For all the answer to his proposition Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead; On which the rest, without more intermission, Began to lay about with steel and lead-- The pious metals most in requisition On such occasions: not a single head Was spared;--three thousand Moslems perish'd here, And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. The city 's taken--only part by part-- And death is drunk with gore: there 's not a street Where fights not to the last some desperate heart For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. Here War forgot his own destructive art In more destroying Nature; and the heat Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. A Russian officer, in martial tread Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel: In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal-- The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, As do the subtle snakes described of old. A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit The very tendon which is most acute (That which some ancient Muse or modern wit Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it Even with his life--for (but they lie) 't is said To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. However this may be, 't is pretty sure The Russian officer for life was lamed, For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd: The regimental surgeon could not cure His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed More than the head of the inveterate foe, Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. But then the fact 's a fact--and 't is the part Of a true poet to escape from fiction Whene'er he can; for there is little art In leaving verse more free from the restriction Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart For what is sometimes called poetic diction, And that outrageous appetite for lies Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies. The city 's taken, but not render'd!--No! There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword: The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe: In vain the yell of victory is roar'd By the advancing Muscovite--the groan Of the last foe is echoed by his own. The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, And human lives are lavish'd everywhere, As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. It is an awful topic--but 't is not My cue for any time to be terrific: For checker'd as is seen our human lot With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific Of melancholy merriment, to quote Too much of one sort would be soporific;-- Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, I sketch your world exactly as it goes. And one good action in the midst of crimes Is 'quite refreshing,' in the affected phrase Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, A little scorch'd at present with the blaze Of conquest and its consequences, which Make epic poesy so rare and rich. Upon a taken bastion, where there lay Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group Of murder'd women, who had found their way To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop And shudder;--while, as beautiful as May, A female child of ten years tried to stoop And hide her little palpitating breast Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them, The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,-- The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild; And whom for this at last must we condemn? Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ All arts to teach their subjects to destroy? Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead: When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, I shall not say exactly what he said, Because it might not solace 'ears polite;' But what he did, was to lay on their backs, The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, And drove them with their brutal yells to seek If there might be chirurgeons who could solder The wounds they richly merited, and shriek Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, Don Juan raised his little captive from The heap a moment more had made her tomb. And she was chill as they, and on her face A slender streak of blood announced how near Her fate had been to that of all her race; For the same blow which laid her mother here Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace, As the last link with all she had held dear; But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd Upon each other, with dilated glance, In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd With joy to save, and dread of some mischance Unto his protege; while hers, transfix'd With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, Like to a lighted alabaster vase;-- Up came John Johnson (I will not say 'Jack,' For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace On great occasions, such as an attack On cities, as hath been the present case): Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, Exclaiming;--'Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace Your arm, and I 'll bet Moscow to a dollar That you and I will win St. George's collar. 'The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, But the stone bastion still remains, wherein The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din Of our artillery and his own: 't is said Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, Lie round the battery; but still it batters, And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 'Then up with me!'--But Juan answer'd, 'Look Upon this child--I saved her--must not leave Her life to chance; but point me out some nook Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, And I am with you.'--Whereon Johnson took A glance around--and shrugg'd--and twitch'd his sleeve And black silk neckcloth--and replied, 'You 're right; Poor thing! what 's to be done? I 'm puzzled quite.' Said Juan: 'Whatsoever is to be Done, I 'll not quit her till she seems secure Of present life a good deal more than we.' Quoth Johnson: 'Neither will I quite ensure; But at the least you may die gloriously.' Juan replied: 'At least I will endure Whate'er is to be borne--but not resign This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine.' Johnson said: 'Juan, we 've no time to lose; The child 's a pretty child--a very pretty-- I never saw such eyes--but hark! now choose Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity;-- Hark! how the roar increases!--no excuse Will serve when there is plunder in a city;-- I should be loth to march without you, but, By God! we 'll be too late for the first cut.' But Juan was immovable; until Johnson, who really loved him in his way, Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill Such as he thought the least given up to prey; And swearing if the infant came to ill That they should all be shot on the next day; But if she were deliver'd safe and sound, They should at least have fifty rubles round, And all allowances besides of plunder In fair proportion with their comrades;--then Juan consented to march on through thunder, Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men: And yet the rest rush'd eagerly--no wonder, For they were heated by the hope of gain, A thing which happens everywhere each day-- No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. And such is victory, and such is man! At least nine tenths of what we call so;--God May have another name for half we scan As human beings, or his ways are odd. But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan-- Or 'sultan,' as the author (to whose nod In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call This chieftain--somehow would not yield at all: But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy, That she spawns warriors by the score, where none Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy), He never would believe the city won While courage clung but to a single twig.--Am I Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? Neither--but a good, plain, old, temperate man, Who fought with his five children in the van. To take him was the point. The truly brave, When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save;-- A mixture of wild beasts and demigods Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave, Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compassion breathes along the savage mind. But he would not be taken, and replied To all the propositions of surrender By mowing Christians down on every side, As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. His five brave boys no less the foe defied; Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who Expended all their Eastern phraseology In begging him, for God's sake, just to show So much less fight as might form an apology For them in saving such a desperate foe-- He hew'd away, like doctors of theology When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell, The first with sighs, the second with an oath, Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, And all around were grown exceeding wroth At such a pertinacious infidel, And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, Which they resisted like a sandy plain That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd-- His second son was levell'd by a shot; His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot; The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, As great a scorner of the Nazarene As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen, Those houris, like all other pretty creatures, Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. And what they pleased to do with the young khan In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess; But doubtless they prefer a fine young man To tough old heroes, and can do no less; And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we scan A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, You 'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. Your houris also have a natural pleasure In lopping off your lately married men, Before the bridal hours have danced their measure And the sad, second moon grows dim again, Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure To wish him back a bachelor now and then. And thus your houri (it may be) disputes Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight, Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. In short, howe'er our better faith derides, These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, As though there were one heaven and none besides,-- Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven And hell, there must at least be six or seven. So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, That when the very lance was in his heart, He shouted 'Allah!' and saw Paradise With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, And bright eternity without disguise On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart:-- With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried In one voluptuous blaze,--and then he died, But with a heavenly rapture on his face. The good old khan, who long had ceased to see Houris, or aught except his florid race Who grew like cedars round him gloriously-- When he beheld his latest hero grace The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast A glance on that slain son, his first and last. The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede Quarter, in case he bade them not 'aroynt!' As he before had done. He did not heed Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint, And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, As he look'd down upon his children gone, And felt--though done with life--he was alone But 't was a transient tremor;--with a spring Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing Against the light wherein she dies: he clung Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; And throwing back a dim look on his sons, In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 'T is strange enough--the rough, tough soldiers, who Spared neither sex nor age in their career Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, And lay before them with his children near, Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, Were melted for a moment: though no tear Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, They honour'd such determined scorn of life. But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, Where the chief pacha calmly held his post: Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, And baffled the assaults of all their host; At length he condescended to inquire If yet the city's rest were won or lost; And being told the latter, sent a bey To answer Ribas' summons to give way. In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking Tobacco on a little carpet;--Troy Saw nothing like the scene around:--yet looking With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy His stern philosophy; but gently stroking His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, As if he had three lives, as well as tails. The town was taken--whether he might yield Himself or bastion, little matter'd now: His stubborn valour was no future shield. Ismail 's no more! The crescent's silver bow Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, But red with no redeeming gore: the glow Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. All that the mind would shrink from of excesses; All that the body perpetrates of bad; All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; All that the devil would do if run stark mad; All that defies the worst which pen expresses; All by which hell is peopled, or as sad As hell--mere mortals who their power abuse-- Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. If here and there some transient trait of pity Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty Child, or an aged, helpless man or two-- What 's this in one annihilated city, Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew? Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. Think how the joys of reading a Gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in aftertimes. Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation-- Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne-- Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. But let me put an end unto my theme: There was an end of Ismail--hapless town! Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, And redly ran his blushing waters down. The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown: Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, Some hundreds breathed--the rest were silent all! In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise The Russian army upon this occasion, A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, And therefore worthy of commemoration: The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase-- Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, Had made them chaste;--they ravish'd very little. Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less Might here and there occur some violation In the other line;--but not to such excess As when the French, that dissipated nation, Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, Except cold weather and commiseration; But all the ladies, save some twenty score, Were almost as much virgins as before. Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste-- Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark Their friends from foes,--besides such things from haste Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark Of light to save the venerably chaste: But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. But on the whole their continence was great; So that some disappointment there ensued To those who had felt the inconvenient state Of 'single blessedness,' and thought it good (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, To bear these crosses) for each waning prude To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. Some voices of the buxom middle-aged Were also heard to wonder in the din (Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 'Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!' But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, There was small leisure for superfluous sin; But whether they escaped or no, lies hid In darkness--I can only hope they did. Suwarrow now was conqueror--a match For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; And here exactly follows what he said:-- 'Glory to God and to the Empress!' (Powers Eternal! such names mingled!) 'Ismail 's ours.' Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,' and 'Upharsin,' Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. Heaven help me! I 'm but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations;--but this Russ so witty Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it-- For I will teach, if possible, the stones To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it Be said that we still truckle unto thrones;-- But ye--our children's children! think how we Show'd what things were before the world was free! That hour is not for us, but 't is for you: And as, in the great joy of your millennium, You hardly will believe such things were true As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em; But may their very memory perish too!- Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. And when you hear historians talk of thrones, And those that sate upon them, let it be As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones, 'And wonder what old world such things could see, Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, The pleasant riddles of futurity-- Guessing at what shall happily be hid, As the real purpose of a pyramid. Reader! I have kept my word,--at least so far As the first Canto promised. You have now Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war-- All very accurate, you must allow, And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; For I have drawn much less with a long bow Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. What farther hath befallen or may befall The hero of this grand poetic riddle, I by and by may tell you, if at all: But now I choose to break off in the middle, Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, While Juan is sent off with the despatch, For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. This special honour was conferr'd, because He had behaved with courage and humanity-- Which last men like, when they have time to pause From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gain'd him some applause For saving her amidst the wild insanity Of carnage,--and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. The Moslem orphan went with her protector, For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, Had perish'd in the field or by the wall: Her very place of birth was but a spectre Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal To prayer was heard no more!--and Juan wept, And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. [Illustration: Canto 9] CANTO THE NINTH. O, Wellington! (or 'Villainton'--for Fame Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; France could not even conquer your great name, But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-- Beating or beaten she will laugh the same), You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise: Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder 'Nay!' I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well In Marinet's affair--in fact, 't was shabby, And like some other things won't do to tell Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell, Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby; But though your years as man tend fast to zero, In fact your grace is still but a young hero. Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, A prop not quite so certain as before: The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor (I wish your bards would sing it rather better). You are 'the best of cut-throats:'--do not start; The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied: War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, Unless her cause by right be sanctified. If you have acted once a generous part, The world, not the world's masters, will decide, And I shall be delighted to learn who, Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? I am no flatterer--you 've supp'd full of flattery: They say you like it too--'t is no great wonder. He whose whole life has been assault and battery, At last may get a little tired of thunder; And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he May like being praised for every lucky blunder, Call'd 'Saviour of the Nations'--not yet saved, And 'Europe's Liberator'--still enslaved. I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, And send the sentinel before your gate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: He fought, but has not fed so well of late. Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:-- There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, But pray give back a little to the nation. I don't mean to reflect--a man so great as You, my lord duke! is far above reflection: The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, With modern history has but small connection: Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, You need not take them under your direction; And half a million for your Sabine farm Is rather dear!--I 'm sure I mean no harm. Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses: Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, Not leaving even his funeral expenses: George Washington had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory which few men's is To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, And as a high-soul'd minister of state is Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. Never had mortal man such opportunity, Except Napoleon, or abused it more: You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore: And now--what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye? Now--that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? Go! hear it in your famish'd country's cries! Behold the world! and curse your victories! As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, Must be recited, and--without a bribe. You did great things; but not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest--and mankind. Death laughs--Go ponder o'er the skeleton With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring-- Death laughs at all you weep for:--look upon This hourly dread of all! whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: Mark how its lipless mouth grins without breath! Mark how it laughs and scorns at all you are! And yet was what you are: from ear to ear It laughs not--there is now no fleshy bar So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far, He strips from man that mantle (far more dear Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin, White, black, or copper--the dead bones will grin. And thus Death laughs,--it is sad merriment, But still it is so; and with such example Why should not Life be equally content With his superior, in a smile to trample Upon the nothings which are daily spent Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample Than the eternal deluge, which devours Suns as rays--worlds like atoms--years like hours? 'To be, or not to be? that is the question,' Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion Than Buonaparte's cancer: could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame-- Without a stomach what were a good name? 'O dura ilia messorum!'--'Oh Ye rigid guts of reapers!' I translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is--that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: Let this one toil for bread--that rack for rent, He who sleeps best may be the most content. 'To be, or not to be?'--Ere I decide, I should be glad to know that which is being? 'T is true we speculate both far and wide, And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I 'll enlist on neither side, Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 'Que scais-je?' was the motto of Montaigne, As also of the first academicians: That all is dubious which man may attain, Was one of their most favourite positions. There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain As any of Mortality's conditions; So little do we know what we 're about in This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? Your wise men don't know much of navigation; And swimming long in the abyss of thought Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 'But heaven,' as Cassio says, 'is above all-- No more of this, then,--let us pray!' We have Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, Besides fish, beasts, and birds. 'The sparrow's fall Is special providence,' though how it gave Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. O, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? O, thou too, mortal man! what is philanthropy? O, world! which was and is, what is cosmogony? Some people have accused me of misanthropy; And yet I know no more than the mahogany That forms this desk, of what they mean; lykanthropy I comprehend, for without transformation Men become wolves on any slight occasion. But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er Done anything exceedingly unkind,-- And (though I could not now and then forbear Following the bent of body or of mind) Have always had a tendency to spare,-- Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.--and here we 'll pause. 'T is time we should proceed with our good poem,-- For I maintain that it is really good, Not only in the body but the proem, However little both are understood Just now,--but by and by the Truth will show 'em Herself in her sublimest attitude: And till she doth, I fain must be content To share her beauty and her banishment. Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader, yours) Was left upon his way to the chief city Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty. I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery--even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. For me, I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. And I will war, at least in words (and--should My chance so happen--deeds), with all who war With Thought;--and of Thought's foes by far most rude, Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. I know not who may conquer: if I could Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every depotism in every nation. It is not that I adulate the people: Without me, there are demagogues enough, And infidels, to pull down every steeple, And set up in their stead some proper stuff. Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, As is the Christian dogma rather rough, I do not know;--I wish men to be free As much from mobs as kings--from you as me. The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties: never mind! My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty Than if I sought to sail before the wind. He who has nought to gain can have small art: he Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind, May still expatiate freely, as will I, Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal;-- I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl By night, as do that mercenary pack all, Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, And scent the prey their masters would attack all. However, the poor jackals are less foul (As being the brave lions' keen providers) Than human insects, catering for spiders. Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away, And without that, their poison and their claws Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say (Or rather peoples)--go on without pause! The web of these tarantulas each day Increases, till you shall make common cause: None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, As yet are strongly stinging to be free. Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Was left upon his way with the despatch, Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter Fair Catherine's pastime--who look'd on the match Between these nations as a main of cocks, Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. And there in a kibitka he roll'd on (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, And orders, and on all that he had done-- And wishing that post-horses had the wings Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. At every jolt--and they were many--still He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill Than he, in these sad highways left at large To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge On her canals, where God takes sea and land, Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. At least he pays no rent, and has best right To be the first of what we used to call 'Gentlemen farmer'--a race worn out quite, Since lately there have been no rents at all, And 'gentlemen' are in a piteous plight, And 'farmers' can't raise Ceres from her fall: She fell with Buonaparte--What strange thoughts Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats! But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child Whom he had saved from slaughter--what a trophy O! ye who build up monuments, defiled With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy, Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! Because he could no more digest his dinner;-- O ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, That one life saved, especially if young Or pretty, is a thing to recollect Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung From the manure of human clay, though deck'd With all the praises ever said or sung: Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within Your heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. O! ye great authors luminous, voluminous! Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us! Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, To prove the public debt is not consuming us-- Or, roughly treading on the 'courtier's kibes' With clownish heel, your popular circulation Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation;-- O, ye great authors!--'Apropos des bottes,'- I have forgotten what I meant to say, As sometimes have been greater sages' lots; 'T was something calculated to allay All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: Certes it would have been but thrown away, And that 's one comfort for my lost advice, Although no doubt it was beyond all price. But let it go:--it will one day be found With other relics of 'a former world,' When this world shall be former, underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd First out of, and then back again to chaos, The superstratum which will overlay us. So Cuvier says;--and then shall come again Unto the new creation, rising out From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt: Like to the notions we now entertain Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! How the new worldlings of the then new East Will wonder where such animals could sup! (For they themselves will be but of the least: Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, And every new creation hath decreased In size, from overworking the material-- Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.) How will--to these young people, just thrust out From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about, Especially of war and taxing,--how, I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, Look like the monsters of a new museum? But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: 'The time is out of joint,'--and so am I; I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I cal Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next. So on I ramble, now and then narrating, Now pondering:--it is time we should narrate. I left Don Juan with his horses baiting-- Now we 'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating His journey, we 've so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasant capital of painted snows; Suppose him in a handsome uniform,-- A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow casimere we may presume, White stocking drawn uncurdled as new milk O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk; Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor-- That great enchanter, at whose rod's command Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler, Seeing how Art can make her work more grand (When she don't pin men's limbs in like a gaoler),-- Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery:-- His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat; His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock'd hat; But still so like, that Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid), If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and The empress smiled: the reigning favourite frown'd-- I quite forget which of them was in hand Just then; as they are rather numerous found, Who took by turns that difficult command Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless There was a something in his turn of limb, And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, That though he look'd one of the seraphim, There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, Or Scherbatoff, or any other off Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough Within her bosom (which was not too tough) For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, Of him who, in the language of his station, Then held that 'high official situation.' O, gentle ladies! should you seek to know The import of this diplomatic phrase, Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show His parts of speech; and in the strange displays Of that odd string of words, all in a row, Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of prey-- That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each day-- That monstrous hieroglyphic--that long spout Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! And here I must an anecdote relate, But luckily of no great length or weight. An English lady ask'd of an Italian, What were the actual and official duties Of the strange thing some women set a value on, Which hovers oft about some married beauties, Called 'Cavalier servente?'--a Pygmalion Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, Said--'Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.' And thus I supplicate your supposition, And mildest, matron-like interpretation, Of the imperial favourite's condition. 'T was a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion Of any one's attaining to his station, No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, And had retain'd his boyish look beyond The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond Parisian aspect which upset old Troy And founded Doctors' Commons:--I have conn'd The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd, Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, Who was gone to his place), and pass'd for much Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch Of sentiment; and he she most adored Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such A lover as had cost her many a tear, And yet but made a middling grenadier. O thou 'teterrima causa' of all 'belli'- Thou gate of life and death--thou nondescript! Whence is our exit and our entrance,--well I May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt In thy perennial fountain:--how man fell I Know not, since knowledge saw her branches stript Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. Some call thee 'the worst cause of war,' but I Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land! Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)-- Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. Then recollecting the whole empress, nor forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, As an East Indian sunrise on the main. These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst-- So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain: In vain!--As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands! Her next amusement was more fanciful; She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best To kill, and generals turn it into jest. The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: The whole court look'd immediately most sweet, Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth--while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount At sight, nor would permit you to discount. With her the latter, though at times convenient, Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd lenient, And always used her favourites too well. If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, Your 'fortune' was in a fair way 'to swell A man' (as Giles says); for though she would widow all Nations, she liked man as an individual. What a strange thing is man? and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her! Whether wed Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her Mind like the wind: whatever she has said Or done, is light to what she 'll say or do;-- The oldest thing on record, and yet new! O Catherine! (for of all interjections, To thee both oh! and ah! belong of right In love and war) how odd are the connections Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! Just now yours were cut out in different sections: First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite; Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; And thirdly he who brought you the despatch! Shakspeare talks of 'the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;' And some such visions cross'd her majesty, While her young herald knelt before her still. 'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high, For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's blessing With youth and health all kisses are 'heaven-kissing.' Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up-- And so they fell in love;--she with his face, His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup With the first draught intoxicates apace, A quintessential laudanum or 'black drop,' Which makes one drunk at once, without the base Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. He, on the other hand, if not in love, Fell into that no less imperious passion, Self-love--which, when some sort of thing above Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, Or duchess, princess, empress, 'deigns to prove' ('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one, For one especial person out of many, Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. Besides, he was of that delighted age Which makes all female ages equal--when We don't much care with whom we may engage, As bold as Daniel in the lion's den, So that we can our native sun assuage In the next ocean, which may flow just then, To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine), Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, Because each lover look'd a sort of king, Made up upon an amatory pattern, A royal husband in all save the ring-- Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. And when you add to this, her womanhood In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, Or better, as the best examples say: Napoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should Lend to that colour a transcendent ray; And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, Too wise to look through optics black or blue)-- Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, Her preference of a boy to men much bigger (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, With other extras, which we need not mention,-- All these, or any one of these, explain Enough to make a stripling very vain. And that 's enough, for love is vanity, Selfish in its beginning as its end, Except where 't is a mere insanity, A maddening spirit which would strive to blend Itself with beauty's frail inanity, On which the passion's self seems to depend: And hence some heathenish philosophers Make love the main spring of the universe. Besides Platonic love, besides the love Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving Of faithful pairs (I needs must rhyme with dove, That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 'Gainst reason--Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove With rhyme, but always leant less to improving The sound than sense)--beside all these pretences To love, there are those things which words name senses; Those movements, those improvements in our bodies Which make all bodies anxious to get out Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, For such all women are at first no doubt. How beautiful that moment! and how odd is That fever which precedes the languid rout Of our sensations! What a curious way The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, To end or to begin with; the next grand Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, Because the clergy take the thing in hand; The third sort to be noted in our chronicle As flourishing in every Christian land, Is when chaste matrons to their other ties Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. Well, we won't analyse--our story must Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust;-- I cannot stop to alter words once written, And the two are so mix'd with human dust, That he who names one, both perchance may hit on: But in such matters Russia's mighty empress Behaved no better than a common sempstress. The whole court melted into one wide whisper, And all lips were applied unto all ears! The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper As they beheld; the younger cast some leers On one another, and each lovely lisper Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye Of all the standing army who stood by. All the ambassadors of all the powers Enquired, Who was this very new young man, Who promised to be great in some few hours? Which is full soon--though life is but a span. Already they beheld the silver showers Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, Upon his cabinet, besides the presents Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants. Catherine was generous,--all such ladies are: Love, that great opener of the heart and all The ways that lead there, be they near or far, Above, below, by turnpikes great or small,-- Love (though she had a cursed taste for war, And was not the best wife, unless we call Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better That one should die, than two drag on the fetter)-- Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, If history, the grand liar, ever saith The truth; and though grief her old age might shorten, Because she put a favourite to death, Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. But when the levee rose, and all was bustle In the dissolving circle, all the nations' Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle Round the young man with their congratulations. Also the softer silks were heard to rustle Of gentle dames, among whose recreations It is to speculate on handsome faces, Especially when such lead to high places. Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, A general object of attention, made His answers with a very graceful bow, As if born for the ministerial trade. Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow Nature had written 'gentleman.' He said Little, but to the purpose; and his manner Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. An order from her majesty consign'd Our young lieutenant to the genial care Of those in office: all the world look'd kind (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind), As also did Miss Protasoff then there, Named from her mystic office 'l'Eprouveuse,' A term inexplicable to the Muse. With her then, as in humble duty bound, Juan retired,--and so will I, until My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. We have just lit on a 'heaven-kissing hill,' So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, And all my fancies whirling like a mill; Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, To take a quiet ride in some green Lane. [Illustration: Canto 10] CANTO THE TENTH. When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation-- 'T is said (for I 'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation)-- A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round In a most natural whirl, called 'gravitation;' And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, If this be true; for we must deem the mode In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, A thing to counterbalance human woes: For ever since immortal man hath glow'd With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. And wherefore this exordium?--Why, just now, In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, My bosom underwent a glorious glow, And my internal spirit cut a caper: And though so much inferior, as I know, To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, Discover stars and sail in the wind's eye, I wish to do as much by poesy. In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for The stars, I own my telescope is dim: But at least I have shunn'd the common shore, And leaving land far out of sight, would skim The ocean of eternity: the roar Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; And far be it from my Muses to presume (For I have more than one Muse at a push) To follow him beyond the drawing-room: It is enough that Fortune found him flush Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 'Oh!' saith the Psalmist, 'that I had a dove's Pinions to flee away, and be at rest!' And who that recollects young years and loves,-- Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, And palsied fancy, which no longer roves Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,--but would much rather Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather? But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink, Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, Which threatens inundations deep and yellow! Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow; No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. But coughs will come when sighs depart--and now And then before sighs cease; for oft the one Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while a glow, Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,--how happy they! But Juan was not meant to die so soon. We left him in the focus of such glory As may be won by favour of the moon Or ladies' fancies--rather transitory Perhaps; but who would scorn the month of June, Because December, with his breath so hoary, Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. Besides, he had some qualities which fix Middle-aged ladies even more than young: The former know what 's what; while new-fledged chicks Know little more of love than what is sung In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. Some reckon women by their suns or years, I rather think the moon should date the dears. And why? because she 's changeable and chaste. I know no other reason, whatsoe'er Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, May choose to tax me with; which is not fair, Nor flattering to 'their temper or their taste,' As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air: However, I forgive him, and I trust He will forgive himself;--if not, I must. Old enemies who have become new friends Should so continue--'t is a point of honour; And I know nothing which could make amends For a return to hatred: I would shun her Like garlic, howsoever she extends Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes-- Converted foes should scorn to join with those. This were the worst desertion:--renegadoes, Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, Would scarcely join again the 'reformadoes,' Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty: And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, Whether in Caledon or Italy, Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize To pain, the moment when you cease to please. The lawyer and the critic but behold The baser sides of literature and life, And nought remains unseen, but much untold, By those who scour those double vales of strife. While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion. A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty; The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper Than can be hid by altering his shirt; he Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper, At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, In all their habits;--not so you, I own; As Caesar wore his robe you wear your gown. And all our little feuds, at least all mine, Dear Jefferson, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over: Here 's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!' I do not know you, and may never know Your face--but you have acted on the whole Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. And when I use the phrase of 'Auld Lang Syne!' 'T is not address'd to you--the more 's the pity For me, for I would rather take my wine With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. But somehow,--it may seem a schoolboy's whine, And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head,-- As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland, one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall, All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, Like Banquo's offspring;--floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not--'t is a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.' And though, as you remember, in a fit Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit, They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I 'scotch'd not kill'd' the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of 'mountain and of flood.' Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,-- For both are much the same, since what men think Exists when the once thinkers are less real Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal; And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there;-- Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian-- How we won't mention, why we need not say: Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion Of any slight temptation in their way; But his just now were spread as is a cushion Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour; gay Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. The favour of the empress was agreeable; And though the duty wax'd a little hard, Young people at his time of life should be able To come off handsomely in that regard. He was now growing up like a green tree, able For love, war, or ambition, which reward Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium Make some prefer the circulating medium. About this time, as might have been anticipated, Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated; Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples On our fresh feelings, but--as being participated With all kinds of incorrigible samples Of frail humanity--must make us selfish, And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. This we pass over. We will also pass The usual progress of intrigues between Unequal matches, such as are, alas! A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, But one who is not so youthful as she was In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levels With his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, To one small grass-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils Who never had a foot of land till now,-- Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry-- Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitter For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot-- And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. And this same state we won't describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection; But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,' That horrid equinox, that hateful section Of human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear;-- I won't describe,--that is, if I can help Description; and I won't reflect,--that is, If I can stave off thought, which--as a whelp Clings to its teat--sticks to me through the abyss Of this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kiss Drains its first draught of lips:--but, as I said, I won't philosophise, and will be read. Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted,-- A thing which happens rarely: this he owed Much to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show'd, Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most He owed to an old woman and his post. He wrote to Spain:--and all his near relations, Perceiving fie was in a handsome way Of getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer'd the same day. Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, That with the addition of a slight pelisse, Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, Where his assets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor,-- Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; As the sole sign of man's being in his senses Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 'She also recommended him to God, And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad; Inform'd him that he had a little brother Born in a second wedlock; and above All, praised the empress's maternal love. 'She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then):-- At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten, Or five, or one, or zero, she could never Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river.' O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim! Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, Drew quiet consolation through its hint, When she no more could read the pious print. She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a way As any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment day Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repay His knights with, lotting others' properties Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, Erneis, Radulphus--eight-and-forty manors (If that my memory doth not greatly err) Were their reward for following Billy's banners: And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners; Yet as they founded churches with the produce, You 'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times He felt like other plants called sensitive, Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, Save such as Southey can afford to give. Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes In which the Neva's ice would cease to live Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, In royalty's vast arms he sigh d for beauty: Perhaps--but, sans perhaps, we need not seek For causes young or old: the canker-worm Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, As well as further drain the wither'd form: Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week His bills in, and however we may storm, They must be paid: though six days smoothly run, The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. I don't know how it was, but he grew sick: The empress was alarm'd, and her physician (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition Which augur'd of the dead, however quick Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; At which the whole court was extremely troubled, The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours: Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin; Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, Which with the blood too readily will claim kin; Others again were ready to maintain, ''T was only the fatigue of last campaign.' But here is one prescription out of many: 'Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannae optim. Aq. fervent. f. 3ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennae Haustus' (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him) 'Rx Pulv Com gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae' (With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 'Bolus Potassae Sulphuret. sumendus, Et haustus ter in die capiendus.' This is the way physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health--when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer: While that 'hiatus maxime deflendus' To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near, Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. Juan demurr'd at this first notice to Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection, His youth and constitution bore him through, And sent the doctors in a new direction. But still his state was delicate: the hue Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel The faculty--who said that he must travel. The climate was too cold, they said, for him, Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, Who did not like at first to lose her minion: But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, And drooping like an eagle's with clipt pinion, She then resolved to send him on a mission, But in a style becoming his condition. There was just then a kind of a discussion, A sort of treaty or negotiation Between the British cabinet and Russian, Maintain'd with all the due prevarication With which great states such things are apt to push on; Something about the Baltic's navigation, Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, Which Britons deem their 'uti possidetis.' So Catherine, who had a handsome way Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd This secret charge on Juan, to display At once her royal splendour, and reward His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, Received instructions how to play his card, Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens Are generally prosperous in reigning; Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. But to continue: though her years were waning Her climacteric teased her like her teens; And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, So much did Juan's setting off distress her, She could not find at first a fit successor. But time, the comforter, will come at last; And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number Of candidates requesting to be placed, Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber:-- Not that she meant to fix again in haste, Nor did she find the quantity encumber, But always choosing with deliberation, Kept the place open for their emulation. While this high post of honour 's in abeyance, For one or two days, reader, we request You 'll mount with our young hero the conveyance Which wafted him from Petersburgh: the best Barouche, which had the glory to display once The fair czarina's autocratic crest, When, a new lphigene, she went to Tauris, Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, All private favourites of Don Juan;--for (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) He had a kind of inclination, or Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, Live animals: an old maid of threescore For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, Although he was not old, nor even a maid;-- The animals aforesaid occupied Their station: there were valets, secretaries, In other vehicles; but at his side Sat little Leila, who survived the parries He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies Her note, she don't forget the infant girl Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl Poor little thing! She was as fair as docile, And with that gentle, serious character, As rare in living beings as a fossile Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, 'grand Cuvier!' Ill fitted was her ignorance to jostle With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. I cannot tell exactly what it was; He was not yet quite old enough to prove Parental feelings, and the other class, Call'd brotherly affection, could not move His bosom,--for he never had a sister: Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her! And still less was it sensual; for besides That he was not an ancient debauchee (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides, As acids rouse a dormant alkali), Although ('t will happen as our planet guides) His youth was not the chastest that might be, There was the purest Platonism at bottom Of all his feelings--only he forgot 'em. Just now there was no peril of temptation; He loved the infant orphan he had saved, As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved Owing to him;--as also her salvation Through his means and the church's might be paved. But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted, The little Turk refused to be converted. 'T was strange enough she should retain the impression Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter; But though three bishops told her the transgression, She show'd a great dislike to holy water: She also had no passion for confession; Perhaps she had nothing to confess:--no matter, Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it-- She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. In fact, the only Christian she could bear Was Juan; whom she seem'd to have selected In place of what her home and friends once were. He naturally loved what he protected: And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, A guardian green in years, a ward connected In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. They journey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 'Biron.' 'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren! To lose by one month's frost some twenty years Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. Let this not seem an anti-climax:--'Oh! My guard! my old guard exclaim'd!' exclaim'd that god of day. Think of the Thunderer's falling down below Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh! Alas, that glory should be chill'd by snow! But should we wish to warm us on our way Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, Has lately been the great Professor Kant. Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper About philosophy, pursued his jaunt To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions Have princes who spur more than their postilions. And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine:-- Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike All phantasies, not even excepting mine; A grey wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, Make my soul pass the equinoctial line Between the present and past worlds, and hover Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre Of the good feudal times forever gone, On which I have not time just now to lecture. From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, A city which presents to the inspector Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, The greatest number flesh hath ever known. From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, Where juniper expresses its best juice, The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. Senates and sages have condemn'd its use-- But to deny the mob a cordial, which is Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, Good government has left them, seems but cruel. Here he embark'd, and with a flowing sail Went bounding for the island of the free, Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale; But Juan, season'd, as he well might be, By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. At length they rose, like a white wall along The blue sea's border; and I Don Juan felt-- What even young strangers feel a little strong At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt-- A kind of pride that he should be among Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, And made the very billows pay them toll. I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth, Which holds what might have been the noblest nation; But though I owe it little but my birth, I feel a mix'd regret and veneration For its decaying fame and former worth. Seven years (the usual term of transportation) Of absence lay one's old resentments level, When a man's country 's going to the devil. Alas! could she but fully, truly, know How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd: How eager all the earth is for the blow Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; How all the nations deem her their worst foe, That worse than worst of foes, the once adored False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, And now would chain them, to the very mind:-- Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, Who is but first of slaves? The nations are In prison,--but the gaoler, what is he? No less a victim to the bolt and bar. Is the poor privilege to turn the key Upon the captive, freedom? He 's as far From the enjoyment of the earth and air Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties To those who upon land or water dwell; And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed, Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, Who did not limit much his bills per week, Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it (His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it); But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, Is free, the respiration's worth the money. On with the horses! Off to Canterbury! Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through puddle; Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle Along the road, as if they went to bury Their fare; and also pause besides, to fuddle With 'schnapps'--sad dogs! whom 'Hundsfot,' or 'Verflucter,' Affect no more than lightning a conductor. Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed--no matter where its Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel--which is driving. They saw at Canterbury the cathedral; Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, In the same quaint, uninterested tone:-- There 's glory again for you, gentle reader! All Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias; Which form that bitter draught, the human species. The effect on Juan was of course sublime: He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, Who died in the then great attempt to climb O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, And ask'd why such a structure had been raised: And being told it was 'God's house,' she said He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low His holy temples in the lands which bred The True Believers:--and her infant brow Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. O! oh! through meadows managed like a garden, A paradise of hops and high production; For after years of travel by a bard in Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, A green field is a sight which makes him pardon The absence of that more sublime construction, Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices. And when I think upon a pot of beer-- But I won't weep!--and so drive on, postilions! As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, Juan admired these highways of free millions; A country in all senses the most dear To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture, And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road! So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god Had told his son to satisfy his craving With the York mail;--but onward as we roll, 'Surgit amari aliquid'--the toll Alas, how deeply painful is all payment! Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses: As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, Such is the shortest way to general curses. They hate a murderer much less than a claimant On that sweet ore which every body nurses;-- Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn Toward the great city.--Ye who have a spark in Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn According as you take things well or ill;-- Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,' As some have qualified that wondrous place: But Juan felt, though not approaching home, As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head--and there is London Town! But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper): The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. He paused--and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try To tell you truths you will not take as true, Because they are so;--a male Mrs. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls. O Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? Try Your head at harden'd and imperial sin. To mend the people 's an absurdity, A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:--Fy! I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. Teach them the decencies of good threescore; Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses; Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, To set up vain pretence of being great, 'T is not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; And tell them--But you won't, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. [Illustration: Canto 11] CANTO THE ELEVENTH. When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,' And proved it--'t was no matter what he said: They say his system 't is in vain to batter, Too subtle for the airiest human head; And yet who can believe it? I would shatter Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, And wear my head, denying that I wear it. What a sublime discovery 't was to make the Universe universal egotism, That all 's ideal--all ourselves: I 'll stake the World (be it what you will) that that 's no schism. O Doubt!--if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee; But which I doubt extremely--thou sole prism Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it. For ever and anon comes Indigestion, (Not the most 'dainty Ariel') and perplexes Our soarings with another sort of question: And that which after all my spirit vexes, Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder-- If it be chance; or if it be according To the old text, still better:--lest it should Turn out so, we 'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, As several people think such hazards rude. They 're right; our days are too brief for affording Space to dispute what no one ever could Decide, and every body one day will Know very clearly--or at least lie still. And therefore will I leave off metaphysical Discussion, which is neither here nor there: If I agree that what is, is; then this I call Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair; The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical: I don't know what the reason is--the air Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. The first attack at once proved the Divinity (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil); The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; The third, the usual Origin of Evil; The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity On so uncontrovertible a level, That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, On purpose to believe so much the more. To our Theme.--The man who has stood on the Acropolis, And look'd down over Attica; or he Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, May not think much of London's first appearance-- But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence? Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill; Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity; While every thing around was calm and still, Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he Heard,--and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum:-- I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, And lost in wonder of so great a nation, Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 'And here,' he cried, 'is Freedom's chosen station; Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 'Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay But what they please; and if that things be dear, 'T is only that they love to throw away Their cash, to show how much they have a-year. Here laws are all inviolate; none lay Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear: Here-' he was interrupted by a knife, With,--'Damn your eyes! your money or your life!' These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads, Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, In which the heedless gentleman who gads Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, May find himself within that isle of riches Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. Juan, who did not understand a word Of English, save their shibboleth, 'God damn!' And even that he had so rarely heard, He sometimes thought 't was only their 'Salam,' Or 'God be with you!'--and 't is not absurd To think so: for half English as I am (To my misfortune), never can I say I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way;-- Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, And being somewhat choleric and sudden, Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, And fired it into one assailant's pudding-- Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 'Oh Jack! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!' On which Jack and his train set off at speed, And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, And offering, as usual, late assistance. Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed As if his veins would pour out his existence, Stood calling out for bandages and lint, And wish'd he had been less hasty with his flint. 'Perhaps,' thought he, 'it is the country's wont To welcome foreigners in this way: now I recollect some innkeepers who don't Differ, except in robbing with a bow, In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. But what is to be done? I can't allow The fellow to lie groaning on the road: So take him up; I 'll help you with the load.' But ere they could perform this pious duty, The dying man cried, 'Hold! I 've got my gruel! O for a glass of max! We 've miss'd our booty; Let me die where I am!' And as the fuel Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill His breath,--he from his swelling throat untied A kerchief, crying, 'Give Sal that!'--and died. The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell Exactly why it was before him thrown, Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, A thorough varmint, and a real swell, Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled, His pockets first and then his body riddled. Don Juan, having done the best he could In all the circumstances of the case, As soon as 'Crowner's quest' allow'd, pursued His travels to the capital apace;-- Esteeming it a little hard he should In twelve hours' time, and very little space, Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native In self-defence: this made him meditative. He from the world had cut off a great man, Who in his time had made heroic bustle. Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle? Who queer a flat? Who (spite of Bow Street's ban) On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle? Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? But Tom's no more--and so no more of Tom. Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 't is Not long before the most of them go home. Hail! Thamis, Hail! Upon thy verge it is That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,' Which makes us wish ourselves in town at once;-- Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees (Like lucus from no light); through prospects named Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, With 'To be let' upon their doors proclaim'd; Through 'Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,' Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice;-- Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion; Here taverns wooing to a pint of 'purl,' There mails fast flying off like a delusion; There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass (For in those days we had not got to gas);-- Through this, and much, and more, is the approach Of travellers to mighty Babylon: Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. I could say more, but do not choose to encroach Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun Had set some time, and night was on the ridge Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge,-- That 's rather fine. The gentle sound of Thamis-- Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream, Though hardly heard through multifarious 'damme's'- The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is A spectral resident--whose pallid beam In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile-- Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. The Druids' groves are gone--so much the better: Stone-Henge is not--but what the devil is it?- But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, That madmen may not bite you on a visit; The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it) To me appears a stiff yet grand erection; But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collection. The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross, Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation Like gold as in comparison to dross, Match'd with the Continent's illumination, Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, And when they grew so--on their new-found lantern, Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. A row of gentlemen along the streets Suspended may illuminate mankind, As also bonfires made of country seats; But the old way is best for the purblind: The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes Could recommence to hunt his honest man, And found him not amidst the various progenies Of this enormous city's spreading span, 'T were not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can, I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, But see the world is only one attorney. Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall, Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner Admitted a small party as night fell,-- Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, St. James's Palace and St. James's 'Hells.' They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door A tide of well-clad waiters, and around The mob stood, and as usual several score Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound In decent London when the daylight 's o'er; Commodious but immoral, they are found Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage.- But Juan now is stepping from his carriage Into one of the sweetest of hotels, Especially for foreigners--and mostly For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, And cannot find a bill's small items costly. There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), Until to some conspicuous square they pass, And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. Juan, whose was a delicate commission, Private, though publicly important, bore No title to point out with due precision The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 'T was merely known, that on a secret mission A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. Some rumour also of some strange adventures Had gone before him, and his wars and loves; And as romantic heads are pretty painters, And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves Into the excursive, breaking the indentures Of sober reason wheresoe'er it moves, He found himself extremely in the fashion, Which serves our thinking people for a passion. I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite The contrary; but then 't is in the head; Yet as the consequences are as bright As if they acted with the heart instead, What after all can signify the site Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead In safety to the place for which you start, What matters if the road be head or heart? Juan presented in the proper place, To proper placemen, every Russ credential; And was received with all the due grimace By those who govern in the mood potential, Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) That they as easily might do the youngster, As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. They err'd, as aged men will do; but by And by we 'll talk of that; and if we don't, 'T will be because our notion is not high Of politicians and their double front, Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie:-- Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. And, after all, what is a lie? 'T is but The truth in masquerade; and I defy Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put A fact without some leaven of a lie. The very shadow of true Truth would shut Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy--except it should be dated Some years before the incidents related. Praised be all liars and all lies! Who now Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? She rings the world's 'Te Deum,' and her brow Blushes for those who will not:--but to sigh Is idle; let us like most others bow, Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty, After the good example of 'Green Erin,' Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing. Don Juan was presented, and his dress And mien excited general admiration-- I don't know which was more admired or less: One monstrous diamond drew much observation, Which Catherine in a moment of 'ivresse' (In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd; And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. Besides the ministers and underlings, Who must be courteous to the accredited Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, Until their royal riddle 's fully read, The very clerks,--those somewhat dirty springs Of office, or the house of office, fed By foul corruption into streams,--even they Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: And insolence no doubt is what they are Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, In the dear offices of peace or war; And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, When for a passport, or some other bar To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore), If he found not his spawn of taxborn riches, But Juan was received with much 'empressement:'- These phrases of refinement I must borrow From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman, There is a move set down for joy or sorrow Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, More than on continents--as if the sea (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. And yet the British 'Damme' 's rather Attic: Your continental oaths are but incontinent, And turn on things which no aristocratic Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent This subject quote; as it would be schismatic In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't:-- But 'Damme' 's quite ethereal, though too daring-- Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home; For true or false politeness (and scarce that Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam-- The first the emblem (rarely though) of what You leave behind, the next of much you come To meet. However, 't is no time to chat On general topics: poems must confine Themselves to unity, like this of mine. In the great world,--which, being interpreted, Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, And about twice two thousand people bred By no means to be very wise or witty, But to sit up while others lie in bed, And look down on the universe with pity,-- Juan, as an inveterate patrician, Was well received by persons of condition. He was a bachelor, which is a matter Of import both to virgin and to bride, The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter; And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 'T is also of some moment to the latter: A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, Requires decorum, and is apt to double The horrid sin--and what 's still worse, the trouble. But Juan was a bachelor--of arts, And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had An air as sentimental as Mozart's Softest of melodies; and could be sad Or cheerful, without any 'flaws or starts,' Just at the proper time; and though a lad, Had seen the world--which is a curious sight, And very much unlike what people write. Fair virgins blush'd upon him; wedded dames Bloom'd also in less transitory hues; For both commodities dwell by the Thames, The painting and the painted; youth, ceruse, Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, Such as no gentleman can quite refuse: Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. The milliners who furnish 'drapery Misses' Throughout the season, upon speculation Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, Thought such an opportunity as this is, Of a rich foreigner's initiation, Not to be overlook'd--and gave such credit, That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. The Blues, that tender tribe who sigh o'er sonnets, And with the pages of the last Review Line the interior of their heads or bonnets, Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two; And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? Juan, who was a little superficial, And not in literature a great Drawcansir, Examined by this learned and especial Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: His duties warlike, loving or official, His steady application as a dancer, Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, Which now he found was blue instead of green. However, he replied at hazard, with A modest confidence and calm assurance, Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith (Who at sixteen translated 'Hercules Furens' Into as furious English), with her best look, Set down his sayings in her common-place book. Juan knew several languages--as well He might--and brought them up with skill, in time To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. There wanted but this requisite to swell His qualities (with them) into sublime: Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish, Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. However, he did pretty well, and was Admitted as an aspirant to all The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, At great assemblies or in parties small, He saw ten thousand living authors pass, That being about their average numeral; Also the eighty 'greatest living poets,' As every paltry magazine can show its. In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,' Like to the champion in the fisty ring, Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, Although 't is an imaginary thing. Even I--albeit I 'm sure I did not know it, Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king-- Was reckon'd a considerable time, The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain: 'La Belle Alliance' of dunces down at zero, Now that the Lion 's fall'n, may rise again: But I will fall at least as fell my hero; Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell Before and after; but now grown more holy, The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, A modern Ancient Pistol--by the hilts? Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, Sets up for being a sort of moral me; He 'll find it rather difficult some day To turn out both, or either, it may be. Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three; And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian 'Savage Landor' Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, Just as he really promised something great, If not intelligible, without Greek Contrived to talk about the gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; 'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. The list grows long of live and dead pretenders To that which none will gain--or none will know The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders His last award, will have the long grass grow Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. If I might augur, I should rate but low Their chances; they 're too numerous, like the thirty Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. This is the literary lower empire, Where the praetorian bands take up the matter;-- A 'dreadful trade,' like his who 'gathers samphire,' The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, And show them what an intellectual war is. I think I know a trick or two, would turn Their flanks;--but it is hardly worth my while With such small gear to give myself concern: Indeed I 've not the necessary bile; My natural temper 's really aught but stern, And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile; And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy, And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril Amongst live poets and blue ladies, past With some small profit through that field so sterile, Being tired in time, and, neither least nor last, Left it before he had been treated very ill; And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd Amongst the higher spirits of the day, The sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray. His morns he pass'd in business--which, dissected, Was like all business a laborious nothing That leads to lassitude, the most infected And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, And talk in tender horrors of our loathing All kinds of toil, save for our country's good-- Which grows no better, though 't is time it should. His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, Lounging and boxing; and the twilight hour In riding round those vegetable puncheons Call'd 'Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; But after all it is the only 'bower' (In Moore's phrase), where the fashionable fair Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd; Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, Which opens to the thousand happy few An earthly paradise of 'Or Molu.' There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the waltz, The only dance which teaches girls to think, Makes one in love even with its very faults. Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, And long the latest of arrivals halts, 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, And gain an inch of staircase at a time. Thrice happy he who, after a survey Of the good company, can win a corner, A door that's in or boudoir out of the way, Where he may fix himself like small 'Jack Horner,' And let the Babel round run as it may, And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, Or an approver, or a mere spectator, Yawning a little as the night grows later. But this won't do, save by and by; and he Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, Must steer with care through all that glittering sea Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where He deems it is his proper place to be; Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, Let him take care that that which he pursues Is not at once too palpably descried. Full many an eager gentleman oft rues His haste: impatience is a blundering guide, Amongst a people famous for reflection, Who like to play the fool with circumspection. But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; Or, if forestalled, get opposite and ogle:-- O, ye ambrosial moments! always upper In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill Can tender souls relate the rise and fall Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. But these precautionary hints can touch Only the common run, who must pursue, And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much Or little overturns; and not the few Or many (for the number's sometimes such) Whom a good mien, especially if new, Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, Before he can escape from so much danger As will environ a conspicuous man. Some Talk about poetry, and 'rack and manger,' And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble;-- I wish they knew the life of a young noble. They are young, but know not youth--it is anticipated; Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to a Jew; Both senates see their nightly votes participated Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; And having voted, dined, drunk, gamed, and whored, The family vault receives another lord. 'Where is the world?' cries Young, at eighty--'Where The world in which a man was born? 'Alas! Where is the world of eight years past? 'T was there-- I look for it--'t is gone, a globe of glass! Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows. Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well? Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents? And where--oh, where the devil are the rents? Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wellesley? Diddled. Where 's Whitbread? Romilly? Where 's George the Third? Where is his will? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) And where is 'Fum' the Fourth, our 'royal bird?' Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard: 'Caw me, caw thee'--for six months hath been hatching This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, Married, unmarried, and remarried (this is An evolution oft performed of late). Where are the Dublin shouts--and London hisses? Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is,-- Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies Of fashion,--say what streams now fill those channels? Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, Have taken up at length with younger brothers: Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: Some maids have been made wives, some merely mothers; Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: In short, the list of alterations bothers. There 's little strange in this, but something strange is The unusual quickness of these common changes. Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable, without being new: Nought 's permanent among the human race, Except the Whigs not getting into place. I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke (No matter which) turn politician stupider, If that can well be, than his wooden look. But it is time that I should hoist my 'blue Peter,' And sail for a new theme:--I have seen--and shook To see it--the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; But don't pretend to settle which was best. I have seen the Landholders without a rap-- I have seen Joanna Southcote--I have seen-- The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap-- I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen-- I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap-- I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean-- I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses Kick off their burthens, meaning the high classes. I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and Interminable--not eternal--speakers-- I have seen the funds at war with house and land-- I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers-- I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand By slaves on horseback--I have seen malt liquors Exchanged for 'thin potations' by John Bull-- I have seen john half detect himself a fool.- But 'carpe diem,' Juan, 'carpe, carpe!' To-morrow sees another race as gay And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 'Life 's a poor player,'--then 'play out the play, Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see. But how shall I relate in other cantos Of what befell our hero in the land, Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as A moral country? But I hold my hand-- For I disdain to write an Atalantis; But 't is as well at once to understand, You are not a moral people, and you know it Without the aid of too sincere a poet. What Juan saw and underwent shall be My topic, with of course the due restriction Which is required by proper courtesy; And recollect the work is only fiction, And that I sing of neither mine nor me, Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt This--when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. Whether he married with the third or fourth Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, Or whether with some virgin of more worth (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) He took to regularly peopling Earth, Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is,-- Or whether he was taken in for damages, For being too excursive in his homages,-- Is yet within the unread events of time. Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back Against the same given quantity of rhyme, For being as much the subject of attack As ever yet was any work sublime, By those who love to say that white is black. So much the better!--I may stand alone, But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. [Illustration: Canto 12] CANTO THE TWELTH. Of all the barbarous middle ages, that Which is most barbarous is the middle age Of man; it is--I really scarce know what; But when we hover between fool and sage, And don't know justly what we would be at-- A period something like a printed page, Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;-- Too old for youth,--too young, at thirty-five, To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore,-- I wonder people should be left alive; But since they are, that epoch is a bore: Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive; And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er; And money, that most pure imagination, Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. O Gold! Why call we misers miserable? Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. Ye who but see the saving man at table, And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker; Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; But making money, slowly first, then quicker, And adding still a little through each cross (Which will come over things), beats love or liquor, The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour. Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal? Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain? (That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all.) Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?- Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring. Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan Is not a merely speculative hit, But seats a nation or upsets a throne. Republics also get involved a bit; Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, Must get itself discounted by a Jew. Why call the miser miserable? as I said before: the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-same cause, And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;-- Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. He is your only poet;--passion, pure And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure; On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze, While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. The lands on either side are his; the ship From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip; Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip; His very cellars might be kings' abodes; While he, despising every sensual call, Commands--the intellectual lord of all. Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, To build a college, or to found a race, A hospital, a church,--and leave behind Some dome surmounted by his meagre face: Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind Even with the very ore which makes them base; Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, Or revel in the joys of calculation. But whether all, or each, or none of these May be the hoarder's principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease:-- What is his own? Go--look at each transaction, Wars, revels, loves--do these bring men more ease Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction'? Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours--who 's wiser? How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:-- Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,'--'for love Is heaven, and heaven is love:'--so sings the bard; Which it were rather difficult to prove (A thing with poetry in general hard). Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,' At least it rhymes to 'love;' but I 'm prepared To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental. But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone: Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides; Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none; Without cash, Malthus tells you--'take no brides.' So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the tides: And as for Heaven 'Heaven being Love,' why not say honey Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony. Is not all love prohibited whatever, Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt, After a sort; but somehow people never With the same thought the two words have help'd out: Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, And marriage also may exist without; But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, And ought to go by quite another name. Now if the 'court,' and 'camp,' and 'grove,' be not Recruited all with constant married men, Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen;-- Strange too in my 'buon camerado' Scott, So celebrated for his morals, when My Jeffrey held him up as an example To me;--of whom these morals are a sample. Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth, The only time when much success is needed: And my success produced what I, in sooth, Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded-- Whate'er it was, 't was mine; I 've paid, in truth, Of late the penalty of such success, But have not learn'd to wish it any less. That suit in Chancery,--which some persons plead In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, In the faith of their procreative creed, Baptize posterity, or future clay,-- To me seems but a dubious kind of reed To lean on for support in any way; Since odds are that posterity will know No more of them, than they of her, I trow. Why, I 'm posterity--and so are you; And whom do we remember? Not a hundred. Were every memory written down all true, The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd; Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd; And Mitford in the nineteenth century Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. Good people all, of every degree, Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be As serious as if I had for inditers Malthus and Wilberforce:--the last set free The Negroes and is worth a million fighters; While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites, And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. I 'm serious--so are all men upon paper; And why should I not form my speculation, And hold up to the sun my little taper? Mankind just now seem wrapt in mediation On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; While sages write against all procreation, Unless a man can calculate his means Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. That 's noble! That 's romantic! For my part, I think that 'Philo-genitiveness' is (Now here 's a word quite after my own heart, Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this, If that politeness set it not apart; But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss)-- I say, methinks that 'Philo-genitiveness' Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. And now to business.--O my gentle Juan, Thou art in London--in that pleasant place, Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 'T is true, that thy career is not a new one; Thou art no novice in the headlong chase Of early life; but this is a new land, Which foreigners can never understand. What with a small diversity of climate, Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, I could send forth my mandate like a primate Upon the rest of Europe's social state; But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. All countries have their 'Lions,' but in the There is but one superb menagerie. But I am sick of politics. Begin, 'Paulo Majora.' Juan, undecided Amongst the paths of being 'taken in,' Above the ice had like a skater glided: When tired of play, he flirted without sin With some of those fair creatures who have prided Themselves on innocent tantalisation, And hate all vice except its reputation. But these are few, and in the end they make Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows That even the purest people may mistake Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows; And then men stare, as if a new ass spake To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) With the kind world's amen--'Who would have thought it?' The little Leila, with her orient eyes, And taciturn Asiatic disposition (Which saw all western things with small surprise, To the surprise of people of condition, Who think that novelties are butterflies To be pursued as food for inanition), Her charming figure and romantic history Became a kind of fashionable mystery. The women much divided--as is usual Amongst the sex in little things or great. Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all-- I have always liked you better than I state: Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all Of being apt to talk at a great rate; And now there was a general sensation Amongst you, about Leila's education. In one point only were you settled--and You had reason; 't was that a young child of grace, As beautiful as her own native land, And far away, the last bud of her race, Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, Would be much better taught beneath the eye Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. So first there was a generous emulation, And then there was a general competition, To undertake the orphan's education. As Juan was a person of condition, It had been an affront on this occasion To talk of a subscription or petition; But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, Whose tale belongs to 'Hallam's Middle Ages,' And one or two sad, separate wives, without A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough-- Begg'd to bring up the little girl and 'out,'- For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, And all her points as thorough-bred to show: And I assure you, that like virgin honey Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money). How all the needy honourable misters, Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy At making matches, where ''t is gold that glisters,' Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy Buzz round 'the Fortune' with their busy battery, To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery! Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation; Nay, married dames will now and then discover Such pure disinterestedness of passion, I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 'Tantaene!' Such the virtues of high station, Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's 'Dover!' While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen. 'T is fine to see them scattering refusals And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin (Friends of the party), who begin accusals, Such as--'Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day? 'Why?--Why?--Besides, Fred really was attach'd; 'T was not her fortune--he has enough without: The time will come she 'll wish that she had snatch'd So good an opportunity, no doubt:-- But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, As I 'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: And after all poor Frederick may do better-- Pray did you see her answer to his letter?' Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives; And when at last the pretty creature gets Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives, It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected To find how very badly she selected. For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, Worn out with importunity; or fall (But here perhaps the instances are fewer) To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure (If 't is not vain examples to recall) To draw a high prize: now, howe'er he got her, I See nought more strange in this than t' other lottery. I, for my part (one 'modern instance' more, 'True, 't is a pity--pity 't is, 't is true'), Was chosen from out an amatory score, Albeit my years were less discreet than few; But though I also had reform'd before Those became one who soon were to be two, I 'll not gainsay the generous public's voice, That the young lady made a monstrous choice. O, pardon my digression--or at least Peruse! 'T is always with a moral end That I dissert, like grace before a feast: For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest, My Muse by exhortation means to mend All people, at all times, and in most places, Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. But now I 'm going to be immoral; now I mean to show things really as they are, Not as they ought to be: for I avow, That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far From much improvement with that virtuous plough Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, Only to keep its corn at the old price. But first of little Leila we 'll dispose; For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, Or like the old comparison of snows, Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. Like many people everybody knows, Don Juan was delighted to secure A goodly guardian for his infant charge, Who might not profit much by being at large. Besides, he had found out he was no tutor (I wish that others would find out the same); And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, For silly wards will bring their guardians blame: So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor To make his little wild Asiatic tame, Consulting 'the Society for Vice Suppression,' Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. Olden she was--but had been very young; Virtuous she was--and had been, I believe; Although the world has such an evil tongue That--but my chaster ear will not receive An echo of a syllable that 's wrong: In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve, As that abominable tittle-tattle, Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. Moreover I 've remark'd (and I was once A slight observer in a modest way), And so may every one except a dunce, That ladies in their youth a little gay, Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense Of the sad consequence of going astray, Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe Which the mere passionless can never know. While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue By railing at the unknown and envied passion, Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion,-- The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, Entreating you to pause before you dash on; Expounding and illustrating the riddle Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, As better knowing why they should be so, I think you 'll find from many a family picture, That daughters of such mothers as may know The world by experience rather than by lecture, Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about-- As who has not, if female, young, and pretty? But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about; She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about: Then she was given to charity and pity, And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) For being a most exemplary wife. High in high circles, gentle in her own, She was the mild reprover of the young, Whenever--which means every day--they 'd shown An awkward inclination to go wrong. The quantity of good she did 's unknown, Or at the least would lengthen out my song: In brief, the little orphan of the East Had raised an interest in her, which increased. Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her, Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, A little spoil'd, but not so altogether; Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither: Though this might ruin others, it did not him, At least entirely--for he had seen too many Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. How far it profits is another matter.- Our hero gladly saw his little charge Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter Being long married, and thus set at large, Had left all the accomplishments she taught her To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge, To the next comer; or--as it will tell More Muse-like--like to Cytherea's shell. I call such things transmission; for there is A floating balance of accomplishment Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, According as their minds or backs are bent. Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss Of metaphysics; others are content With music; the most moderate shine as wits; While others have a genius turn'd for fits. But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, May be the baits for gentlemen or lords With regular descent, in these our days, The last year to the new transfers its hoards; New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise Of 'elegant' et caetera, in fresh batches-- All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. But now I will begin my poem. 'T is Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, That from the first of Cantos up to this I 've not begun what we have to go through. These first twelve books are merely flourishes, Preludios, trying just a string or two Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure; And when so, you shall have the overture. My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding: Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have chosen; 'T is a 'great moral lesson' they are reading. I thought, at setting off, about two dozen Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading, If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, I think to canter gently through a hundred. Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, Yclept the Great World; for it is the least, Although the highest: but as swords have hilts By which their power of mischief is increased, When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, Must still obey the high--which is their handle, Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. He had many friends who had many wives, and was Well look'd upon by both, to that extent Of friendship which you may accept or pass, It does nor good nor harm being merely meant To keep the wheels going of the higher class, And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent: And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, For the first season such a life scarce palls. A young unmarried man, with a good name And fortune, has an awkward part to play; For good society is but a game, 'The royal game of Goose,' as I may say, Where every body has some separate aim, An end to answer, or a plan to lay-- The single ladies wishing to be double, The married ones to save the virgins trouble. I don't mean this as general, but particular Examples may be found of such pursuits: Though several also keep their perpendicular Like poplars, with good principles for roots; Yet many have a method more reticular-- 'Fishers for men,' like sirens with soft lutes: For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dresses ready. Perhaps you 'll have a letter from the mother, To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd; Perhaps you 'll have a visit from the brother, All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand What 'your intentions are?'--One way or other It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand: And between pity for her case and yours, You 'll add to Matrimony's list of cures. I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus, And some of them high names: I have also known Young men who--though they hated to discuss Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown-- Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, A peril--not indeed like love or marriage, But not the less for this to be depreciated: It is--I meant and mean not to disparage The show of virtue even in the vitiated-- It adds an outward grace unto their carriage-- But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 'Couleur de rose,' who 's neither white nor scarlet. Such is your cold coquette, who can't say 'No,' And won't say 'Yes,' and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow-- Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing. This works a world of sentimental woe, And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin; But yet is merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 'Ye gods, I grow a talker!' Let us prate. The next of perils, though I place it sternest, Is when, without regard to 'church or state,' A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. Abroad, such things decide few women's fate-- (Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learnest)-- But in old England, when a young bride errs, Poor thing! Eve's was a trifling case to hers. For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit Country, where a young couple of the same ages Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it. Then there's the vulgar trick of those d��d damages! ! A verdict--grievous foe to those who cause it!- Forms a sad climax to romantic homages; Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, And evidences which regale all readers. But they who blunder thus are raw beginners; A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy; You may see such at all the balls and dinners, Among the proudest of our aristocracy, So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste-- And all by having tact as well as taste. Juan, who did not stand in the predicament Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more; For he was sick--no, 't was not the word sick I meant-- But he had seen so much love before, That he was not in heart so very weak;--I meant But thus much, and no sneer against the shore Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion, And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, Into a country where 't is half a fashion, Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation: Besides (alas! his taste--forgive and pity!) At first he did not think the women pretty. I say at first--for he found out at last, But by degrees, that they were fairer far Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast Beneath the influence of the eastern star. A further proof we should not judge in haste; Yet inexperience could not be his bar To taste:--the truth is, if men would confess, That novelties please less than they impress. Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, Where Geography finds no one to oblige her With such a chart as may be safely stuck to-- For Europe ploughs in Afric like 'bos piger:' But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there No doubt I should be told that black is fair. It is. I will not swear that black is white; But I suspect in fact that white is black, And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. Ask a blind man, the best judge. You 'll attack Perhaps this new position--but I 'm right; Or if I 'm wrong, I 'll not be ta'en aback:-- He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark Within; and what seest thou? A dubious spark. But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame; And this reflection brings me to plain physics, And to the beauties of a foreign dame, Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice. Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes;-- Not that there 's not a quantity of those Who have a due respect for their own wishes. Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. But this has nought to do with their outsides. I said that Juan did not think them pretty At the first blush; for a fair Briton hides Half her attractions--probably from pity-- And rather calmly into the heart glides, Than storms it as a foe would take a city; But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) She keeps it for you like a true ally. She cannot step as does an Arab barb, Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning; Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb-- le those bravuras (which I still am learning To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily);-- She cannot do these things, nor one or two Others, in that off-hand and dashing style Which takes so much--to give the devil his due; Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, Nor settles all things in one interview (A thing approved as saving time and toil);-- But though the soil may give you time and trouble, Well cultivated, it will render double. And if in fact she takes to a 'grande passion,' It is a very serious thing indeed: Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed: But the tenth instance will be a tornado, For there 's no saying what they will or may do. The reason 's obvious; if there 's an eclat, They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias; And when the delicacies of the law Have fill'd their papers with their comments various, Society, that china without flaw (The hypocrite!), will banish them like Marius, To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt: For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. Perhaps this is as it should be;--it is A comment on the Gospel's 'Sin no more, And be thy sins forgiven:'--but upon this I leave the saints to settle their own score. Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, An erring woman finds an opener door For her return to Virtue--as they cal That lady, who should be at home to all. For me, I leave the matter where I find it, Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads People some ten times less in fact to mind it, And care but for discoveries and not deeds. And as for chastity, you 'll never bind it By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, By rendering desperate those who had else repented. But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd Upon the moral lessons of mankind: Besides, he had not seen of several hundred A lady altogether to his mind. A little 'blase'--'t is not to be wonder'd At, that his heart had got a tougher rind: And though not vainer from his past success, No doubt his sensibilities were less. He also had been busy seeing sights-- The Parliament and all the other houses; Had sat beneath the gallery at nights, To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) The world to gaze upon those northern lights Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses; He had also stood at times behind the throne-- But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. He saw, however, at the closing session, That noble sight, when really free the nation, A king in constitutional possession Of such a throne as is the proudest station, Though despots know it not--till the progression Of freedom shall complete their education. 'T is not mere splendour makes the show august To eye or heart--it is the people's trust. There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, With fascination in his very bow, And full of promise, as the spring of prime. Though royalty was written on his brow, He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime, Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. And Juan was received, as hath been said, Into the best society: and there Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, However disciplined and debonnaire:-- The talent and good humour he display'd, Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, Even though himself avoided the occasion. But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, Is not to be put hastily together; And as my object is morality (Whatever people say), I don't know whether I 'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, But harrow up his feelings till they wither, And hew out a huge monument of pathos, As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, You 'll find it of a different construction From what some people say 't will be when done: The plan at present 's simply in concoction, I can't oblige you, reader, to read on; That 's your affair, not mine: a real spirit Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, Remember, reader! you have had before The worst of tempests and the best of battles That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, Besides the most sublime of--Heaven knows what else: An usurer could scarce expect much more-- But my best canto, save one on astronomy, Will turn upon 'political economy.' That is your present theme for popularity: Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, It grows an act of patriotic charity, To show the people the best way to break. My plan (but I, if but for singularity, Reserve it) will be very sure to take. Meantime, read all the national debt-sinkers, And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. [Illustration: Canto 13] CANTO THE THIRTEENTH. I now mean to be serious;--it is time, Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime, And critically held as deleterious: Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, Although when long a little apt to weary us; And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, As an old temple dwindled to a column. The Lady Adeline Amundeville ('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found In pedigrees, by those who wander still Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, In Britain--which of course true patriots find The goodliest soil of body and of mind. I 'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue; I 'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best: An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue, Is no great matter, so 't is in request, 'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue-- The kindest may be taken as a test. The fair sex should be always fair; and no man, Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman. And after that serene and somewhat dull Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, We may presume to criticise or praise; Because indifference begins to lull Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; Also because the figure and the face Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. I know that some would fain postpone this era, Reluctant as all placemen to resign Their post; but theirs is merely a chimera, For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line: But then they have their claret and Madeira To irrigate the dryness of decline; And county meetings, and the parliament, And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. And is there not religion, and reform, Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the 'Nation'? The struggle to be pilots in a storm? The landed and the monied speculation? The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, Instead of love, that mere hallucination? Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, Right honestly, 'he liked an honest hater!'- The only truth that yet has been confest Within these latest thousand years or later. Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest:-- For my part, I am but a mere spectator, And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles; But neither love nor hate in much excess; Though 't was not once so. If I sneer sometimes, It is because I cannot well do less, And now and then it also suits my rhymes. I should be very willing to redress Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. Of all tales 't is the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile: his hero 's right, And still pursues the right;--to curb the bad His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight His guerdon: 't is his virtue makes him mad! But his adventures form a sorry sight; A sorrier still is the great moral taught By that real epic unto all who have thought. Redressing injury, revenging wrong, To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; Opposing singly the united strong, From foreign yoke to free the helpless native:-- Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought! And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote? Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; A single laugh demolish'd the right arm Of his own country;--seldom since that day Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, The world gave ground before her bright array; And therefore have his volumes done such harm, That all their glory, as a composition, Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. I 'm 'at my old lunes'--digression, and forget The Lady Adeline Amundeville; The fair most fatal Juan ever met, Although she was not evil nor meant ill; But Destiny and Passion spread the net (Fate is a good excuse for our own will), And caught them;--what do they not catch, methinks? But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx. I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare To venture a solution: 'Davus sum!' And now I will proceed upon the pair. Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair; Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb. The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, And since that time there has not been a second. Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, And wedded unto one she had loved well-- A man known in the councils of the nation, Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, Proud of himself and her: the world could tell Nought against either, and both seem'd secure-- She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. It chanced some diplomatical relations, Arising out of business, often brought Himself and Juan in their mutual stations Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends In making men what courtesy calls friends. And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow In judging men--when once his judgment was Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, Had all the pertinacity pride has, Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, Because its own good pleasure hath decided. His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, Of common likings, which make some deplore What they should laugh at--the mere ague still Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. ''T is not in mortals to command success: But do you more, Sempronius--don't deserve it,' And take my word, you won't have any less. Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it; Give gently way, when there 's too great a press; And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it, For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. Lord Henry also liked to be superior, As most men do, the little or the great; The very lowest find out an inferior, At least they think so, to exert their state Upon: for there are very few things wearier Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight, Which mortals generously would divide, By bidding others carry while they ride. In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, O'er Juan he could no distinction claim; In years he had the advantage of time's sequel; And, as he thought, in country much the same-- Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, At which all modern nations vainly aim; And the Lord Henry was a great debater, So that few members kept the house up later. These were advantages: and then he thought-- It was his foible, but by no means sinister-- That few or none more than himself had caught Court mysteries, having been himself a minister: He liked to teach that which he had been taught, And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; And reconciled all qualities which grace man, Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity; He almost honour'd him for his docility; Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, Or contradicted but with proud humility. He knew the world, and would not see depravity In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop-- For then they are very difficult to stop. And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, Constantinople, and such distant places; Where people always did as they were bid, Or did what they should not with foreign graces. Of coursers also spake they: Henry rid Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, And diplomatic dinners, or at other-- For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, As in freemasonry a higher brother. Upon his talent Henry had no doubts; His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother; And all men like to show their hospitality To him whose breeding matches with his quality. At Blank-Blank Square;--for we will break no squares By naming streets: since men are so censorious, And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, Reaping allusions private and inglorious, Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, That therefore do I previously declare, Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. Also there bin another pious reason For making squares and streets anonymous; Which is, that there is scarce a single season Which doth not shake some very splendid house With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason-- A topic scandal doth delight to rouse: Such I might stumble over unawares, Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, A place where peccadillos are unknown; But I have motives, whether wise or silly, For letting that pure sanctuary alone. Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: Such are�but I have lost the London Chart. At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square, Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, As many other noble scions were; And some who had but talent for their crest; Or wealth, which is a passport every where; Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best Recommendation; and to be well drest Will very often supersede the rest. And since 'there 's safety in a multitude Of counsellors,' as Solomon has said, Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood;-- Indeed we see the daily proof display'd In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, Where'er collective wisdom can parade, Which is the only cause that we can guess Of Britain's present wealth and happiness;-- But as 'there 's safety' grafted in the number 'Of counsellors' for men, thus for the sex A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber; Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex-- Variety itself will more encumber. 'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks; And thus with women: howsoe'er it shocks some's Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. But Adeline had not the least occasion For such a shield, which leaves but little merit To virtue proper, or good education. Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, Which judged mankind at their due estimation; And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it: Secure of admiration, its impression Was faint, as of an every-day possession. To all she was polite without parade; To some she show'd attention of that kind Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd In such a sort as cannot leave behind A trace unworthy either wife or maid;-- A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious, Just to console sad glory for being glorious; Which is in all respects, save now and then, A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, The praise of persecution; gaze again On the most favour'd; and amidst the blaze Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, What can ye recognise?--a gilded cloud. There also was of course in Adeline That calm patrician polish in the address, Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line Of any thing which nature would express; Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine,-- At least his manner suffers not to guess That any thing he views can greatly please. Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese-- Perhaps from Horace: his 'Nil admirari' Was what he call'd the 'Art of Happiness;' An art on which the artists greatly vary, And have not yet attain'd to much success. However, 't is expedient to be wary: Indifference certes don't produce distress; And rash enthusiasm in good society Were nothing but a moral inebriety. But Adeline was not indifferent: for (Now for a common-place!) beneath the snow, As a volcano holds the lava more Within--et caetera. Shall I go on?--No! I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, So let the often-used volcano go. Poor thing! How frequently, by me and others, It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers! I 'll have another figure in a trice:-- What say you to a bottle of champagne? Frozen into a very vinous ice, Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, Yet in the very centre, past all price, About a liquid glassful will remain; And this is stronger than the strongest grape Could e'er express in its expanded shape: 'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre A hidden nectar under a cold presence. And such are many--though I only meant her From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, On which the Muse has always sought to enter. And your cold people are beyond all price, When once you have broken their confounded ice. But after all they are a North-West Passage Unto the glowing India of the soul; And as the good ships sent upon that message Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost (A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost. And young beginners may as well commence With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman; While those who are not beginners should have sense Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon With his grey signal-flag; and the past tense, The dreary 'Fuimus' of all things human, Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun out Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. But heaven must be diverted; its diversion Is sometimes truculent--but never mind: The world upon the whole is worth the assertion (If but for comfort) that all things are kind: And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, Of the two principles, but leaves behind As many doubts as any other doctrine Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. The English winter--ending in July, To recommence in August--now was done. 'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly; On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. But for post-horses who finds sympathy? Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, Always premising that said son at college Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. The London winter 's ended in July-- Sometimes a little later. I don't err In this: whatever other blunders lie Upon my shoulders, here I must aver My Muse a glass of weatherology; For parliament is our barometer: Let radicals its other acts attack, Its sessions form our only almanack. When its quicksilver 's down at zero,--lo Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, And happiest they who horses can engage; The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, Sigh--as the postboys fasten on the traces. They and their bills, 'Arcadians both,' are left To the Greek kalends of another session. Alas! to them of ready cash bereft, What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, At a long date--till they can get a fresh one-- Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large; Also the solace of an overcharge. But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. Away! away! 'Fresh horses!' are the word, And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage; The obsequious landlord hath the change restored; The postboys have no reason to disparage Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence. 'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey-- That gentleman of lords and gentlemen; Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen Can paint,--'Cosi viaggino i Ricchi!' (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, If but to show I 've travell'd; and what 's travel, Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) The London winter and the country summer Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, When nature wears the gown that doth become her, To lose those best months in a sweaty city, And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, Listening debates not very wise or witty, Ere patriots their true country can remember;-- But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone; The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made, Were vanish'd to be what they call alone-- That is, with thirty servants for parade, As many guests, or more; before whom groan As many covers, duly, daily, laid. Let none accuse Old England's hospitality-- Its quantity is but condensed to quality. Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline Departed like the rest of their compeers, The peerage, to a mansion very fine; The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. None than themselves could boast a longer line, Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks as olden as their pedigree Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. A paragraph in every paper told Of their departure: such is modern fame: 'T is pity that it takes no farther hold Than an advertisement, or much the same; When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim-- 'Departure, for his country seat, to-day, Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 'We understand the splendid host intends To entertain, this autumn, a select And numerous party of his noble friends; 'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite correct, With many more by rank and fashion deck'd; Also a foreigner of high condition, The envoy of the secret Russian mission.' And thus we see--who doubts the Morning Post? (Whose articles are like the 'Thirty-nine,' Which those most swear to who believe them most)-- Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, With those who, Pope says, 'greatly daring dine.' 'T is odd, but true,--last war the News abounded More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded;-- As thus: 'On Thursday there was a grand dinner; Present, Lords A. B. C.'--Earls, dukes, by name Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner: Then underneath, and in the very same Column; date, 'Falmouth. There has lately been here The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame, Whose loss in the late action we regret: The vacancies are fill'd up--see Gazette.' To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,-- An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion; of a rich and rare Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal: it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind. It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The dappled foresters--as day awoke, The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften'd way did take In currents through the calmer water spread Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes--like an infant made Quiet--sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw. A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd--a loss to art: The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch. Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone,-- The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign. But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd; She made the earth below seem holy ground. This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical--a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall: Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm. Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower; The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:--I 've heard it--once perhaps too much. Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint-- Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. The mansion's self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and refectory, I ween: An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk. Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined, Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts: We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. Steel barons, molten the next generation To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation; And Lady Marys blooming into girls, With fair long locks, had also kept their station; And countesses mature in robes and pearls: Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. Judges in very formidable ermine Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops, who had not left a single sermon: Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.' Generals, some all in armour, of the old And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold: Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed; And here and there some stern high patriot stood, Who could not get the place for which he sued. But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, Fatigued with these hereditary glories, There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's; Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:-- But, lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish Or Dutch with thirst--What, ho! a flask of Rhenish. O reader! if that thou canst read,--and know, 'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, To constitute a reader; there must go Virtues of which both you and I have need;-- Firstly, begin with the beginning (though That clause is hard); and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end--or, sinning In this sort, end at least with the beginning. But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. That poets were so from their earliest date, By Homer's 'Catalogue of ships' is clear; But a mere modern must be moderate-- I spare you then the furniture and plate. The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'T is no sport for peasants. An English autumn, though it hath no vines, Blushing with Bacchant coronals along The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines The red grape in the sunny lands of song, Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; The claret light, and the Madeira strong. If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar. Then, if she hath not that serene decline Which makes the southern autumn's day appear As if 't would to a second spring resign The season, rather than to winter drear, Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,-- The sea-coal fires the 'earliest of the year;' Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. And for the effeminate villeggiatura-- Rife with more horns than hounds--she hath the chase, So animated that it might allure Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, And wear the Melton jacket for a space: If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, Consisted of--we give the sex the pas-- The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby; The Ladies Scilly, Busey;--Miss Eclat, Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw; Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep: With other Countesses of Blank--but rank; At once the 'lie' and the 'elite' of crowds; Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, All purged and pious from their native clouds; Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank: No matter how or why, the passport shrouds The 'passee' and the past; for good society Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,-- That is, up to a certain point; which point Forms the most difficult in punctuation. Appearances appear to form the joint On which it hinges in a higher station; And so that no explosion cry 'Aroint Thee, witch!' or each Medea has her Jason; Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 'Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.' I can't exactly trace their rule of right, Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite By the mere combination of a coterie; Also a so-so matron boldly fight Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, And shine the very Siria of the spheres, Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. I have seen more than I 'll say:--but we will see How our villeggiatura will get on. The party might consist of thirty-three Of highest caste--the Brahmins of the ton. I have named a few, not foremost in degree, But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, There also were some Irish absentees. There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, He shows more appetite for words than war. There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star. There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker; And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. There was the Duke of Dash, who was a--duke, 'Ay, every inch a' duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagne's--and all such peers in look And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears For commoners had ever them mistook. There were the six Miss Rawbolds--pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet. There were four Honourable Misters, whose Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here, Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because--such was his magic power to please-- The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees. There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, Good at all things, but better at a bet. There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman; And General Fireface, famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, In his grave office so completely skill'd, That when a culprit came far condemnation, He had his judge's joke for consolation. Good company 's a chess-board--there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world 's a game; Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely:--were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. I had forgotten--but must not forget-- An orator, the latest of the session, Who had deliver'd well a very set Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet With his debut, which made a strong impression, And rank'd with what is every day display'd-- 'The best first speech that ever yet was made.' Proud of his 'Hear hims!' proud, too, of his vote And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory: With memory excellent to get by rote, With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, 'His country's pride,' he came down to the country. There also were two wits by acclamation, Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, Both lawyers and both men of education; But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potato,-- While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato. Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp. Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word: At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp: Both wits--one born so, and the other bred-- This by his heart, his rival by his head. If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. The days of Comedy are gone, alas! When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete: Society is smooth'd to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress. Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground-- Ridiculous enough, but also dull; Professions, too, are no more to be found Professional; and there is nought to cull Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polish'd horde, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I--modest Ruth. Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.' But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. 'List, oh, list!'- 'Alas, poor ghost!'--What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bon-mots! Firstly, they must allure the conversation By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion, Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, But take an ell--and make a great sensation, If possible; and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch'd on were the guests: Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man--the hungry sinner!- Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and honey,' Held out unto the hungry Israelites; To this we have added since, the love of money, The only sort of pleasure which requites. Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee? When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport-- The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle-aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:--we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. The elderly walk'd through the library, And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, And made upon the hot-house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, Or on the morning papers read their lectures, Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, Longing at sixty for the hour of six. But none were 'gene:' the great hour of union Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were Masters of their own time--or in communion, Or solitary, as they chose to bear The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast. The ladies--some rouged, some a little pale-- Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale, Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, And settled bonnets by the newest code, Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, To make each correspondent a new debtor. For some had absent lovers, all had friends. The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven--because it never ends. I love the mystery of a female missal, Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, When he allured poor Dolon:--you had better Take care what you reply to such a letter. Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;-- Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;-- Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice, And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days: And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says; The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. With evening came the banquet and the wine; The conversazione; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine (My heart or head aches with the memory yet). The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp--because to music's charms They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze; Then there was small-talk ready when required; Flirtation--but decorous; the mere praise Of charms that should or should not be admired. The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, And then retreated soberly--at ten. The politicians, in a nook apart, Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; The wits watch'd every loophole for their art, To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; Small is the rest of those who would be smart, A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it; And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. They separated at an early hour; That is, ere midnight--which is London's noon: But in the country ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower-- May the rose call back its true colour soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge--at least some winters. [Illustration: Canto 14] CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. If from great nature's or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-- But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, And eats her parents, albeit the digestion Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question? Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die? And both may after all turn out untrue. An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments (an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where; And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it:--when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,--you can't gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 'T is true, you don't--but, pale and struck with terror, Retire: but look into your past impression! And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears--but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do--or do not. But what 's this to the purpose? you will say. Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is--'t is my way; Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion I write what 's uppermost, without delay: This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places. You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;' And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. The world is all before me--or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;-- Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few. And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. But 'why then publish?'--There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn,--Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read?--To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink--I have had at least my dream. I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I 've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing-- The one is winning, and the other losing. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts-- And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts; And were her object only what 's call'd glory, With more ease too she 'd tell a different story. Love, war, a tempest--surely there 's variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. The portion of this world which I at present Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there 's no description recent. The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages. With much to excite, there 's little to exalt; Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any. Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls--at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score, Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There 's little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those 'ci-devant jeunes hommes' who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 'T is said--indeed a general complaint-- That no one has succeeded in describing The monde, exactly as they ought to paint: Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; And that their books have but one style in common-- My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. But this can't well be true, just now; for writers Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, Especially when young, for that 's essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers Of what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? 'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 'Haud ignara loquor;' these are Nugae, 'quarum Pars parva fui,' but still art and part. Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em, For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 'Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit--' Which means that vulgar people must not share it. And therefore what I throw off is ideal-- Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real, As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated. Alas! worlds fall--and woman, since she fell'd The world (as, since that history less polite Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held) Has not yet given up the practice quite. Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins,-- A daily plague, which in the aggregate May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate The real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. All this were very well, and can't be better; But even this is difficult, Heaven knows, So many troubles from her birth beset her, Such small distinction between friends and foes, The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, That--but ask any woman if she'd choose (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen? 'Petticoat influence' is a great reproach, Which even those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; But since beneath it upon earth we are brought, By various joltings of life's hackney coach, I for one venerate a petticoat-- A garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. Much I respect, and much I have adored, In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, And more attracts by all it doth conceal-- A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, A loving letter with a mystic seal, A cure for grief--for what can ever rankle Before a petticoat and peeping ankle? And when upon a silent, sullen day, With a sirocco, for example, blowing, When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, And the sky shows that very ancient gray, The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,-- 'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines, Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun-- Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. An in-door life is less poetical; And out of door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral. But be it as it may, a bard must meet All difficulties, whether great or small, To spoil his undertaking or complete, And work away like spirit upon matter, Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. Juan--in this respect, at least, like saints-- Was all things unto people of all sorts, And lived contentedly, without complaints, In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts-- Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, And mingling modestly in toils or sports. He likewise could be most things to all women, Without the coxcombry of certain she men. A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; 'T is also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: But Juan had been early taught to range The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back. And now in this new field, with some applause, He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned, and made but few 'faux pas,' And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting--for the sagest youth is frail; Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once o'er several country gentlemen. But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvell'd at merit of another nation; The boors cried 'Dang it? who 'd have thought it?'--Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires; The huntsman's self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in. Such were his trophies--not of spear and shield, But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; Yet I must own,--although in this I yield To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,-- He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd next day, 'If men ever hunted twice?' He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race,-- A quality agreeable to woman, When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,-- He did not fall asleep just after dinner; But, light and airy, stood on the alert, And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue; Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret--cunning rogue! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer;-- In short, there never was a better hearer. And then he danced;--all foreigners excel The serious Angles in the eloquence Of pantomime;--he danced, I say, right well, With emphasis, and also with good sense-- A thing in footing indispensable; He danced without theatrical pretence, Not like a ballet-master in the van Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for music's sound, Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour. Such classic pas--sans flaws--set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero; Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guido's famous fresco which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The 'tout ensemble' of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, but by no means so quite; At least he kept his vanity retired. Such was his tact, he could alike delight The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved 'tracasserie,' Began to treat him with some small 'agacerie.' She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated For several winters in the grand, grand monde. I 'd rather not say what might be related Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground; Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated: Her late performance had been a dead set At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 'T will but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on woman. The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd; The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd; Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard; Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound; And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. But what is odd, none ever named the duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair; True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took But small concern about the when, or where, Or what his consort did: if he could brook Her gaieties, none had a right to stare: Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. But, oh! that I should ever pen so sad a line! Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, Began to think the duchess' conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, And waxing chiller in her courtesy, Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility. There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 'T is so becoming to the soul and face, Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. Without a friend, what were humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with--'Would you had thought twice! Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice!' O job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They are but bad pilots when the weather 's rough, Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, Go to the coffee-house, and take another. But this is not my maxim: had it been, Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not-- I would not be a tortoise in his screen Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. 'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,' Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst 'bonos mores,' With a long memorandum of old stories. The Lady Adeline's serene severity Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend: But Juan also shared in her austerity, But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. These forty days' advantage of her years-- And hers were those which can face calculation, Boldly referring to the list of peers And noble births, nor dread the enumeration-- Gave her a right to have maternal fears For a young gentleman's fit education, Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap, In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty-- Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew The strictest in chronology and virtue Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, If but to keep thy credit as a mower. But Adeline was far from that ripe age, Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: 'T was rather her experience made her sage, For she had seen the world and stood its test, As I have said in--I forget what page; My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd By this time;--but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty. At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, She put all coronets into commotion: At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean: At eighteen, though below her feet still panted A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, She had consented to create again That Adam, call'd 'The happiest of men.' Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters, Admired, adored; but also so correct, That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, Without the apparel of being circumspect: They could not even glean the slightest splinters From off the marble, which had no defect. She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir--and one miscarriage. Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, Those little glitterers of the London night; But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her-- She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify? I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand; I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand; I hate it, as I hate an argument, A laureate's ode, or servile peer's 'content.' 'T is sad to hack into the roots of things, They are so much intertwisted with the earth; So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. To trace all actions to their secret springs Would make indeed some melancholy mirth; But this is not at present my concern, And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. With the kind view of saving an eclat, Both to the duchess and diplomatist, The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw That Juan was unlikely to resist (For foreigners don't know that a faux pas In England ranks quite on a different list From those of other lands unblest with juries, Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);-- The Lady Adeline resolved to take Such measures as she thought might best impede The farther progress of this sad mistake. She thought with some simplicity indeed; But innocence is bold even at the stake, And simple in the world, and doth not need Nor use those palisades by dames erected, Whose virtue lies in never being detected. It was not that she fear'd the very worst: His Grace was an enduring, married man, And was not likely all at once to burst Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan Of Doctors' Commons: but she dreaded first The magic of her Grace's talisman, And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante, And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere; One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt A lover with caprices soft and dear, That like to make a quarrel, when they can't Find one, each day of the delightful year; Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, And--what is worst of all--won't let you go: The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, Or make a Werter of him in the end. No wonder then a purer soul should dread This sort of chaste liaison for a friend; It were much better to be wed or dead, Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, If that a 'bonne fortune' be really 'bonne.' And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She call'd her husband now and then apart, And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile; And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it. Firstly, he said, 'he never interfered In any body's business but the king's:' Next, that 'he never judged from what appear'd, Without strong reason, of those sort of things:' Thirdly, that 'Juan had more brain than beard, And was not to be held in leading strings;' And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 'That good but rarely came from good advice.' And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth-- At least as far as bienseance allows: That time would temper Juan's faults of youth; That young men rarely made monastic vows; That opposition only more attaches-- But here a messenger brought in despatches: And being of the council call'd 'the Privy,' Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, To furnish matter for some future Livy To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; And if their full contents I do not give ye, It is because I do not know them yet; But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between mine epic and its index. But ere he went, he added a slight hint, Another gentle common-place or two, Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, And pass, for want of better, though not new: Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, And having casually glanced it through, Retired; and, as went out, calmly kiss'd her, Less like a young wife than an aged sister. He was a cold, good, honourable man, Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; A goodly spirit for a state divan, A figure fit to walk before a king; Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; The very model of a chamberlain-- And such I mean to make him when I reign. But there was something wanting on the whole-- I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell-- Which pretty women--the sweet souls!--call soul. Certes it was not body; he was well Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, A handsome man, that human miracle; And in each circumstance of love or war Had still preserved his perpendicular. Still there was something wanting, as I 've said-- That undefinable 'Je ne scais quoi,' Which, for what I know, may of yore have led To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy Was much inferior to King Menelaus:-- But thus it is some women will betray us. There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved By turns the difference of the several sexes; Neither can show quite how they would be loved. The sensual for a short time but connects us, The sentimental boasts to be unmoved; But both together form a kind of centaur, Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. A something all-sufficient for the heart Is that for which the sex are always seeking: But how to fill up that same vacant part? There lies the rub--and this they are but weak in. Frail mariners afloat without a chart, They run before the wind through high seas breaking; And when they have made the shore through every shock, 'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. There is a flower call'd 'Love in Idleness,' For which see Shakspeare's everblooming garden;-- I will not make his great description less, And beg his British godship's humble pardon, If in my extremity of rhyme's distress, I touch a single leaf where he is warden;-- But though the flower is different, with the French Or Swiss Rousseau, cry 'Voila la Pervenche!' Eureka! I have found it! What I mean To say is, not that love is idleness, But that in love such idleness has been An accessory, as I have cause to guess. Hard labour's an indifferent go-between; Your men of business are not apt to express Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 'Beatus ille procul!' from 'negotiis,' Saith Horace; the great little poet 's wrong; His other maxim, 'Noscitur a sociis,' Is much more to the purpose of his song; Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, Unless good company be kept too long; But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, Thrice happy they who have an occupation! Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing, Eve made up millinery with fig leaves-- The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, As far as I know, that the church receives: And since that time it need not cost much showing, That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, And still more women, spring from not employing Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. And hence high life is oft a dreary void, A rack of pleasures, where we must invent A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. Bards may sing what they please about Content; Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd; And hence arise the woes of sentiment, Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. I do declare, upon an affidavit, Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen; Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, Would some believe that such a tale had been: But such intent I never had, nor have it; Some truths are better kept behind a screen, Especially when they would look like lies; I therefore deal in generalities. 'An oyster may be cross'd in love,'--and why? Because he mopeth idly in his shell, And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, Much as a monk may do within his cell: And a-propos of monks, their piety With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; Those vegetables of the Catholic creed Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. O Wilberforce! thou man of black renown, Whose merit none enough can sing or say, Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, Thou moral Washington of Africa! But there 's another little thing, I own, Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, And set the other halt of earth to rights; You have freed the blacks--now pray shut up the whites. Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander! Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal; Teach them that 'sauce for goose is sauce for gander,' And ask them how they like to be in thrall? Shut up each high heroic salamander, Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small); Shut up--no, not the King, but the Pavilion, Or else 't will cost us all another million. Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out; And you will be perhaps surprised to find All things pursue exactly the same route, As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. This I could prove beyond a single doubt, Were there a jot of sense among mankind; But till that point d'appui is found, alas! Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. Our gentle Adeline had one defect-- Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion; Her conduct had been perfectly correct, As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; But when the latter works its own undoing, Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. She loved her lord, or thought so; but that love Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, No bickerings, no connubial turmoil: Their union was a model to behold, Serene and noble,--conjugal, but cold. There was no great disparity of years, Though much in temper; but they never clash'd: They moved like stars united in their spheres, Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, Where mingled and yet separate appears The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd Through the serene and placid glassy deep, Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. Now when she once had ta'en an interest In any thing, however she might flatter Herself that her intentions were the best, Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, And gather'd as they run like growing water Upon her mind; the more so, as her breast Was not at first too readily impress'd. But when it was, she had that lurking demon Of double nature, and thus doubly named-- Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, That is, when they succeed; but greatly blamed As obstinacy, both in men and women, Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed:-- And 't will perplex the casuist in morality To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, It had been firmness; now 't is pertinacity: Must the event decide between the two? I leave it to your people of sagacity To draw the line between the false and true, If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: My business is with Lady Adeline, Who in her way too was a heroine. She knew not her own heart; then how should I? I think not she was then in love with Juan: If so, she would have had the strength to fly The wild sensation, unto her a new one: She merely felt a common sympathy (I will not say it was a false or true one) In him, because she thought he was in danger,-- Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger, She was, or thought she was, his friend--and this Without the farce of friendship, or romance Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, Or Germany, where people purely kiss. To thus much Adeline would not advance; But of such friendship as man's may to man be She was as capable as woman can be. No doubt the secret influence of the sex Will there, as also in the ties of blood, An innocent predominance annex, And tune the concord to a finer mood. If free from passion, which all friendship checks, And your true feelings fully understood, No friend like to a woman earth discovers, So that you have not been nor will be lovers. Love bears within its breast the very germ Of change; and how should this be otherwise? That violent things more quickly find a term Is shown through nature's whole analogies; And how should the most fierce of all be firm? Would you have endless lightning in the skies? Methinks Love's very title says enough: How should 'the tender passion' e'er be tough? Alas! by all experience, seldom yet (I merely quote what I have heard from many) Had lovers not some reason to regret The passion which made Solomon a zany. I 've also seen some wives (not to forget The marriage state, the best or worst of any) Who were the very paragons of wives, Yet made the misery of at least two lives. I 've also seen some female friends ( 't is odd, But true--as, if expedient, I could prove) That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad, At home, far more than ever yet was Love-- Who did not quit me when Oppression trod Upon me; whom no scandal could remove; Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles, Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline Grew friends in this or any other sense, Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: At present I am glad of a pretence To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense; The surest way for ladies and for books To bait their tender, or their tenter, hooks. Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish To read Don Quixote in the original, A pleasure before which all others vanish; Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 'small,' Or serious, are the topics I must banish To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall Say something to the purpose, and display Considerable talent in my way. Above all, I beg all men to forbear Anticipating aught about the matter: They 'll only make mistakes about the fair, And Juan too, especially the latter. And I shall take a much more serious air Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. It is not clear that Adeline and Juan Will fall; but if they do, 't will be their ruin. But great things spring from little:--Would you think, That in our youth, as dangerous a passion As e'er brought man and woman to the brink Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, As few would ever dream could form the link Of such a sentimental situation? You 'll never guess, I 'll bet you millions, milliards-- It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 'T is strange,--but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction; if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change! The new world would be nothing to the old, If some Columbus of the moral seas Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. What 'antres vast and deserts idle' then Would be discover'd in the human soul! What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, With self-love in the centre as their pole! What Anthropophagi are nine of ten Of those who hold the kingdoms in control Were things but only call'd by their right name, Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection; Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be As _à propos_ of hope or retrospection, As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. All present life is but an interjection, An 'Oh!' or 'Ah!' of joy or misery, Or a 'Ha! ha!' or 'Bah!'--a yawn, or 'Pooh!' Of which perhaps the latter is most true. But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope Or a singultus--emblems of emotion, The grand antithesis to great ennui, Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,-- That watery outline of eternity, Or miniature at least, as is my notion, Which ministers unto the soul's delight, In seeing matters which are out of sight. But all are better than the sigh supprest, Corroding in the cavern of the heart, Making the countenance a masque of rest, And turning human nature to an art. Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best; Dissimulation always sets apart A corner for herself; and therefore fiction Is that which passes with least contradiction. Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not Remember, without telling, passion's errors? The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors: What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors; The ruby glass that shakes within his hand Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. And as for love--O love!--We will proceed. The Lady Adeline Amundeville, A pretty name as one would wish to read, Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. There 's music in the sighing of a reed; There 's music in the gushing of a rill; There 's music in all things, if men had ears: Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. The Lady Adeline, right honourable; And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so; For few of the soft sex are very stable In their resolves--alas! that I should say so! They differ as wine differs from its label, When once decanted;--I presume to guess so, But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, Till old, may undergo adulteration. But Adeline was of the purest vintage, The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, Or glorious as a diamond richly set; A page where Time should hesitate to print age, And for which Nature might forego her debt-- Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't The luck of finding every body solvent. O Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely, Some splendid debtor he would take by sap: But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he Advances with exasperated rap, And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, On ready money, or 'a draft on Ransom.' Whate'er thou takest, spare a while poor Beauty! She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. What though she now and then may slip from duty, The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty, You should be civil in a modest way: Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous Where she was interested (as was said), Because she was not apt, like some of us, To like too readily, or too high bred To show it (points we need not now discuss)-- Would give up artlessly both heart and head Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, For objects worthy of the sentiment. Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumour, That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, She had heard; but women hear with more good humour Such aberrations than we men of rigour: Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; Because he had, like Alcibiades, The art of living in all climes with ease. His manner was perhaps the more seductive, Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce; Nothing affected, studied, or constructive Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, And seem to say, 'Resist us if you can'- Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. They are wrong--that 's not the way to set about it; As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it; In fact, his manner was his own alone; Sincere he was--at least you could not doubt it, In listening merely to his voice's tone. The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. By nature soft, his whole address held off Suspicion: though not timid, his regard Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, To shield himself than put you on your guard: Perhaps 't was hardly quite assured enough, But modesty 's at times its own reward, Like virtue; and the absence of pretension Will go much farther than there 's need to mention. Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud; Insinuating without insinuation; Observant of the foibles of the crowd, Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation; Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, So as to make them feel he knew his station And theirs:--without a struggle for priority, He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. That is, with men: with women he was what They pleased to make or take him for; and their Imagination 's quite enough for that: So that the outline 's tolerably fair, They fill the canvas up--and 'verbum sat.' If once their phantasies be brought to bear Upon an object, whether sad or playful, They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. Adeline, no deep judge of character, Was apt to add a colouring from her own: 'T is thus the good will amiably err, And eke the wise, as has been often shown. Experience is the chief philosopher, But saddest when his science is well known: And persecuted sages teach the schools Their folly in forgetting there are fools. Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon? Great Socrates? And thou, Diviner still, Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill Volumes with similar sad illustrations, But leave them to the conscience of the nations. I perch upon an humbler promontory, Amidst life's infinite variety: With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, But speculating as I cast mine eye On what may suit or may not suit my story, And never straining hard to versify, I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk With any body in a ride or walk. I don't know that there may be much ability Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme; But there 's a conversational facility, Which may round off an hour upon a time. Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility In mine irregularity of chime, Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, Just as I feel the 'Improvvisatore.' 'Omnia vult belle Matho dicere--dic aliquando Et bene, dic neutrum, dic aliquando male.' The first is rather more than mortal can do; The second may be sadly done or gaily; The third is still more difficult to stand to; The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily. The whole together is what I could wish To serve in this conundrum of a dish. A modest hope--but modesty 's my forte, And pride my feeble:--let us ramble on. I meant to make this poem very short, But now I can't tell where it may not run. No doubt, if I had wish' to pay my court To critics, or to hail the setting sun Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision Were more;--but I was born for opposition. But then 't is mostly on the weaker side; So that I verily believe if they Who now are basking in their full-blown pride Were shaken down, and 'dogs had had their day,' Though at the first I might perchance deride Their tumble, I should turn the other way, And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, Because I hate even democratic royalty. I think I should have made a decent spouse, If I had never proved the soft condition; I think I should have made monastic vows, But for my own peculiar superstition: 'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows, Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, If some one had not told me to forego it. But 'laissez aller'--knights and dames I sing, Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite: The difficultly lies in colouring (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) With nature manners which are artificial, And rend'ring general that which is especial. The difference is, that in the days of old Men made the manners; manners now make men-- Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. Now this at all events must render cold Your writers, who must either draw again Days better drawn before, or else assume The present, with their common-place costume. We 'll do our best to make the best on 't:--March! March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; And when you may not be sublime, be arch, Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. We surely may find something worth research: Columbus found a new world in a cutter, Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, While yet America was in her non-age. When Adeline, in all her growing sense Of Juan's merits and his situation, Felt on the whole an interest intense,-- Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, Or that he had an air of innocence, Which is for innocence a sad temptation,-- As women hate half measures, on the whole, She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. She had a good opinion of advice, Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, For which small thanks are still the market price, Even where the article at highest rate is: She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, And morally decided, the best state is For morals, marriage; and this question carried, She seriously advised him to get married. Juan replied, with all becoming deference, He had a predilection for that tie; But that, at present, with immediate reference To his own circumstances, there might lie Some difficulties, as in his own preference, Or that of her to whom he might apply: That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, If that they were not married all already. Next to the making matches for herself, And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, Arranging them like books on the same shelf, There 's nothing women love to dabble in More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) Than match-making in general: 't is no sin Certes, but a preventative, and therefore That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. But never yet (except of course a miss Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, Or wed already, who object to this) Was there chaste dame who had not in her head Some drama of the marriage unities, Observed as strictly both at board and bed As those of Aristotle, though sometimes They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. They generally have some only son, Some heir to a large property, some friend Of an old family, some gay Sir john, Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end A line, and leave posterity undone, Unless a marriage was applied to mend The prospect and their morals: and besides, They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. From these they will be careful to select, For this an heiress, and for that a beauty; For one a songstress who hath no defect, For t' other one who promises much duty; For this a lady no one can reject, Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty; A second for her excellent connections; A third, because there can be no objections. When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage In his harmonious settlement (which flourishes Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, Without those sad expenses which disparage What Nature naturally most encourages)-- Why call'd he 'Harmony' a state sans wedlock? Now here I 've got the preacher at a dead lock. Because he either meant to sneer at harmony Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly, Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. My objection 's to his title, not his ritual, Although I wonder how it grew habitual. But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation-- Professors of that genial art, and patrons Of all the modest part of propagation; Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, That half its produce tends to emigration, That sad result of passions and potatoes-- Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell; I wish she had: his book 's the eleventh commandment, Which says, 'Thou shalt not marry,' unless well: This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell Nor canvass what so 'eminent a hand' meant; But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, Or turning marriage into arithmetic. But Adeline, who probably presumed That Juan had enough of maintenance, Or separate maintenance, in case 't was doom'd-- As on the whole it is an even chance That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, May retrograde a little in the dance Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame, Like Holbein's 'Dance of Death'--but 't is the same);-- But Adeline determined Juan's wedding In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman: But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Reading, Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Knowman. And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. She deem'd his merits something more than common: All these were unobjectionable matches, And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea, That usual paragon, an only daughter, Who seem'd the cream of equanimity Till skimm'd--and then there was some milk and water, With a slight shade of blue too, it might be, Beneath the surface; but what did it matter? Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, A dashing demoiselle of good estate, Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string; But whether English dukes grew rare of late, Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, By which such sirens can attract our great, She took up with some foreign younger brother, A Russ or Turk--the one 's as good as t' other. And then there was--but why should I go on, Unless the ladies should go off?--there was Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, Of the best class, and better than her class,-- Aurora Raby, a young star who shone O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded; Rich, noble, but an orphan; left an only Child to the care of guardians good and kind; But still her aspect had an air so lonely! Blood is not water; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie By death, when we are left, alas! behind, To feel, in friendless palaces, a home Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? Early in years, and yet more infantine In figure, she had something of sublime In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. All youth--but with an aspect beyond time; Radiant and grave--as pitying man's decline; Mournful--but mournful of another's crime, She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door. And grieved for those who could return no more. She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear Perhaps because 't was fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd To novel power; and as she was the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast. She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone. There was awe in the homage which she drew; Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne Apart from the surrounding world, and strong In its own strength--most strange in one so young! Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue Beyond the charmers we have already cited; Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog Against her being mention'd as well fitted, By many virtues, to be worth the trouble Of single gentlemen who would be double. And this omission, like that of the bust Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. This he express'd half smiling and half serious; When Adeline replied with some disgust, And with an air, to say the least, imperious, She marvell'd 'what he saw in such a baby As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?' Juan rejoin'd--'She was a Catholic, And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, And the Pope thunder excommunication, If-' But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique Herself extremely on the inoculation Of others with her own opinions, stated-- As usual--the same reason which she late did. And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, If good, is none the worse for repetition; If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, And amplify: you lose much by concision, Whereas insisting in or out of season Convinces all men, even a politician; Or--what is just the same--it wearies out. So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route? Why Adeline had this slight prejudice-- For prejudice it was--against a creature As pure as sanctity itself from vice, With all the added charm of form and feature, For me appears a question far too nice, Since Adeline was liberal by nature; But nature 's nature, and has more caprices Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. Perhaps she did not like the quiet way With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, Which charm most people in their earlier day: For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, And womankind too, if we so may say, Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, Like 'Anthony's by Caesar,' by the few Who look upon them as they ought to do. It was not envy--Adeline had none; Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. It was not scorn--which could not light on one Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. It was not jealousy, I think: but shun Following the 'ignes fatui' of mankind. It was not--but 't is easier far, alas! To say what it was not than what it was. Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest; A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled-- She had so much, or little, of the child. The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. Juan was something she could not divine, Being no sibyl in the new world's ways; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature. His fame too,--for he had that kind of fame Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined; Faults which attract because they are not tame; Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:-- These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession. Juan knew nought of such a character-- High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature's all: Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus:--the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem. Having wound up with this sublime comparison, Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, And, as my friend Scott says, 'I sound my warison;' Scott, the superlative of my comparative-- Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. I say, in my slight way I may proceed To play upon the surface of humanity. I write the world, nor care if the world read, At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I Thought that it might turn out so--now I know it, But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. The conference or congress (for it ended As congresses of late do) of the Lady Adeline and Don Juan rather blended Some acids with the sweets--for she was heady; But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, The silvery bell rang, not for 'dinner ready, But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. Great things were now to be achieved at table, With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer 's able (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, Than witches, b�ches, or physicians, brew. There was a goodly 'soupe a la bonne femme,' Though God knows whence it came from; there was, too, A turbot for relief of those who cram, Relieved with 'dindon a la Parigeux;' There also was��the sinner that I am! How shall I get this gourmand stanza through?- 'Soupe a la Beauveau,' whose relief was dory, Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. But I must crowd all into one grand mess Or mass; for should I stretch into detail, My Muse would run much more into excess, Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. But though a 'bonne vivante,' I must confess Her stomach 's not her peccant part; this tale However doth require some slight refection, Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. Fowls 'a la Conde,' slices eke of salmon, With 'sauces Genevoises,' and haunch of venison; Wines too, which might again have slain young Ammon-- A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon; They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. Then there was God knows what 'a l'Allemande,' 'A l'Espagnole,' 'timballe,' and 'salpicon'- With things I can't withstand or understand, Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole; And 'entremets' to piddle with at hand, Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles (There 's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd with truffles. What are the fillets on the victor's brow To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch Which nodded to the nation's spoils below? Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march? Gone to where victories must like dinners go. Farther I shall not follow the research: But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges? Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, Follow'd by 'petits puits d'amour'--a dish Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, So every one may dress it to his wish, According to the best of dictionaries, Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish; But even sans 'confitures,' it no less true is, There 's pretty picking in those 'petits puits.' The mind is lost in mighty contemplation Of intellect expanded on two courses; And indigestion's grand multiplication Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, As form a science and a nomenclature From out the commonest demands of nature? The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; The diners of celebrity dined well; The ladies with more moderation mingled In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; Also the younger men too: for a springald Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel, But thinks less of good eating than the whisper (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier, The salmi, the consomme, the puree, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way: I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 'Bubble and squeak' would spoil my liquid lay: But I have dined, and must forego, Alas! The chaste description even of a 'becasse;' And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the gout-- Taste or the gout,--pronounce it as inclines Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; But after, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-- But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. The simple olives, best allies of wine, Must I pass over in my bill of fare? I must, although a favourite 'plat' of mine In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, The grass my table-cloth, in open-air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and 'fowl, And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll, But various as the various meats display'd: Don Juan sat next 'an l'Espagnole'- No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; But so far like a lady, that 't was drest Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. By some odd chance too, he was placed between Aurora and the Lady Adeline-- A situation difficult, I ween, For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. Also the conference which we have seen Was not such as to encourage him to shine; For Adeline, addressing few words to him, With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him. I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears: This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs. Like that same mystic music of the spheres, Which no one bears, so loudly though it rings, 'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard Long dialogues--which pass'd without a word! Aurora sat with that indifference Which piques a preux chevalier--as it ought: Of all offences that 's the worst offence, Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; Like a good ship entangled among ice, And after so much excellent advice. To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, Or something which was nothing, as urbanity Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride? Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? Heaven knows? But Adeline's malicious eyes Sparkled with her successful prophecies, And look'd as much as if to say, 'I said it;' A kind of triumph I 'll not recommend, Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, Both in the case of lover and of friend, Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, To bring what was a jest to a serious end: For all men prophesy what is or was, And hate those who won't let them come to pass. Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, Slight but select, and just enough to express, To females of perspicuous comprehensions, That he would rather make them more than less. Aurora at the last (so history mentions, Though probably much less a fact than guess) So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. From answering she began to question; this With her was rare: and Adeline, who as yet Thought her predictions went not much amiss, Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette-- So very difficult, they say, it is To keep extremes from meeting, when once set In motion; but she here too much refined-- Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. But Juan had a sort of winning way, A proud humility, if such there be, Which show'd such deference to what females say, As if each charming word were a decree. His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, And taught him when to be reserved or free: He had the art of drawing people out, Without their seeing what he was about. Aurora, who in her indifference Confounded him in common with the crowd Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-- Commenced (from such slight things will great commence) To feel that flattery which attracts the proud Rather by deference than compliment, And wins even by a delicate dissent. And then he had good looks;--that point was carried Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married-- A case which to the juries we may leave, Since with digressions we too long have tarried. Now though we know of old that looks deceive, And always have done, somehow these good looks Make more impression than the best of books. Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, Was very young, although so very sage, Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, Especially upon a printed page. But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, Has not the natural stays of strict old age; And Socrates, that model of all duty, Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, But innocently so, as Socrates; And really, if the sage sublime and Attic At seventy years had phantasies like these, Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic Has shown, I know not why they should displease In virgins--always in a modest way, Observe; for that with me 's a 'sine qua.' Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke (See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd Opinions two, which at first sight may look Twin opposites, the second is the best. Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, Or none at all--which seems a sorry jest: But if a writer should be quite consistent, How could he possibly show things existent? If people contradict themselves, can I Help contradicting them, and every body, Even my veracious self?--But that 's a lie: I never did so, never will--how should I? He who doubts all things nothing can deny: Truth's fountains may be clear--her streams are muddy, And cut through such canals of contradiction, That she must often navigate o'er fiction. Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, Are false, but may he render'd also true, By those who sow them in a land that 's arable. 'T is wonderful what fable will not do! 'T is said it makes reality more bearable: But what 's reality? Who has its clue? Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects? Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty dear; Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. God help us! Since we have need on our career To keep our holy beacons always bright, 'T is time that some new prophet should appear, Or old indulge man with a second sight. Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres. But here again, why will I thus entangle Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle; And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle About the present, past, or future state. Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission-- In politics my duty is to show John Bull something of the lower world's condition. It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. But politics, and policy, and piety, Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety, But as subservient to a moral use; Because my business is to dress society, And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. And now I will give up all argument; And positively henceforth no temptation Shall 'fool me to the top up of my bent:'- Yes, I' ll begin a thorough reformation. Indeed, I never knew what people meant By deeming that my Muse's conversation Was dangerous;--I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less. Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? No; but you have heard--I understand--be dumb! And don't regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:-- For certain reasons my belief is serious. Serious? You laugh;--you may: that will I not; My smiles must be sincere or not at all. I say I do believe a haunted spot Exists--and where? That shall I not recall, Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 'Shadows the soul of Richard' may appal. In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury. The night (I sing by night--sometimes an owl, And now and then a nightingale) is dim, And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl Rattles around me her discordant hymn: Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl-- I wish to heaven they would not look so grim; The dying embers dwindle in the grate-- I think too that I have sate up too late: And therefore, though 't is by no means my way To rhyme at noon--when I have other things To think of, if I ever think--I say I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, And prudently postpone, until mid-day, Treating a topic which, alas! but brings Shadows;--but you must be in my condition Before you learn to call this superstition. CANTO THE SIXTEENTH. The antique Persians taught three useful things, To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings-- A mode adopted since by modern youth. Bows have they, generally with two strings; Horses they ride without remorse or ruth; At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, But draw the long bow better now than ever. The cause of this effect, or this defect,-- 'For this effect defective comes by cause,'- Is what I have not leisure to inspect; But this I must say in my own applause, Of all the Muses that I recollect, Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats From any thing, this epic will contain A wilderness of the most rare conceits, Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets, Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain, But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 'De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis.' But of all truths which she has told, the most True is that which she is about to tell. I said it was a story of a ghost-- What then? I only know it so befell. Have you explored the limits of the coast, Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. Some people would impose now with authority, Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; Men whose historical superiority Is always greatest at a miracle. But Saint Augustine has the great priority, Who bids all men believe the impossible, Because 't is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he Quiets at once with 'quia impossibile.' And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all; Believe:--if 't is improbable you must, And if it is impossible, you shall: 'T is always best to take things upon trust. I do not speak profanely, to recall Those holier mysteries which the wise and just Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, As all truths must, the more they are disputed: I merely mean to say what Johnson said, That in the course of some six thousand years, All nations have believed that from the dead A visitant at intervals appears; And what is strangest upon this strange head, Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still In its behalf, let those deny who will. The dinner and the soiree too were done, The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one-- The song was silent, and the dance expired: The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone Like fleecy Clouds into the sky retired, And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon Than dying tapers--and the peeping moon. The evaporation of a joyous day Is like the last glass of champagne, without The foam which made its virgin bumper gay; Or like a system coupled with a doubt; Or like a soda bottle when its spray Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; Or like a billow left by storms behind, Without the animation of the wind; Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest, Or none; or like--like nothing that I know Except itself;--such is the human breast; A thing, of which similitudes can show No real likeness,--like the old Tyrian vest Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal! But next to dressing for a rout or ball, Undressing is a woe; our robe de chambre May sit like that of Nessus, and recall Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. Titus exclaim'd, 'I 've lost a day!' Of all The nights and days most people can remember (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd), I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd. And Juan, on retiring for the night, Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised: He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; If he had known exactly his own plight, He probably would have philosophised: A great resource to all, and ne'er denied Till wanted; therefore Juan only sigh'd. He sigh'd;--the next resource is the full moon, Where all sighs are deposited; and now It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone As clear as such a climate will allow; And Juan's mind was in the proper tone To hail her with the apostrophe--'O thou!' Of amatory egotism the Tuism, Which further to explain would be a truism. But lover, poet, or astronomer, Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a cold Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err); Deep secrets to her rolling light are told; The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed For contemplation rather than his pillow: The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, With all the mystery by midnight caused; Below his window waved (of course) a willow; And he stood gazing out on the cascade That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. Upon his table or his toilet,--which Of these is not exactly ascertain'd (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd),-- A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all That time has left our fathers of their hall. Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw His chamber door wide open--and went forth Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, As doubtless should be people of high birth. But by dim lights the portraits of the dead Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint Of your own footsteps--voices from the urn Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, As if to ask how you can dare to keep A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, The charms of other days, in starlight gleams, Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. A picture is the past; even ere its frame Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. As Juan mused on mutability, Or on his mistress--terms synonymous-- No sound except the echo of his sigh Or step ran sadly through that antique house; When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, A supernatural agent--or a mouse, Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass Most people as it plays along the arras. It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, array'd In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; His garments only a slight murmur made; He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, But slowly; and as he pass'd Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. And did he see this? or was it a vapour? Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd--the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place; And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base As stands a statue, stood: he felt his hair Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted. The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow pass'd away--but where? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural: Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies whether short or tall Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. He stood--how long he knew not, but it seem'd An age--expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd; Then by degrees recall'd his energies, And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and return'd at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. All there was as he left it: still his taper Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse Their office; he took up an old newspaper; The paper was right easy to peruse; He read an article the king attacking, And a long eulogy of 'patent blacking.' This savour'd of this world; but his hand shook-- He shut his door, and after having read A paragraph, I think about Horne Tooke, Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, With what he had seen his phantasy he fed; And though it was no opiate, slumber crept Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, And whether it ought not to be disclosed, At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. The more he thought, the more his mind was posed: In the mean time, his valet, whose precision Was great, because his master brook'd no less, Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. He dress'd; and like young people he was wont To take some trouble with his toilet, but This morning rather spent less time upon 't; Aside his very mirror soon was put; His curls fell negligently o'er his front, His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut, His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied Almost an hair's breadth too much on one side. And when he walk'd down into the saloon, He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; So much distrait he was, that all could see That something was the matter--Adeline The first--but what she could not well divine. She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. Lord Henry said his muffin was ill butter'd; The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. But seeing him all cold and silent still, And everybody wondering more or less, Fair Adeline enquired, 'If he were ill?' He started, and said, 'Yes--no--rather--yes.' The family physician had great skill, And being present, now began to express His readiness to feel his pulse and tell The cause, but Juan said, 'He was quite well.' 'Quite well; yes,--no.'--These answers were mysterious, And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, However they might savour of delirious; Something like illness of a sudden growth Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious: But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted It was not the physician that he wanted. Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd; Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke of late? Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd With some slight, light, hereditary twinges Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd A few words of condolence on his state: 'You look,' quoth he, 'as if you had had your rest Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.' 'What friar?' said Juan; and he did his best To put the question with an air sedate, Or careless; but the effort was not valid To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 'Oh! have you never heard of the Black Friar? The spirit of these walls?'--'In truth not I.' 'Why Fame--but Fame you know 's sometimes a liar-- Tells an odd story, of which by and by: Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, Or that our sires had a more gifted eye For such sights, though the tale is half believed, The friar of late has not been oft perceived. "The last time was��"�"I pray," said Adeline� (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, And from its context thought she could divine Connexions stronger then he chose to avow With this same legend)--'if you but design To jest, you 'll choose some other theme just now, Because the present tale has oft been told, And is not much improved by growing old.' 'Jest!' quoth Milor; 'why, Adeline, you know That we ourselves--'t was in the honey-moon-- Saw��"�"Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago; But, come, I 'll set your story to a tune.' Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon As touch'd, and plaintively began to play The air of ''T was a Friar of Orders Gray.' 'But add the words,' cried Henry, 'which you made; For Adeline is half a poetess,' Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. Of course the others could not but express In courtesy their wish to see display'd By one three talents, for there were no less-- The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once Could hardly be united by a dunce. After some fascinating hesitation,-- The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,-- Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground At first, then kindling into animation, Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, And sang with much simplicity,--a merit Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, Who sitteth by Norman stone, For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, And his mass of the days that are gone. When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, Made Norman Church his prey, And expell'd the friars, one friar still Would not be driven away. Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, To turn church lands to lay, With sword in hand, and torch to light Their walls, if they said nay; A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, And he did not seem form'd of clay, For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, Though he is not seen by day. And whether for good, or whether for ill, It is not mine to say; But still with the house of Amundeville He abideth night and day. By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, He flits on the bridal eve; And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death He comes--but not to grieve. When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn, And when aught is to befall That ancient line, in the "we moonshine He walks from hall to hall. His form you may trace, but not his face, 'T is shadow'd by his cowl; But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, And they seem of a parted soul. But beware! beware! of the Black Friar, He still retains his sway, For he is yet the church's heir Whoever may be the lay. Amundeville is lord by day, But the monk is lord by night; Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal To question that friar's right. Say nought to him as he walks the hall, And he 'll say nought to you; He sweeps along in his dusky pall, As o'er the grass the dew. Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; Heaven sain him, fair or foul! And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, Let ours be for his soul. The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires Died from the touch that kindled them to sound; And the pause follow'd, which when song expires Pervades a moment those who listen round; And then of course the circle much admires, Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, The tones, the feeling, and the execution, To the performer's diffident confusion. Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, As if she rated such accomplishment As the mere pastime of an idle day, Pursued an instant for her own content, Would now and then as 't were without display, Yet with display in fact, at times relent To such performances with haughty smile, To show she could, if it were worth her while. Now this (but we will whisper it aside) Was--pardon the pedantic illustration-- Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, As did the Cynic on some like occasion; Deeming the sage would be much mortified, Or thrown into a philosophic passion, For a spoil'd carpet--but the 'Attic Bee' Was much consoled by his own repartee. Thus Adeline would throw into the shade (By doing easily, whene'er she chose, What dilettanti do with vast parade) Their sort of half profession; for it grows To something like this when too oft display'd; And that it is so everybody knows Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other, Show off--to please their company or mother. O! the long evenings of duets and trios! The admirations and the speculations; The 'Mamma Mia's!' and the 'Amor Mio's!' The 'Tanti palpiti's' on such occasions: The 'Lasciami's,' and quavering 'Addio's!' Amongst our own most musical of nations; With 'Tu mi chamas's' from Portingale, To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. In Babylon's bravuras--as the home Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, The calentures of music which o'ercome All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, No more to be beheld but in such visions-- Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. She also had a twilight tinge of 'Blue,' Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote, Made epigrams occasionally too Upon her friends, as everybody ought. But still from that sublimer azure hue, So much the present dye, she was remote; Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. Aurora--since we are touching upon taste, Which now-a-days is the thermometer By whose degrees all characters are class'd-- Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste Had more of her existence, for in her There was a depth of feeling to embrace Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space. Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, If she had any, was upon her face, And that was of a fascinating kind. A little turn for mischief you might trace Also thereon,--but that 's not much; we find Few females without some such gentle leaven, For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. I have not heard she was at all poetic, Though once she was seen reading the 'Bath Guide,' And 'Hayley's Triumphs,' which she deem'd pathetic, Because she said her temper had been tried So much, the bard had really been prophetic Of what she had gone through with--since a bride. But of all verse, what most ensured her praise Were sonnets to herself, or 'bouts rimes.' 'T were difficult to say what was the object Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay To bear on what appear'd to her the subject Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. Perhaps she merely had the simple project To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, Though why I cannot say--at least this minute. But so far the immediate effect Was to restore him to his self-propriety, A thing quite necessary to the elect, Who wish to take the tone of their society: In which you cannot be too circumspect, Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. And therefore Juan now began to rally His spirits, and without more explanation To jest upon such themes in many a sally. Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion, With various similar remarks to tally, But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, About the present family's deaths and wooings. Of these few could say more than has been said; They pass'd as such things do, for superstition With some, while others, who had more in dread The theme, half credited the strange tradition; And much was talk'd on all sides on that head: But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it) Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. And then, the mid-day having worn to one, The company prepared to separate; Some to their several pastimes, or to none, Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. There was a goodly match too, to be run Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate, And a young race-horse of old pedigree Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. There was a picture-dealer who had brought A special Titian, warranted original, So precious that it was not to be bought, Though princes the possessor were besieging all. The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all His subjects by his gracious acceptation) Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur,-- The friend of artists, if not arts,--the owner, With motives the most classical and pure, So that he would have been the very donor, Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale, But for his judgment--never known to fail. There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, Brought to survey these grey walls, which though so thick, Might have from time acquired some slight defect; Who after rummaging the Abbey through thick And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect New buildings of correctest conformation, And throw down old--which he call'd restoration. The cost would be a trifle--an 'old song,' Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burden Of that same tune, when people hum it long)-- The price would speedily repay its worth in An edifice no less sublime than strong, By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, For Gothic daring shown in English money. There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase; Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's torches, Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 'Untying' squires 'to fight against the churches;' There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence; There was a country girl in a close cap And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since-- Since--since--in youth, I had the sad mishap-- But luckily I have paid few parish fees since): That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigour, Presents the problem of a double figure. A reel within a bottle is a mystery, One can't tell how it e'er got in or out; Therefore the present piece of natural history I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt; And merely state, though not for the consistory, Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. Now justices of peace must judge all pieces Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game And morals of the country from caprices Of those who have not a license for the same; And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: Preserving partridges and pretty wenches Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. The present culprit was extremely pale, Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red By nature, as in higher dames less hale 'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed. Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, Poor soul! for she was country born and bred, And knew no better in her immorality Than to wax white--for blushes are for quality. Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye, Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, For she was not a sentimental mourner Parading all her sensibility, Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, To be call'd up for her examination. Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. The lawyers in the study; and in air The prize pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent From town, viz., architect and dealer, were Both busy (as a general in his tent Writing despatches) in their several stations, Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. But this poor girl was left in the great hall, While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the 'small') A mighty mug of moral double ale. She waited until justice could recall Its kind attentions to their proper pale, To name a thing in nomenclature rather Perplexing for most virgins--a child's father. You see here was enough of occupation For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses. There was much bustle too, and preparation Below stairs on the score of second courses; Because, as suits their rank and situation, Those who in counties have great land resources Have 'Public days,' when all men may carouse, Though not exactly what 's call'd 'open house.' But once a week or fortnight, uninvited (Thus we translate a general invitation), All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, May drop in without cards, and take their station At the full board, and sit alike delighted With fashionable wines and conversation; And, as the isthmus of the grand connection, Talk o'er themselves the past and next election. Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit; But county contests cost him rather dearer, Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit Had English influence in the self-same sphere here; His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit, Was member for the 'other interest' (meaning The same self-interest, with a different leaning). Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, He was all things to all men, and dispensed To some civility, to others bounty, And promises to all--which last commenced To gather to a somewhat large amount, he Not calculating how much they condensed; But what with keeping some, and breaking others, His word had the same value as another's. A friend to freedom and freeholders--yet No less a friend to government--he held, That he exactly the just medium hit 'Twixt place and patriotism--albeit compell'd, Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit, He added modestly, when rebels rail'd), To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, But that with them all law would be demolish'd. He was 'free to confess' (whence comes this phrase? Is 't English? No--'t is only parliamentary) That innovation's spirit now-a-days Had made more progress than for the last century. He would not tread a factious path to praise, Though for the public weal disposed to venture high; As for his place, he could but say this of it, That the fatigue was greater than the profit. Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life Had ever been his sole and whole ambition; But could he quit his king in times of strife, Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition? When demagogues would with a butcher's knife Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision!) The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings Have tied together commons, lords, and kings. Sooner 'come lace into the civil list And champion him to the utmost'--he would keep it, Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd: Profit he care not for, let others reap it; But should the day come when place ceased to exist, The country would have far more cause to weep it: For how could it go on? Explain who can! He gloried in the name of Englishman. He was as independent--ay, much more-- Than those who were not paid for independence, As common soldiers, or a common--shore, Have in their several arts or parts ascendance O'er the irregulars in lust or gore, Who do not give professional attendance. Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, And thought. I say no more--I 've said too much; For all of us have either heard or read-- Off--or upon the hustings--some slight such Hints from the independent heart or head Of the official candidate. I 'll touch No more on this--the dinner-bell hath rung, And grace is said; the grace I should have sung-- But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old Was wont to boast--as if a glutton's tray Were something very glorious to behold. But 't was a public feast and public day,-- Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, And every body out of their own sphere. The squires familiarly formal, and My lords and ladies proudly condescending; The very servants puzzling how to hand Their plates--without it might be too much bending From their high places by the sideboard's stand-- Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. For any deviation from the graces Might cost both man and master too--their places. There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to lurch; Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. There were some massy members of the church, Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. There were some country wags too--and, alas! Some exiles from the town, who had been driven To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. And lo! upon that day it came to pass, I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven, The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. I knew him in his livelier London days, A brilliant diner out, though but a curate; And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, Until preferment, coming at a sure rate (O Providence! how wondrous are thy ways! Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?), Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes; But both were thrown away amongst the fens; For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. No longer ready ears and short-hand pens Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax: The poor priest was reduced to common sense, Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, To hammer a horse laugh from the thick throng. There is a difference, says the song, 'between A beggar and a queen,' or was (of late The latter worse used of the two we 've seen-- But we 'll say nothing of affairs of state); A difference ''twixt a bishop and a dean,' A difference between crockery ware and plate, As between English beef and Spartan broth-- And yet great heroes have been bred by both. But of all nature's discrepancies, none Upon the whole is greater than the difference Beheld between the country and the town, Of which the latter merits every preference From those who have few resources of their own, And only think, or act, or feel, with reference To some small plan of interest or ambition-- Both which are limited to no condition. But 'en avant!' The light loves languish o'er Long banquets and too many guests, although A slight repast makes people love much more, Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore With vivifying Venus, who doth owe To these the invention of champagne and truffles: Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. Dully past o'er the dinner of the day; And Juan took his place, he knew not where, Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair: Though knives and forks clank'd round as in a fray, He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. On which, at the third asking of the bans, He started; and perceiving smiles around Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once, And hastily--as nothing can confound A wise man more than laughter from a dunce-- Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, The supplicator being an amateur; But others, who were left with scarce a third, Were angry--as they well might, to be sure. They wonder'd how a young man so absurd Lord Henry at his table should endure; And this, and his not knowing how much oats Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. They little knew, or might have sympathised, That he the night before had seen a ghost, A prologue which but slightly harmonised With the substantial company engross'd By matter, and so much materialised, That one scarce knew at what to marvel most Of two things--how (the question rather odd is) Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. But what confused him more than smile or stare From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, Especially as he had been renown'd For some vivacity among the fair, Even in the country circle's narrow bound (For little things upon my lord's estate Were good small talk for others still less great)-- Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, And something like a smile upon her cheek. Now this he really rather took amiss: In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak A strong external motive; and in this Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, Indicative of some surprise and pity; And Juan grew carnation with vexation, Which was not very wise, and still less witty, Since he had gain'd at least her observation, A most important outwork of the city-- As Juan should have known, had not his senses By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, Nor seem embarrass'd--quite the contrary; Her aspect was as usual, still--not stern-- And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, Yet grew a little pale--with what? concern? I know not; but her colour ne'er was high-- Though sometimes faintly flush'd--and always clear, As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. But Adeline was occupied by fame This day; and watching, witching, condescending To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, And dignity with courtesy so blending, As all must blend whose part it is to aim (Especially as the sixth year is ending) At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. Though this was most expedient on the whole, And usual--Juan, when he cast a glance On Adeline while playing her grand role, Which she went through as though it were a dance, Betraying only now and then her soul By a look scarce perceptibly askance (Of weariness or scorn), began to feel Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; So well she acted all and every part By turns--with that vivacious versatility, Which many people take for want of heart. They err--'t is merely what is call'd mobility, A thing of temperament and not of art, Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; And false--though true; for surely they 're sincerest Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, Heroes sometimes, though seldom--sages never; But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, Little that 's great, but much of what is clever; Most orators, but very few financiers, Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavour, Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, And grow quite figurative with their figures. The poets of arithmetic are they Who, though they prove not two and two to be Five, as they might do in a modest way, Have plainly made it out that four are three, Judging by what they take, and what they pay. The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, That most unliquidating liquid, leaves The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease; Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces, Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize The ridicules of people in all places-- That honey of your fashionable bees-- And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; And this at present was her kind employment. However, the day closed, as days must close; The evening also waned--and coffee came. Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, Retired: with most unfashionable bows Their docile esquires also did the same, Delighted with their dinner and their host, But with the Lady Adeline the most. Some praised her beauty; others her great grace; The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face, Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. Yes; she was truly worthy her high place! No one could envy her deserved prosperity. And then her dress--what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity! Meanwhile Sweet Adeline deserved their praises, By an impartial indemnification For all her past exertion and soft phrases, In a most edifying conversation, Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, And families, even to the last relation; Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, And truculent distortion of their tresses. True, she said little--'t was the rest that broke Forth into universal epigram; But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke: Like Addison's 'faint praise,' so wont to damn, Her own but served to set off every joke, As music chimes in with a melodrame. How sweet the task to shield an absent friend! I ask but this of mine, to--not defend. There were but two exceptions to this keen Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one Aurora, with her pure and placid mien; And Juan, too, in general behind none In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: In vain he heard the others rail or rally, He would not join them in a single sally. 'T is true he saw Aurora look as though She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook Its motive for that charity we owe But seldom pay the absent, nor would look Farther--it might or might not be so. But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, Observing little in his reverie, Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. The ghost at least had done him this much good, In making him as silent as a ghost, If in the circumstances which ensued He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. And certainly Aurora had renew'd In him some feelings he had lately lost, Or harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal, Are so divine, that I must deem them real:-- The love of higher things and better days; The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways; The moments when we gather from a glance More joy than from all future pride or praise, Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance The heart in an existence of its own, Of which another's bosom is the zone. Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian That hath a memory, or that had a heart? Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian: Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. Anacreon only had the soul to tie an Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks, Still we respect thee, 'Alma Venus Genetrix!' And full of sentiments, sublime as billows Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows Arrived, retired to his; but to despond Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. The night was as before: he was undrest, Saving his night-gown, which is an undress; Completely 'sans culotte,' and without vest; In short, he hardly could be clothed with less: But apprehensive of his spectral guest, He sate with feelings awkward to express (By those who have not had such visitations), Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. And not in vain he listen'd;--Hush! what 's that? I see--I see--Ah, no!--'t is not--yet 't is-- Ye powers! it is the--the--the--Pooh! the cat! The devil may take that stealthy pace of his! So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. Again--what is 't? The wind? No, no--this time It is the sable friar as before, With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. Again through shadows of the night sublime, When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle Spangled with gems--the monk made his blood curdle. A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, Sounding like very supernatural water, Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas! For immaterialism 's a serious matter; So that even those whose faith is the most great In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. Were his eyes open?--Yes! and his mouth too. Surprise has this effect--to make one dumb, Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through As wide as if a long speech were to come. Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: His eyes were open, and (as was before Stated) his mouth. What open'd next?--the door. It open'd with a most infernal creak, Like that of hell. 'Lasciate ogni speranza Voi che entrate!' The hinge seem'd to speak, Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza; Or--but all words upon such themes are weak: A single shade 's sufficient to entrance Hero--for what is substance to a spirit? Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it? The door flew wide,--not swiftly, but, as fly The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight, And then swung back, nor close, but stood awry, Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burned high, For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood The sable Friar in his solemn hood. Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are! How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge, Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves. Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken The night before, but being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, And then to be ashamed of such mistaking. His own internal ghost began to awaken Within him and to quell his corporal quaking, Hinting that soul and body on the whole Were odds against a disembodied soul. And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced. The shade retreated, But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated. The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still. Juan put forth one arm. Eternal powers! It touched no soul nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers Checkered with all the tracery of the hall. He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity. But still the shade remained, the blue eyes glared, And rather variably for stony death. Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared; The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired. A red lip with two rows of pearls beneath Gleamed forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud. And Juan, puzzled but still curious, thrust His other arm forth. Wonder upon wonder! It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust, Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. He found, as people on most trials must, That he had made at first a silly blunder And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall, instead of what he sought The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul As ever lurked beneath a holy hood. A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stole Forth into something much like flesh and blood. Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl And they revealed, alas, that ere they should, In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace--Fitz-Fulke! [The end of the 1857 edition] * * * * * CANTO THE SEVENTEENTH. The world is full of orphans: firstly, those Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase (But many a lonely tree the loftier grows Than others crowded in the forest's maze); The next are such as are not doomed to lose Their tender parents in their budding days, But merely their parental tenderness, Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less. The next are 'only children', as they are styled, Who grow up children only, since the old saw Pronounces that an 'only' 's a spoilt child. But not to go too far, I hold it law That where their education, harsh or mild, 'Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe, The sufferers, be't in heart or intellect, Whate'er the cause are orphans in effect. But to return unto the stricter rule (As far as words make rules), our common notion Of orphans paints at once a parish school, A half-starved babe, a wreck upon life's ocean, A human (what the Italians nickname) 'mule', A theme for pity or some worse emotion; Yet, if examined, it might be admitted The wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied. Too soon they are parents to themselves; for what Are tutors, guardians, and so forth, compared With Nature's genial genitors, so that A child of Chancery, that Star Chamber ward (I'll take the likeness I can first come at), Is like a duckling by Dame Partlett reared And frights, especially if 'tis a daughter, The old hen by running headlong to the water. There is a commonplace book argument, Which glibly glides from every vulgar tongue When any dare a new light to present: 'If you are right, then everybody's wrong.' Suppose the converse of this precedent So often urged, so loudly and so long: 'If you are wrong, then everybody's right.' Was ever everybody yet so quite? Therefore I would solicit free discussion Upon all points, no matter what or whose, Because as ages upon ages push on, The last is apt the former to accuse Of pillowing its head on a pincushion, Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse. What was a paradox becomes a truth or A something like it, as bear witness Luther. The sacraments have been reduced to two And witches unto none, though somewhat late Since burning aged women (save a few, Not witches, only bitches, who create Mischief in families, as some know or knew, Should still be singed, but slightly let me state) Has been declared an act of inurbanity, Malgé Sir Matthew Hale's great humanity. Great Galileo was debarred the sun, Because he fixed it, and to stop his talking How earth could round the solar orbit run, Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking. The man was well nigh dead, ere men begun To think his skull had not some need of caulking, But now it seems he's right, his notion just, No doubt a consolation to his dust. Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates--but pages Might be filled up, as vainly as before, With the sad usage of all sorts of sages, Who in his lifetime each was deemed a bore. The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages; This they must bear with and perhaps much more. The wise man's sure when he no more can share it, he Will have a firm post-obit on posterity. If such doom waits each intellectual giant, We little people in our lesser way To life's small rubs should surely be more pliant, And so for one will I, as well I may. Would that I were less bilious--but oh fie on't! Just as I make my mind up everyday To be a totus teres stoic, sage, The wind shifts and I fly into a rage. Temperate I am, yet never had a temper; Modest I am, yet with some slight assurance; Changeable too, yet somehow idem semper; Patient, but not enamoured of endurance; Cheerful, but sometimes rather apt to whimper; Mild, but at times a sort of Hercules furens; So that I almost think that the same skin For one without has two or three within. Our hero was in canto the sixteenth Left in a tender moonlight situation, Such as enables man to show his strength Moral or physical On this occasion Whether his virtue triumphed, or at length His vice--for he was of a kindling nation-- Is more than I shall venture to describe, Unless some beauty with a kiss should bribe. I leave the thing a problem, like all things. The morning came, and breakfast, tea and toast, Of which most men partake, but no one sings. The company, whose birth, wealth, worth have cost My trembling lyre already several strings, Assembled with our hostess and mine host. The guests dropped in, the last but one, Her Grace, The latest, Juan with his virgin face. Which best is to encounter, ghost or none, 'Twere difficult to say, but Juan looked As if he had combated with more than one, Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brooked The light that through the Gothic windows shone. Her Grace too had a sort of air rebuked, Seemed pale and shivered, as if she had kept A vigil or dreamt rather more than slept. 
8901	----	THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON. A NEW, REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. Letters and Journals. Vol. I. _____________________________ EDITED BY ROWLAND E. PROTHERO. 1898. PREFACE Two great collections of Byron's letters have been already printed. In Moore's 'Life', which appeared in 1830, 561 were given. These, in FitzGreene Halleck's American edition of Byron's 'Works', published in 1847, were increased to 635. The first volume of a third collection, edited by Mr. W. E. Henley, appeared early in 1897. A comparison of the number of letters contained in these three collections down to August 22, 1811, shows that Moore prints 61, Halleck 78, and Mr. Henley 88. In other words, the edition of 1897, which was the most complete so far as it goes, added 27 letters to that of 1830, and 10 to that of 1847. But it should be remembered that by far the greater part of the material added by Halleck and Mr. Henley was seen and rejected by Moore. The present edition, down to August 22, 1811, prints 168 letters, or an addition of 107 to Moore, 90 to Halleck, and 80 to Mr. Henley. Of this additional matter considerably more than two-thirds was inaccessible to Moore in 1830. In preparing this volume for the press, use has been also made of a mass of material, bearing more or less directly on Byron's life, which was accumulated by the grandfather and father of Mr. Murray. The notes thus contain, it is believed, many details of biographical interest, which are now for the first time published. It is necessary to make these comparisons, in order to define the position which this edition claims to hold with regard to its predecessors. On the other hand, no one can regret more sincerely than myself--no one has more cause to regret--the circumstances which placed this wealth of new material in my hands rather than in those of the true poet and brilliant critic, who, to enthusiasm for Byron, and wide acquaintance with the literature and social life of the day, adds the rarer gift of giving life and significance to bygone events or trivial details by unconsciously interesting his readers in his own living personality. Byron's letters appeal on three special grounds to all lovers of English literature. They offer the most suggestive commentary on his poetry; they give the truest portrait of the man; they possess, at their best, in their ease, freshness, and racy vigour, a very high literary value. The present volume, which covers the period from 1798 to August, 1811, includes the letters written Lord Byron from his eleventh to his twenty-third year. They therefore illustrate the composition of his youthful poetry, of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', and of the first two cantos of 'Childe Harold'. They carry his history down to the eve of that morning in March, 1812, when he awoke and found himself famous--in a degree and to an extent which to the present generation seem almost incomprehensible. If the letters were selected for their literary value alone, it is probable that very few of those contained in the present volume would find a place in a collection formed on this principle. But biographical interest also demands consideration, and, in the case of Byron, this claim is peculiarly strong. He has for years suffered much from the suppression of the material on which a just estimate of his life may be formed. It is difficult not to regret the destruction of the 'Memoirs', in which he himself intended his history to be told. Their loss cannot be replaced; but their best substitute is found in his letters. Through them a truer conception of Byron can be formed than any impression which is derived from Dallas, Leigh Hunt, Medwin, or even Moore. It therefore seems only fair to Byron, that they should be allowed, as far as possible, to interpret his career. For other reasons also it appears to me too late, or too soon, to publish only those letters which possess a high literary value. The real motive of such a selection would probably be misread, and thus further misconceptions of Byron's character would be encouraged. With one exception, therefore, the whole of the available material has been published. The exception consists of some of the business letters written by Byron to his solicitor. Enough of these have been printed to indicate the pecuniary difficulties which undoubtedly influenced his life and character; but it was not considered necessary to publish the whole series. Men of genius ask money from their lawyers in the same language, and with the same arguments, as the most ordinary persons. The picture which the letters give of Byron, is, it is believed, unique in its completeness, while the portrait has the additional value of being painted by his own hand. Byron's career lends itself only too easily to that method of treatment, which dashes off a likeness by vigorous strokes with a full brush, seizing with false emphasis on some salient feature, and revelling in striking contrasts of light and shade. But the style here adopted by the unconscious artist is rather that in which Richardson the novelist painted his pathetic picture of Clarissa Harlowe. With slow, laborious touches, with delicate gradations of colour, sometimes with almost tedious minuteness and iteration, the gradual growth of a strangely composite character is presented, surrounded by the influences which controlled or moulded its development, and traced through all the varieties of its rapidly changing moods. Written, as Byron wrote, with habitual exaggeration, and on the impulse of the moment, his letters correct one another, and, from this point of view, every letter contained in the volume adds something to the truth and completeness of the portrait. Round the central figure of Byron are grouped his relations and friends, and two of the most interesting features in the volume are the strength of his family affections, and the width, if not the depth, of his capacity for friendship. His father died when the child was only three years old. But a bundle of his letters, written from Valenciennes to his sister, Mrs. Leigh, in 1790-91, still exists, to attest, with startling plainness of speech, the strength of the tendencies which John Byron transmitted to his son. The following extract contains the father's only allusion to the boy:-- "Valenciennes, Feb. 16, 1791. Have you never received any letters from me by way of Bologne? I have sent two. For God's sake send me some, as I have a great deal to pay. With regard to Mrs. Byron, I am glad she writes to you. She is very amiable at a distance; but I defy you and all the Apostles to live with her two months, for, if any body could live with her, it was me. 'Mais jeu de Mains, jeu de Vilains'. For my son, I am happy to hear he is well; but for his walking, 'tis impossible, as he is club-footed." Between his mother and himself, in spite of frequent and violent collisions, there existed a real affection, while the warmth of his love for his half-sister Augusta, who had much of her brother's power of winning affection, lost nothing in its permanence from the rarity of their personal intercourse. Outside the family circle, the volume introduces the only two men among his contemporaries who remained his lifelong friends. In his affection for Lord Clare, whom he very rarely saw after leaving school, there was a tinge of romance, and in him Byron seems to have personified the best memories of an idealized Harrow. In Hobhouse he found at once the truest and the most intimate of his friends, a man whom he both liked and respected, and to whose opinion and judgment he repeatedly deferred. On Hobhouse's side, the sentiment which induced him, eminently sensible and practical as he was, to treasure the nosegay which Byron had given him, long after it was withered, shows how attractive must have been the personality of the donor. Without the 'Dictionary of National Biography', the labour of preparing the letters for the press would be trebled. Both in the facts which it supplies, and in the sources of information which it suggests, it is an invaluable aid. In conclusion, I desire to express my special obligations to Lord Lovelace and Mr. Richard Edgcumbe, who have read the greater part of the proofs, and to both of whom I am indebted for several useful suggestions. R. E. PROTHERO. March, 1898. List of Letters 1798 1. Nov. 8. To Mrs. Parker 1799. 2. March 13. To his Mother 3. Undated. To John Hanson 1803. 4. May 1. To his Mother 5. June 23, To his Mother 6. Sept. To his Mother 1804. 7. March 22. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 8. March 26. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 9. April 2. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 10. April 9. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 11 Aug. 18. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 12. Aug. 29. To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot 13. Oct. 25. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 14. Nov. 2. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 15. Nov. 11. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 16. Nov. 17. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 17. Nov. 21. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 18. Dec. 1. To John Hanson 1805. 19. Jan. 30. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 20. April 4. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 21. April 15. To Hargreaves Hanson 22. April 20. To Hargreaves Hanson 23. April 23. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 24. April 25. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 25. May 11. To John Hanson 26. June 5. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 27. June 27. To John Hanson 28. July 2. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 29. July 8. To John Hanson 30. Aug. 4. To Charles O. Gordon 31. Aug. 6. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 32. Aug. 10. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 33. Aug. 14. To Charles O. Gordon. 34. Aug. 19. To Hargreaves Hanson 35. Undated. To Hargreaves Hanson 36. Oct. 25. To Hargreaves Hanson 37. Oct. 26. To John Hanson 38. Nov. 6. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 39. Nov. 12. To Hargreaves Hanson 40. Nov. 23. To John Hanson 41. Nov. 30. To John Hanson 42. Dec. 4. To John Hanson 43. Dec. 13. To John Hanson 44. Dec. 26. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 45. Dec. 27. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 1806 46. Jan. 7. To the Hon. Augusta Byron 47. Feb. 26. To his Mother 48. March 3. To John Hanson 49. March 10. To John Hanson 50. March 25. To John Hanson 51. May 16. To Henry Angelo 52. Aug. 9. To John M.B. Pigot 53. Aug. 10. To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot 54. Aug. 10. To John M.B. Pigot 55. Aug. 16. To John M.B. Pigot 56. Aug. 18. To John M.B. Pigot 57. Aug. 26. To John M. B. Pigot 58. Undated. To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot 59. Dec. 7. To John Hanson 1807. 60. Jan. 12. To J. Ridge 61. Jan. 13. To John M. B. Pigot 62. Jan. 31. To Captain John Leacroft 63. Feb. 4. " " " 64. Feb. 4. " " " 65. Feb. 6. To the Earl of Clare 66. Feb. 8. To Mrs. Hanson 67. March 6. To William Bankes 68. Undated. " " 69. Undated. To----Falkner 70. April 2. To John Hanson 71. April. To John M. B. Pigot 72. April 19. To John Hanson 73. June 11. To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot 74. June 30. " " " 75. July 5. " " " 76. July 13. " " " 77. July 20. To John Hanson 78. Aug. 2. To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot 79. Aug. 11. " " " 80. Oct. 19. To John Hanson 81. Oct. 26. To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot 82. Nov. 20. To J. Ridge 83. Dec. 2. To John Hanson 84. Nov. 9 (1820) To John Murray 1808. 85. Jan. 13. To Henry Drury 86. Jan. 16. To John Cam Hobhouse 87. Jan. 20. To Robert Charles Dallas 88. Jan. 21. " " " 89. Jan. 25. To John Hanson 90. Jan. 25. " " 91. Feb. 2. To James De Bathe 92. Feb. 11. To William Harness 93. Feb. 21. To J. Ridge 94. Feb. 26. To the Rev. John Becher 95. March 28. " " " 96. April 26. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 97. Sept. 14. To the Rev. John Becher 98. Sept. 18. To John Jackson 99. Oct. 4. " " 100. Oct. 7. To his Mother 101. Nov. 2. " " 102. Nov. 3. To Francis Hodgson 103. Nov. 18. To John Hanson 104. Nov. 27. To Francis Hodgson 105. Nov. 30. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 106. Dec. 14. " " " 107. Dec. 17. To John Hanson 108. Dec. 17. To Francis Hodgson 1809. 109. Jan. 15. To John Hanson 110. Jan. 25. To R. C. Dallas 111. Feb. 7. " " " 112. Feb. 11. " " " 113. Feb. 12. " " " 114. Feb. 16. " " " 115. Feb. 19. " " " 116. Feb. 22. " " " 117. March 6. To his Mother 118. March 18. To William Harness 119. Undated. To William Bankes 120. April 25. To R. C. Dallas 121. April 26. To John Hanson 122. May 15. To the Rev. R. Lowe 123. June 22. To his Mother 124. June 28. To the Rev. Henry Drury 125. June 25-30. To Francis Hodgson 126. July 16. " " " 127. Aug. 6. " " " 128. Aug. 11. To his Mother 129. Aug. 15. To Mr. Rushton 130. Sept. 15. To his Mother 131. Nov. 12. " " " 1810. 132. March 19. To his Mother 133. April 9. To his Mother 134. April I0. To his Mother 135. April 17. To his Mother 136. May 3. To Henry Drury 137. May 5. To Francis Hodgson 138. May 18. To his Mother 139. May 24. To his Mother 140. June 17. To Henry Drury 141. June 28. To his Mother 142. July 1. To his Mother 143. July 4. To Francis Hodgson 144. July 25. To his Mother 145. July 27. To his Mother 146. July 30. To his Mother 147. Oct. 2. To his Mother 148. Oct. 3. To Francis Hodgson 149. Oct. 4. To John Cam Hobhouse 150. Nov. 14. To Francis Hodgson 1811. 151. Jan. 14. To his Mother I52. Feb. 28. To his Mother 153. June 25. To his Mother 154. June 28. To R. C. Dallas 155. June 29. To Francis Hodgson 156. July 17. To Henry Drury 157. July 23. To his Mother 158. July 30. To William Miller 159. Aug. 2. To John M. B. Pigot 160. Aug. 4. To John Hanson 161. Aug. 7. To Scrope Berdmore Davies 162. Aug. 12. To R. C. Dallas 163. Aug. 12. To----Bolton 164. Aug. 16. To----Bolton 165. Aug. 20. To----Bolton 166. Aug. 21. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 167. Aug. 21. To R. C. Dallas 168. Aug. 22. To Francis Hodgson CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL II. CAMBRIDGE AND JUVENILE POEMS III. ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS IV. TRAVELS IN ALBANIA, GREECE, ETC.--DEATH OF MRS. BYRON APPENDIX I. REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS APPENDIX II. ARTICLE FROM THE 'EDINBURGH REVIEW', FOR JANUARY, 1808 APPENDIX III. REVIEW OF GELL'S 'GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA', AND 'ITINERARY OF GREECE' THE LETTERS OF LORD BYRON. CHAPTER I. 1788-1805. CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL. Catherine Gordon of Gight (1765-1811), afterwards Mrs. Byron, and mother of the poet, was descended on the paternal side from Sir William Gordon of Gight, the third son, by Annabella Stewart, daughter of James I of Scotland, of George, second Earl of Huntly, Chancellor of Scotland (1498-1502), and Lord-Lieutenant of the North from 1491 to his death in 1507. The owners of Gight, now a ruin, once a feudal stronghold, were a hot-headed, hasty-handed race, sufficiently notable to be commemorated by Thomas the Rhymer, and to leave their mark in the traditions of Aberdeenshire. In the seventh generation from Sir William Gordon, the property passed to an heiress, Mary Gordon. By her marriage with Alexander Davidson of Newton, who assumed the name of Gordon, she had a son Alexander, Mrs. Byron's grandfather, who married Margaret Duff of Craigston, a cousin of the first Earl of Fife. Their eldest son, George, the fifth of the Gordons of Gight who bore that name, married Catherine Innes of Rosieburn, and by her became the father of Catherine Gordon, born in 1765, afterwards Mrs. Byron. Both her parents dying early, Catherine Gordon was brought up at Banff by her grandmother, commonly called Lady Gight, a penurious, illiterate woman, who, however, was careful that her granddaughter was better educated than herself. Thus, for the second time, Gight, which, with other property, was worth between £23,000 and £24,000, passed to an heiress. Miss Catherine Gordon had her full share of feminine vanity. At the age of thirty-five she was a stout, dumpy, coarse-looking woman, awkward in her movements, provincial in her accent and manner. But as her son was vain of his personal appearance, and especially of his hands, neck, and ears, so she, when other charms had vanished, clung to her pride in her arms and hands. She exhausted the patience of Stewartson the artist, who in 1806, after forty sittings, painted her portrait, by her anxiety to have a particular turn in her elbow exhibited in the most pleasing light. Of her ancestry she was, to use her son's expression, as "proud as Lucifer," looked down upon the Byron family, and regarded the Duke of Gordon as an inferior member of her clan. In later life, at any rate, her temper was ungovernable; her language, when excited, unrestrained; her love of gossip insatiable. Capricious in her moods, she flew from one extreme to the other, passing, for the slightest cause, from passionate affection to equally passionate resentment. How far these defects were produced, as they certainly were aggravated, by her husband's ill treatment and her hard struggle with poverty, it is impossible to say. She had many good qualities. She bore her ruin, as her letters show, with good sense, dignity, and composure. She lived on a miserable pittance without running into debt; she pinched herself in order to give her son a liberal supply of money; she was warm-hearted and generous to those in distress. She adored her scamp of a husband, and, in her own way, was a devoted mother. In politics she affected democratic opinions, took in the 'Morning Chronicle', and paid for it, as is shown by a bill sent in after her death, at the rate of £4 17s. 6d. for the half-year--no small deduction from her narrow income. She was fond of books, subscribed to the Southwell Book Club, copied passages which struck her in the course of her reading, collected all the criticisms on her son's poetry, made shrewd remarks upon them herself (Moore's 'Journal and Correspondence', vol. v. p. 295), and corresponded with her friends on literary subjects. In 1785 Miss Catherine Gordon was at Bath, where, it may be mentioned, her father had, some years before, committed suicide. There she met, and there, on May 13, 1785, in the parish church of St. Michael, as the register shows, she married Captain John Byron. Captain John Byron (1755-91), born at Plymouth, was the eldest son of Admiral the Hon. John Byron (1723-86)--known in the Royal Navy as "Hardy Byron" or "Foul-weather Jack"--by his marriage (1748) with Sophia Trevanion of Carhais, in Cornwall. The admiral, next brother to William, fifth Lord Byron, was a distinguished naval officer, whose 'Narrative' of his shipwreck in the 'Wager' was published in 1768, and whose 'Voyage round the World' in the 'Dolphin' was described by "an officer in the said ship" in 1767. His eldest son, John Byron, educated at Westminster and a French Military Academy, entered the Guards and served in America. A gambler, a spendthrift, a profligate scamp, disowned by his father, he in 1778 ran away with, and in 1779 married, Lady Carmarthen, wife of Francis, afterwards fifth Duke of Leeds, née Lady Amelia d'Arcy, only child and heiress of the last Earl of Holderness, and Baroness Conyers in her own right. Captain Byron and his wife lived in Paris, where were born to them a son and a daughter, both of whom died in infancy, and Augusta, born 1783, the poet's half-sister, who subsequently married her first cousin, Colonel George Leigh. In 1784 Lady Conyers died, and Captain Byron returned to England, a widower, over head and ears in debt, and in search of an heiress. It was a rhyme in Aberdeenshire-- "When the heron leaves the tree, The laird of Gight shall landless be." Tradition has it that, at the marriage of Catherine Gordon with "mad Jack Byron," the heronry at Gight passed over to Kelly or Haddo, the property of the Earl of Aberdeen. "The land itself will not be long in following," said his lordship, and so it proved. For a few months Mrs. Byron Gordon--for her husband assumed the name, and by this title her Scottish friends always addressed her--lived at Gight. But the ready money, the outlying lands, the rights of fishery, the timber, failed to liquidate Captain Byron's debts, and in 1786 Gight itself was sold to Lord Aberdeen for £17,850. Mrs. Byron Gordon found herself, at the end of eighteen months, stripped of her property, and reduced to the income derived from £4200, subject to an annuity payable to her grandmother. She bore the reverse with a composure which shows her to have been a woman of no ordinary courage. Her letters on the subject are sensible, not ill-expressed, and, considering the circumstances in which they were written, give a favourable impression of her character. The wreck of their fortunes compelled Mrs. Byron Gordon and her husband to retire to France. At the beginning of 1788 she had returned to London, and on January 22, 1788, at 16, Holles Street (since numbered 24, and now destroyed), in the back drawing-room of the first floor, gave birth to her only child, George Gordon, afterwards sixth Lord Byron. Hanson gives the names of the nurse, Mrs. Mills, the man-midwife, Mr. Combe, the doctor, Dr. Denman, who attended Mrs. Byron at her confinement. Dallas was, therefore, mistaken in his supposition that the poet was born at Dover. The child was baptized in London on February 29, 1788, as is proved by the register of the parish of Marylebone. Shortly after the birth of her son, Mrs. Byron settled in Aberdeen, where she lived for upwards of eight years. During her stay there, in the summer of 1791, her husband died at Valenciennes. In the year 1794, by the death of his cousin William John Byron (1772-94) from a wound received at the siege of Calvi, in Corsica, her son became the heir to his great-uncle, the "wicked Lord Byron" (William, fifth Lord Byron, 1722-98), and a solicitor named Hanson was appointed to protect the boy's interests. From Aberdeen Mrs. Byron kept up a correspondence with her sister-in-law, Frances Leigh ('née' Byron), wife of General Charles Leigh, to whom, in a letter, dated March 27, 1791, she speaks of her son as "very well, and really a charming boy." Writing again to Mrs. Leigh, December 8, 1794, she says, "I think myself much obliged to you for being so interested for George; you may be sure I would do anything I could for my son, but I really don't see what can be done for him in that case. You say you are afraid Lord B. will dispose of the estates that are left, if he can; if he has it in his power, nobody can prevent him from selling them; if he has not, no one will buy them from him. You know Lord Byron. Do you think he will do anything for George, or be at any expense to give him a proper education; or, if he wish to do it, is his present fortune such a one that he could spare anything out of it? You know how poor I am, not that I mean to ask him to do anything for him, that is to say, to be of any expense on his account." If any application was made to the boy's great-uncle, it was unsuccessful. On May 19, 1798, Lord Byron died, and Hanson informed Mrs. Byron that her son had succeeded to the title and estates. At the end of the summer of that year, the little Lord Byron, with his mother and the nurse May Gray, reached Newstead, and, within a few weeks from their arrival, his first letter was written. His letters to his mother, it may be observed, are always addressed to "the Honourable Mrs. Byron," a title to which she had no claim. 1.--To Mrs. Parker. [1] Newstead Abbey, Nov. 8th, 1798. Dear Madam,--My Mamma being unable to write herself desires I will let you know that the potatoes are now ready and you are welcome to them whenever you please. She begs you will ask Mrs. Parkyns if she would wish the poney to go round by Nottingham or to go home the nearest way as it is now quite well but too small to carry me. I have sent a young Rabbit which I beg Miss Frances will accept off and which I promised to send before. My Mamma desires her best compliments to you all in which I join. I am, Dear Aunt, yours sincerely, BYRON. I hope you will excuse all blunders as it is the first letter I ever wrote. [Footnote 1: This letter, the first that Byron wrote, was written when he was ten years and ten months old. It is preserved in the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge, and a facsimile is given by Elze, in his 'Life of Lord Byron'. It is apparently addressed to his aunt, Mrs. Parker. Charlotte Augusta Byron, daughter of Admiral the Hon. John Byron, married Christopher Parker (1761-1804), Vice-Admiral 1804, the son of Admiral of the Fleet Sir Peter Parker, Bart. (1721-1811). Her son, who, on the death of his grandfather, succeeded to the baronetcy as Sir Peter Parker, second Bart. (1786-1814), commanded H.M.S. 'Menelaus', and was killed in an attack on a body of American militia encamped near Baltimore. (See Byron's "Elegy on the Death of Sir Peter Parker," and his letter to Moore, October 7, 1814.) Her daughter Margaret, one of Byron's early loves, inspired, as he says, his "first dash into poetry" (see 'Poems', vol. i, p. 5, note 1).] 2.--To his Mother. Nottingham, 13 March, 1799. Dear Mama,--I am very glad to hear you are well. I am so myself, thank God; upon my word I did not expect so long a Letter from you; however I will answer it as well as I can. Mrs. Parkyns and the rest are well and are much obliged to you for the present. Mr. Rogers [1] could attend me every night at a separate hour from the Miss Parkynses, and I am astonished you do not acquiesce in this Scheme which would keep me in Mind of what I have almost entirely forgot. I recommend this to you because, if some plan of this kind is not adopted, I shall be called, or rather branded with the name of a dunce, which you know I could never bear. I beg you will consider this plan seriously and I will lend it all the assistance in my power. I shall be very glad to see the Letter you talk of, and I have time just to say I hope every body is well at Newstead, And remain, your affectionate Son, BYRON. P.S.--Pray let me know when you are to send in the Horses to go to Newstead. May [2] desires her Duty and I also expect an answer by the miller. [Footnote 1: Dummer Rogers, "Teacher of French, English, Latin, and Mathematicks", was, according to 'Notes and Queries' (4th series, vol. iii. p. 561), an American loyalist, pensioned by the English Government. He lived at Hen Cross, Nottingham, when Byron was staying in that city, partly with Mrs. Parkyns, partly at Mr. Gill's, in St. James's Lane, to be attended by a man named Lavender, "trussmaker to the general hospital", who had some local reputation for the treatment of misshapen limbs. Lavender, in 1814 ('Nottingham Directory' for 1814), appears as a "surgeon". Rogers, who read parts of Virgil and Cicero with Byron, represents him as, for his age, a fair scholar. He was often, during his lessons, in violent pain, from the position in which his foot was kept; and Rogers one day said to him, "It makes me uncomfortable, my Lord, to see you sitting there in such pain as I know you must be suffering". "Never mind, Mr. Rogers," answered the boy; "you shall not see any signs of it in _me_." Many years after, when in the neighbourhood of Nottingham, Byron sent a kind message to his old instructor, bidding the bearer tell him that he could still recite twenty verses of Virgil which he had read with Rogers when suffering torture all the time. [Footnote 2: Byron's nurse, who had accompanied him from Aberdeen (see p. 10, note 1).] 3.--To John Hanson. [1] SIR,--I am not a little disappointed at your Stay, for this last week I expected you every hour; but, however, I beg it as a favour that you will come up soon from Newstead as the Holidays commence in three weeks Time. I congratulate you on Capt. Hanson's [1] being appointed commander of The 'Brazen' Sloop of War, and I congratulate myself on Lord Portsmouth's [2] Marriage, hoping his Lady, when he and I meet next, will keep him in a little better order. The manner I knew that Capt. Hanson was appointed Commander of the Ship before mentioned was this. I saw it in the public Paper, and now, since you are going to Newstead, I beg if you meet Gray [3] send her a packing as fast as possible, and give my Compliments to Mrs. Hanson and to all my comrades of the Battalions in and out upon different Stations, And remain, your little friend, BYRON. I forgot to tell you how I was. I am at present very well and my foot goes but indifferently; I cannot perceive any alteration. [Footnote 1: John Hanson, of 6, Chancery Lane, a well-known London solicitor, was introduced to the Byron family by an Aberdeenshire friend of Mrs. Byron, Mr. Farquhar, a member of Parliament, and a civilian practising in Doctors' Commons. The acquaintance began in January, 1788, with Byron's birth, for the midwife and the nurse were recommended by Mrs. Hanson. Six years later, Hanson was employed by Mrs. Byron to watch the interests of her son, who in 1794 had become heir-presumptive to his great-uncle. It was Hanson who, in the summer of 1798, communicated the news of the death of Lord Byron to Mrs. Byron, and with his wife received her and her son at Newstead. From that time till the close of the minority, Hanson was intimately associated with Byron, both as a man of business and a friend. He selected Dr. Glennie's school for the boy, persuaded Lord Carlisle to become his guardian, introduced the ward to Lord Carlisle, and entered him at Harrow. It was at his house in Earl's Court that Byron, for five years, spent a considerable part of his successive holidays. There he made acquaintance with Hanson's children--his sons Charles, Hargreaves (his contemporary at Harrow), and Newton, and his daughter, Mary Anne, who subsequently (March 7, 1814) married the Earl of Portsmouth, Byron giving her away. This letter was written by Byron a few weeks after he had gone to school at Dr. Glennie's, in Lordship Lane, Dulwich. He remained there from August, 1799, to April, 1801. In a letter to Mrs. Byron, dated September 1, 1799, Hanson describes Dr. Glennie's "Academy," where he had shortly before left the boy:-- "I left my entertaining companion with Mr. Glennie last Thursday week, and I have since learnt from him that he is very comfortable and likes the situation. His schoolfellows are very fine youths, and their deportment does very great credit to their Preceptor. I succeeded in getting Lord Byron a separate room, and I am persuaded the greatest attention will be paid to him. Mr. Glennie is a Scotchman, has travelled a great deal, and seems every way qualified for his present situation." [Footnote 2: Captain James Hanson, R.N., was the brother of John Hanson to whom the letter is written. Byron was born with a caul, prized by sailors as a preservative from drowning. The caul was sold by Mrs. Mills, the nurse who attended Mrs. Byron in January, 1788, to Captain Hanson. In January, 1800, Captain Hanson, in command of H.M.S. 'Brazen', had captured a French vessel, which he sent to Portsmouth with a prize crew. On the 26th of the month, while shorthanded, he was caught in a storm off Newhaven. The 'Brazen' foundered, and Captain Hanson with all his men, except one, were drowned.] [Footnote 3: In the late autumn of 1799 Lord Portsmouth was staying with the Hansons before his marriage (November 23, 1799) with Miss Norton, sister of Lord Grantley. In rough play he pinched Byron's ear; the boy picked up a conch shell which was lying on the ground, and hurled it at Lord Portsmouth's head, missing it by a hair's breadth, and smashing the glass behind. In vain Mrs. Hanson tried to make the peace by saying that Byron did not mean the missile for Lord Portsmouth. "But I 'did' mean it!" he reiterated; "I will teach a fool of an earl to pinch another noble's ear."] [Footnote: 4. The following extract from a letter written by Hanson to Mrs. Byron (September 1, 1799) places the character of Byron's nurse in a different light to that which is given in Moore's 'Life':-- "I assure you, Madam, I should not have taken the liberty to have interfered in your domestic Arrangements, had I not thought it absolutely necessary to apprize you of the proceedings of your Servant, Mrs. Gray; her conduct towards your son while at Nottingham was shocking, and I was persuaded you needed but a hint of it to dismiss her. Mrs. Parkyns, when I saw her, said something to me about her; but when I found from dispassionate persons at Nottingham, it was the general Topic of conversation, it would have ill become me to have remained silent. My honourable little companion, tho' disposed to retain his feelings, could not refrain, from the harsh usage he had received at her hands, from complaining to me, and such is his dread of the Woman that I really believe he would forego the satisfaction of seeing you if he thought he was to meet her again. He told me that she was perpetually beating him, and that his bones sometimes ached from it; that she brought all sorts of Company of the very lowest Description into his apartments; that she was out late at nights, and he was frequently left to put himself to bed; that she would take the Chaise-boys into the Chaise with her, and stopped at every little Ale-house to drink with them. But, Madam, this is not all; she has even----traduced yourself. I entertain a very great affection for Lord Byron, and I trust I shall not be considered solely in my professional character, but as his Friend. I introduced him to my Friends, Lord Grantley and his Brother General Norton, who were vastly taken with him, as indeed are every one. And I should be mortified in the highest degree to see the honourable feelings of my little fellow exposed to insult by the inordinate Indiscretions of any Servant. He has Ability and a quickness of Conception, and a correct Discrimination that is seldom seen in a youth, and he is a fit associate of men, and choice indeed must be the Company that is selected for him."] 4.--To his Mother. Harrow-on-the-Hill, Sunday, May 1st, 1803. MY DEAR MOTHER,--I received your Letter the other day. And am happy to hear you are well. I hope you will find Newstead in as favorable a state as you can wish. I wish you would write to Sheldrake to tell him to make haste with my shoes. [1] I am sorry to say that Mr. Henry Drury [2] has behaved himself to me in a manner I neither'can' nor 'will bear'. He has seized now an opportunity of showing his resentment towards me. To day in church I was talking to a Boy who was sitting next me; 'that' perhaps was not right, but hear what followed. After Church he spoke not a word to me, but he took this Boy to his pupil room, where he abused me in a most violent manner, called me 'blackguard', said he 'would' and 'could' have me expelled from the School, and bade me thank his 'Charity' that 'prevented' him; this was the Message he sent me, to which I shall return no answer, but submit my case to 'you' and those you may think 'fit' to 'consult'. Is this fit usage for any body? had I 'stole' or behaved in the most 'abominable' way to him, his language could not have been more outrageous. What must the boys think of me to hear such a Message ordered to be delivered to me by a 'Master'? Better let him take away my life than ruin my 'Character'. My Conscience acquits me of ever 'meriting' expulsion at this School; I have been 'idle' and I certainly ought not to talk in church, but I have never done a mean action at this School to him or 'any one'. If I had done anything so 'heinous', why should he allow me to stay at the School? Why should he himself be so 'criminal' as to overlook faults which merit the 'appellation' of a 'blackguard'? If he had had it in his power to have me expelled, he would long ago have 'done' it; as it is, he has done 'worse'. If I am treated in this Manner, I will not stay at this School. I write you that I will not as yet appeal to Dr. Drury; his Son's influence is more than mine and 'justice' would be 'refused' me. Remember I told you, when I 'left' you at 'Bath', that he would seize every means and opportunity of revenge, not for leaving him so much as the mortification he suffered, because I begged you to let me leave him. If I had been the Blackguard he talks of, why did he not of his own accord refuse to keep me as his 'pupil'? You know Dr. Drury's first letter, in it were these Words: "My son and Lord Byron have had some Disagreements; but I hope that his future behaviour will render a change of Tutors unnecessary." Last Term I was here but a short time, and though he endeavoured, he could find nothing to abuse me in. Among other things I forgot to tell you he said he had a great mind to expel the Boy for speaking to me, and that if he ever again spoke to me he would expel him. Let him explain his meaning; he abused me, but he neither did nor can mention anything bad of me, further than what every boy else in the School has done. I fear him not; but let him explain his meaning; 'tis all I ask. I beg you will write to Dr. Drury to let him know what I have said. He has behaved to me, as also Mr. Evans, very kindly. If you do not take notice of this, I will leave the School myself; but I am sure 'you' will not see me 'ill treated'; better that I should suffer anything than this. I believe you will be tired by this time of reading my letter, but, if you love me, you will now show it. Pray write me immediately. I shall ever remain, Your affectionate Son, BYRON. P.S.--Hargreaves Hanson desires his love to you and hopes you are very well. I am not in want of any Money so will not ask you for any. God bless, bless you. [Footnote 1: Byron appears to have suffered from what would now be described as infantile paralysis, which affected the inner muscles of the right leg and foot, and rendered him permanently lame. Before leaving London for Aberdeen, Mrs. Byron consulted John Hunter, who, in correspondence with Dr. Livingstone of Aberdeen, advised her as to the treatment of her son. Writing, May 31, 1791, to Mrs. Leigh, she says, "George's foot turns inward, and it is the right foot; he walks quite on the side of his foot." In 1798 the child was placed under the care of Lavender (see p. 7, note 1) at Nottingham, doubtless on the recommendation of his aunt. In July, 1799, he was taken to London, in order to consult Dr. Baillie. From July, 1799, till the end of 1802, he was attended by Baillie in consultation with Dr. Laurie of 2, Bartholomew's Close. Special appliances were made for the boy, under their superintendence, by a scientific bootmaker named Sheldrake, in the Strand. In 'The Lancet' for 1827-8 (vol. ii. p. 779) Mr. T. Sheldrake describes "Lord Byron's case," giving an illustration of the foot. His account does not tally, in some respects, with that taken from contemporary letters, and his sketch represents the left not the right leg. But the nature and extent of Byron's lameness have been the subject of a curious variety of opinion. Lady Blessington, Moore, Gait, the Contessa Albrizzi, never knew which foot was deformed. Jackson, the boxer, thought it was the 'left' foot. Trelawney says that it proceeded from a contraction of the back sinews, and that the 'right' foot was most distorted. The lasts from which his shoes were made by Swift, the Southwell bootmaker, are preserved in the Nottingham Museum, and in both the foot is perfect in shape. The last pair of shoes modelled on them were made May 7, 1807. Mrs. Leigh Hunt says that the 'left' foot was shrunken, but was not a club-foot. Stendhal says the 'right' foot. Thorwaldsen indicates the 'left' foot. Dr. James Millingen, who inspected the feet after the poet's death, says that there was a malformation of the 'left' foot and leg, and that he was born club-footed. Two surgical boots are in the possession of Mr. Murray, made for Byron as a child; both are for the 'right' foot, ankle, and leg, and, assuming that they were made to fit the foot, they are too long and thin for a club-foot. Both at Dulwich and at Harrow, Byron was frequently seen by Laurie, whom Mrs. Byron paid, as she once complained in a letter to Laurie, "at the rate of £150 a year." It is difficult to see what more could have been done for the boy, and the explanation of the failure to effect a cure is probably to be found in the following extracts from two of Laurie's letters to Mrs. Byron. The first is dated December 7, 1801:-- "Agreeable to your desire, I waited on Lord Byron at Harrow, and I think it proper to inform you that I found his foot in a much worse state than when I last saw it,--the shoe entirely wet through and the brace round his ancle quite loose. I much fear his extreme inattention will counteract every exertion on my part to make him better. I have only to add that with proper care and bandaging, his foot may still be greatly recovered; but any delay further than the present vacation would render it folly to undertake it." The second letter is dated October 2, 1802. In it Laurie complains that the boy had spent several days in London without seeing him, and adds-- "I cannot help lamenting he has so little sense of the Benefit he has already received as to be so apparently neglectful."] [Footnote 2: For Henry Drury (afterwards an intimate friend of Byron) and his father, the Head-master of Harrow, see p. 41, note 2. When Byron went to Harrow, in April, 1801, he was placed in Henry Drury's house. But in January, 1803, he refused to go back to school unless he was removed from Drury's care. He was in consequence placed at Evans's house. Dr. Drury, writing to explain the new arrangement, says, in a letter to Hanson, dated February 4, 1803-- "The reason why Lord Byron wishes for this change arises from the repeated complaints of Mr. Henry Drury respecting his Inattention to Business, and his propensity to make others laugh and disregard their Employments as much as himself. On this subject I have had many very serious conversations with him, and though Mr. H. D. had repeatedly requested me to withdraw him from his Tuition, yet, relying on my own remonstrances and arguments to rectify his Error, and on his own reflection to confirm him in what is right, I was unwilling to accede to my son's wishes. Lord Byron has now made the request himself; I am glad it has been made, as he thereby imposes on himself an additional responsibility, and encourages me to hope that by this change he intends to lay aside all that negligence and those Childish Practices which were the cause of former complaints." Fresh troubles soon arose, as Byron's letter indicates. Hanson forwarded the boy's complaint to Dr. Drury, from whom he received the following answer, dated May 15, 1803:-- "The Perusal of the inclosed has allowed me to inquire into the whole Matter, and to relieve your young friend's Mind from any uneasy impression it might have sustained from a hasty word I fairly confess. I am sorry it was ever uttered; but certainly it was never intended to make so deep a wound as his letter intimates. "I may truly say, without any parade of words, that I am deeply interested in Lord Byron's welfare. He possesses, as his letter proves, a mind that feels, and that can discriminate reasonably on points in which it conceives itself injured. When I look forward to the Possibility of the exercise of his Talents hereafter, and his supplying the Deficiencies of fortune by the exertion of his abilities and by application, I feel particularly hurt to see him idle, and negligent, and apparently indifferent to the great object to be pursued. This event, and the conversations which have passed between us relative to it, will probably awaken in his mind a greater degree of emulation, and make him studious of acquiring Distinction among his Schoolfellows, as well as of securing to himself the affectionate regard of his Instructors."] 5.--To his Mother. Harrow-on-the-Hill, June 23rd, 6th, 8th, 30th, 1803. My dear Mother,--I am much obliged to you for the Money you sent me. I have already wrote to you several times about writing to Sheldrake: I wish you would write to him, or Mr. Hanson to call on him, to tell him to make an Instrument for my leg immediately, as I want one, rather. I have been placed in a higher form in this School to day, and Dr. Drury and I go on very well; write soon, my Dear Mother. I remain, your affectionate Son, BYRON. 6.--To his Mother. [1] Southwell, [Sept. 1803]. MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have sent Mealey [2] to day to you, before William came, but now I shall write myself. I _promise_ you, upon my _honour_, I will come over tomorrow in the _Afternoon_. I was not wishing to resist your _Commands_, and really seriously intended coming over tomorrow, ever since I received your last Letter; you know as well as I do that it is not your Company I dislike, but the place you reside in. I know it is time to go to Harrow. It will make me _unhappy_; but I will _obey_. I only desire, entreat, this one day, and on my _honour_ I will be over tomorrow in the evening or afternoon. I am sorry you disapprove my Companions, who, however, are the first this County affords, and my equals in most respects; but I will be permitted to chuse for myself. I shall never interfere in your's and I desire you will not molest me in mine. If you grant me this favour, and allow me this one day unmolested, you will eternally oblige your Unhappy Son, BYRON. I shall attempt to offer no excuse as you do not desire one. I only entreat you as a Governor, not as a Mother, to allow me this one day. Those that I most love live in this County; therefore in the name of Mercy I entreat this one day to take leave, and then I will join you again at Southwell to prepare to go to a place where--I will write no more; it would only incense you. Adieu. Tomorrow I come. [Footnote 1: This letter is endorsed by Hanson, "Lord Byron to his mother, "1803". In September, 1803, at the end of the summer holidays, Byron did not return to Harrow. Dr. Drury asked the reason, received no reply, and, on October 4, applied to Hanson for an explanation. Hanson's inquiry drew from Mrs. Byron, on October 30, the following answer, with which was enclosed the above letter from Byron:-- "You may well be surprized, and so may Dr. Drury, that Byron is not returned to Harrow. But the Truth is, I cannot get him to return to school, though I have done all in my power for six weeks past. He has no indisposition that I know of, but love, desperate love, the 'worst' of all 'maladies' in my opinion. In short, the Boy is distractedly in love with Miss Chaworth, and he has not been with me three weeks all the time he has been in this county, but spent all his time at Annesley. If my son was of a proper age and the lady 'disengaged', it is the last of all connexions that I would wish to take place; it has given me much uneasiness. To prevent all trouble in future, I am determined he shall not come here again till Easter; therefore I beg you will find some proper situation for him at the next Holydays. I don't care what I pay. I wish Dr. Drury would keep him. I shall go over to Newstead to-morrow and make a 'last effort' to get him to Town." The effort, if made, failed. On November 7, 1803, Mrs. Byron wrote again:-- "Byron is really so unhappy that I have agreed, much against my inclination, to let him remain in this County till after the next Holydays." It was not till January, 1804, that Byron returned to Harrow. Miss Mary Anne Chaworth, the object of Byron's passion, was then living with her mother, Mrs. Clarke, at Annesley, near Newstead (see 'Poems', vol. i. p. 189, and note 1). The grand-niece of the Mr. Chaworth who was killed in a duel by William, fifth Lord Byron, on January 26, 1765 ('Annual Register', 1765, pp. 208-212; and 'State Trials', vol. xix. pp. 1178-1236), and the heiress of Annesley, she married, in August, 1805, John Musters, by whom she had a daughter, born in 1806. (See "Well! thou art happy!" 'Poems', vol. i. p. 277; see also, for other allusions to Mrs. Chaworth Musters, 'ibid'., pp. 210, 239, 282, 285; and "The Dream" of July, 1816.) In Byron's memorandum-book, he describes a visit which he paid to Matlock with Miss Chaworth's mother, her stepfather Mr. Clarke, some friends, "and 'my' M. A. C. Alas! why do I say MY? Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers,--it would have joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least 'one' heart, and two persons not ill matched in years (she is two years my elder) and--and--and--'what' has been the result?" ('Life', p. 27). Mrs. Musters, after an unhappy married life, died in February, 1832, at Wiverton Hall, near Nottingham. The connection between the families of Chaworth and Byron came through the marriage of William, third Lord Byron (died 1695), with Elizabeth Chaworth (died 1683), daughter of George Chaworth, created (1627) Viscount Chaworth of Armagh (Thoroton's 'Nottinghamshire', vol. i. p. 198).] [Footnote 2: Owen Mealey, the steward at Newstead.] 7.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [1] [At 63, Portland Place, London.] Burgage Manor, [Thursday], March 22d, 1804. Although, My ever Dear Augusta, I have hitherto appeared remiss in replying to your kind and affectionate letters; yet I hope you will not attribute my neglect to a want of affection, but rather to a shyness naturally inherent in my Disposition. I will now endeavour as amply as lies in my power to repay your kindness, and for the Future I hope you will consider me not only as _a Brother_ but as your warmest and most affectionate _Friend_, and if ever Circumstances should require it your _protector_. Recollect, My Dearest Sister, that you are _the nearest relation_ I have in _the world both by the ties of Blood_ and _affection_. If there is anything in which I can serve you, you have only to mention it; Trust to your Brother, and be assured he will never betray your confidence. When You see my Cousin and future Brother George Leigh, [2] tell him that I already consider him as my Friend, for whoever is beloved by you, my amiable Sister, will always be equally Dear to me. I arrived here today at 2 o'clock after a fatiguing Journey, I found my Mother perfectly well. She desires to be kindly remembered to you; as she is just now Gone out to an assembly, I have taken the first opportunity to write to you, I hope she will not return immediately; for if she was to take it into her head to peruse my epistle, there is one part of it which would produce from her a panegyric on _a friend of yours_, not at all agreeable to me, and I fancy, _not particularly delightful to you_. If you see Lord Sidney Osborne [3] I beg you will remember me to him; I fancy he has almost forgot me by this time, for it is rather more than a year Since I had the pleasure of Seeing him.--Also remember me to poor old Murray; [4] tell him we will see that something is to be done for him, for _while I live he shall never be abandoned In his old Age_. Write to me Soon, my Dear Augusta, And do not forget to love me, In the meantime, I remain, more than words can express, your ever sincere, affectionate Brother and Friend, BYRON. P.S. Do not forget to knit the purse you promised me, Adieu my beloved Sister. [Footnote: 1. The Hon. Augusta Byron, Byron's half-sister (January, 1783-November, 1851), was the daughter of Captain John Byron by his first wife, Amelia d'Arcy (died 1784), only child of the last Earl of Holderness, Baroness Conyers in her own right, the divorced wife of Francis, Marquis of Carmarthen, subsequently fifth Duke of Leeds. After the return of Captain and Mrs. Byron to London early in 1788, she was brought up by her grandmother, the Countess of Holderness. When the latter died, Augusta Byron divided her time between her half-sister, Lady Mary Osborne, who married, July 16, 1801, Lord Pelham, subsequently (1805) Earl of Chichester; her half-brother George, who succeeded his father as sixth Duke of Leeds in 1799; her cousin, the Earl of Carlisle; and General and Mrs. Harcourt. From their houses her letters during the period 1803-7 are written. In 1807 she married her first cousin, Colonel George Leigh of the Tenth Dragoons, the son of General Charles Leigh, by Frances, daughter of Admiral the Hon. John Byron. By her husband, who was a friend of the Prince Regent and well known in society, she was the mother of seven children. Their home was at Newmarket, till, in April, 1818, they were granted apartments in Flag Court, St. James's Palace, where she died in November, 1851. Augusta Byron seems scarcely to have seen her brother between his infancy and 1802. Lady Holderness and Mrs. Byron were not on friendly terms, and it was not till the former's death that any intimacy was renewed between the brother and sister. Writing on October 18, 1801, to Augusta Byron, Mrs. Byron says, in allusion to the death of Lady Holderness, "As I wish to bury what is past in _oblivion_, I shall avoid all reflections on a person now no more; my opinion of yourself I have suspended for some years; the time is now arrived when I shall form a very _decided_ one. I take up my pen now, however, to condole with you on the melancholy event that has happened, to offer you every consolation in my power, to assure you of the inalterable regard and friendship of myself and son. We will be extremely happy if ever we can be of any service to you, now or at any future period. I take it upon me to answer for him; although he knows so little of you, he often mentions you to me in the most affectionate manner, indeed the goodness of his heart and amiable disposition is such that your being his sister, had he never seen you, would be a sufficient claim upon him and ensure you every attention in his power to bestow. Ah, Augusta, need I assure you that you will ever be dear to me as the Daughter of the man I tenderly loved, as the sister of my beloved, my darling Boy, and I take God to witness you _once_ was dear to me on your own account, and may be so _again_. I still recollect with a degree of horror the many _sleepless_ nights, and days of _agony_, I have passed by your bedside drowned in tears, while you lay insensible and at the gates of death. Your recovery certainly was wonderful, and thank God I did my duty. These days you cannot remember, but I never will forget them ... Your brother is at Harrow School, and, if you wish to see him, I have now no desire to keep you asunder." From 1802 till Byron's death, Augusta took in him the interest of an elder sister. Writing to Hanson (June 17, 1804), she says-- "Pray write me a line and mention all you hear of my dear Brother: he was a most delightful correspondent while he remained in Nottinghamshire: but I can't obtain a single line from Harrow. I was much struck with his _general improvement_; it was beyond the expectations raised by what you had told me, and his letters gave me the most excellent opinion of both his _Head_ and _Heart_." In this tone the letters are continued (see extracts p. 39; p. 45, note 1; and p. 97 [Letter 48], [Foot]note 1 [further down]). From the end of 1805, with some interruptions, and less regularity, the correspondence between brother and sister was maintained to the end of Byron's life. To Augusta, then Mrs. Leigh, Byron sent a presentation copy of 'Childe Harold', with the inscription: "To Augusta, my dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever loved me much better than I deserved, this volume is presented by her father's son and most affectionate brother." She was the god-mother of Byron's daughter Augusta Ada, born December 10, 1815. In January, 1816, when Lady Byron was still with her husband, she writes of and to Mrs. Leigh: "In this at least, I _am_ 'truth itself,' when I say that, whatever the situation may be, there is no one whose society is dearer to me, or can contribute more to my happiness." Lady Byron left Byron on January 15, 1816. Writing to Mrs. Leigh from Kirby Mallory, she speaks of her as her "best comforter," notices her absolute unselfishness, and says that Augusta's presence in Byron's house in Piccadilly is her "great comfort" (Lady Byron's letters to Mrs. Leigh, January 16 and January 23, 1816, quoted in the 'Quarterly Review' for October, 1869, p. 414). Through Mrs. Leigh passed many communications between Byron and Lady Byron after the separation. To her, Byron, in 1816 and 1817, wrote the two sets of "Stanzas to Augusta," the "Epistle to Augusta," and the Journal of his journey through the Alps, "which contains all the germs of 'Manfred' (letter to Murray, August, 1817). She was in his thoughts on the Rhine, and in the third canto of 'Childe Harold':-- "But one thing want these banks of Rhine, Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine." To her he was writing a letter at Missolonghi (February 23, 1824), which he did not live to finish, "My dearest Augusta, I received a few days ago your and Lady Byron's report of Ada's health." He carried with him everywhere the pocket Bible which she had given him. "I have a Bible," he told Dr. Kennedy ('Conversations'), "which my sister gave me, who is an excellent woman, and I read it very often." His last articulate words were "My sister--my child." Several volumes of Mrs. Leigh's commonplace books are in existence, filled with extracts mostly on religious topics. She was, wrote the late Earl Stanhope, in a letter quoted in the 'Quarterly Review' (October, 1869, p. 421), "very fond" of talking about Byron. "She was," he continues, "extremely unprepossessing in her person and appearance--more like a nun than anything, and never can have had the least pretension to beauty. I thought her shy and sensitive to a fault in her mind and character." Frances, Lady Shelley, who died in January, 1873, and was intimately acquainted with Byron and his contemporaries, speaks of her as a "Dowdy-Goody." "I have seen," she writes (see 'Quarterly Review', October, 1869, p. 421, quoting from a letter signed E. M. U., which appeared in the 'Times' for September II, 1869), "a great deal of Mrs. Leigh (Augusta), having passed some days with her and Colonel Leigh, for my husband's shooting near Newmarket, when Lord Byron was in the house, and, as she told me, was writing 'The Corsair', to my great astonishment, for it was a wretched small house, full of her ill-trained children, who were always running up and down stairs, and going into 'uncle's' bedroom, where he remained all the morning."] [Footnote 2: See preceding note.] [Footnote 3: Francis, fifth Duke of Leeds, married, October 14, 1788, as his second wife, Miss Catherine Anguish, by whom he had two children: the eldest, a son, Sydney Godolphin Osborne, was born December 16, 1789.] [Footnote 4: Joe Murray had been for many years in the employment of William, fifth Lord Byron. At his master's death, in 1798, he was taken into the service of the Duke of Leeds. "I saw poor Joseph Murray the other night," writes Augusta Byron to Hanson (June 17, 1804), "who wishes me particularly to apply to Col. Leigh, to get him into some City Charity which the Prince of Wales is at the head of. I cannot understand what he means, nor can any body else, and therefore, as he said he was advised by you, I think it better to apply to you on the subject. I'm sure Col. Leigh would be happy to oblige him; but in general he dislikes _asking favours_ of the _Prince_, and this present moment is a bad one to chuse for the purpose, as H.R.H. is so much taken up with _public affairs_. I am very anxious about poor Joseph, and would almost do anything to serve him. I fear he is too old and infirm to go to service again." Three years later (March 19, 1807), Augusta Byron writes again to Hanson:-- "I have just had a pitiful note from poor old Murray, telling me of his dismissal from the Duchess of Leeds; but he says he does not leave her till June. I therefore hope something may in the mean time be done for him. He requests me to write word of it to my Brother. I shall certainly comply with his wishes, and send _two lines_ on that subject to Southwell, where I conclude he is." Byron made Murray an allowance of £20 a year (see Letter 83), took him, as soon as he could, into his service, and was careful, as he promises, to provide that he should not be "abandoned in his old age." His affection for Murray is marked by the postscript to the letter to Mrs. Byron of June 22, 1809 (see also 'Life', pp. 74, 121); as also by his draft will of 1811, in which he leaves Murray £50 a year for life. 8.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [63, Portland Place, London.] Southwell, March 26th, 1804. I received your affectionate letter, my ever Dear Sister, yesterday and I now hasten to comply with your injunction by answering it as soon as possible. Not, my Dear Girl, that it can be in the least irksome to me to write to you, on the Contrary it will always prove my Greatest pleasure, but I am sorry that I am afraid my correspondence will not prove the most entertaining, for I have nothing that I can relate to you, except my affection for you, which I can never sufficiently express, therefore I should tire you, before I had half satisfied myself. Ah, How unhappy I have hitherto been in being so long separated from so amiable a Sister! but fortune has now sufficiently atoned by discovering to me a relation whom I love, a Friend in whom I can confide. In both these lights, my Dear Augusta, I shall ever look upon you, and I hope you will never find your Brother unworthy of your affection and Friendship. I am as you may imagine a little dull here; not being on terms of intimacy with Lord Grey [1] I avoid Newstead, and my resources of amusement are Books, and writing to my Augusta, which, wherever I am, will always constitute my Greatest pleasure. I am not reconciled to Lord Grey, _and I never will_. He was once my _Greatest Friend_, my reasons for ceasing that Friendship are such as I cannot explain, not even to you, my Dear Sister, (although were they to be made known to any body, you would be the first,) but they will ever remain hidden in my own breast. They are Good ones, however, for although I am _violent_ I am not _capricious_ in my _attachments_. My mother disapproves of my quarrelling with him, but if she knew the cause (which she never will know,) She would reproach me no more. He Has forfeited all _title to my esteem_, but I hold him in too much _contempt_ ever _to hate him_. My mother desires to be kindly remembered to you. I shall soon be in town to resume my studies at Harrow; I will certainly call upon you in my way up. Present my respects to Mrs. Harcourt; [2] I am Glad to hear that I am in her Good Graces for I shall always esteem her on account of her behaviour to you, my Dear Girl. Pray tell me If you see Lord S. Osborne, and how he is; what little I know of him I like very much and If we were better acquainted I doubt not I should like him still better. Do not forget to tell me how Murray is. As to your Future prospects, my Dear Girl, _may they be happy_! I am sure you deserve Happiness and if _you_ do not meet with it I shall begin to think it is "a bad world we live in." Write to me soon. I am impatient to hear from you. God bless you, My amiable Augusta, I remain, Your ever affectionate Brother and Friend, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Henry, third Earl of Sussex, died in 1799, when the earldom lapsed. He was, however, succeeded in the ancient barony of Grey de Ruthyn by his daughter's son, Henry Edward, twentieth Baron Grey de Ruthyn (1780-1810), to whom Newstead was let. "I am glad," writes Mrs. Byron to Hanson, March 10, 1803, "that Newstead is well let. I cannot find Lord Grey de Ruthin's Title in the Peerage of England, Ireland, or Scotland. I suppose he is a _new_ Peer." Lord Grey de Ruthyn married, in 1809, Anna Maria, daughter of William Kelham, of Ryton-upon-Dunsmore, Warwick. (See postscript to Byron's Letter to his mother, August 11, 1809.) The lease of Newstead terminated in April, 1808.] [Footnote 2: Probably the wife of General the Hon. William Harcourt (1742-1830), who distinguished himself in the War of American Independence, succeeded his only brother in 1809 as third (and last) Earl Harcourt, was created a field-marshal in 1821, and died in 1830. He married, in 1778, Mary, daughter of the Rev. William Danby, and widow of Thomas Lockhart. She died in 1833.] 9.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [At General Harcourt's, St. Leonard's Hill, Windsor, Berkshire.] Burgage Manor, April 2d, 1804. I received your present, my beloved Augusta, which was very acceptable, not that it will be of any use as a token of remembrance, No, my affection for you will never permit me to forget you. I am afraid, my Dear Girl, that you will be absent when I am in town. I cannot exactly say when I return to Harrow, but however it will be in a very short time. I hope you were entertained by Sir Wm. Fawcet's funeral on Saturday. [1] Though I should imagine such spectacles rather calculated to excite Gloomy ideas. But I believe _your motive was not quite of so mournful a cast_. You tell me that you are tired of London. I am rather surprised to hear that, for I thought the Gaieties of the Metropolis were particularly pleasing to _young ladies_. For my part I detest it; the smoke and the noise feel particularly unpleasant; but however it is preferable to this horrid place, where I am oppressed with _ennui_, and have no amusement of any kind, except the conversation of my mother, which is sometimes very _edifying_, but not always very _agreeable_. There are very few books of any kind that are either instructive or amusing, no society but old parsons and old Maids;--I shoot a Good deal; but, thank God, I have not so far lost my reason as to make shooting my only amusement. There are indeed some of my neighbours whose only pleasures consist in field sports, but in other respects they are only one degree removed from the brute creation. These however I endeavour not to imitate, but I sincerely wish for the company of a few friends about my own age to soften the austerity of the scene. I am an absolute Hermit; in a short time my Gravity which is increased by my solitude will qualify me for an Archbishoprick; I really begin to think that I should become a mitre amazingly well. You tell me to write to you when I have nothing better to do; I am sure writing to you, my Dear Sister, must ever form my Greatest pleasure, but especially so, at this time. Your letters and those of one of my Harrow friends form my only resources for driving away _dull care_. For Godsake write me a letter as long as may fill _twenty sheets_ of paper, recollect it is my only pleasure, if you won't Give me twenty sheets, at least send me as long an epistle as you can and as soon as possible; there will be time for me to receive one more Letter at Southwell, and as soon as I Get to Harrow I will write to you. Excuse my not writing more, my Dear Augusta, for I am sure you will be sufficiently tired of reading this complaining narrative. God bless you, my beloved Sister. Adieu. I remain your sincere and affectionate Friend and Brother, BYRON. Remember me kindly to Mrs. Harcourt. [Footnote 1: General the Right Hon. Sir William Fawcett, K.B. (1728-1804), Colonel of the 3rd Dragoon Guards, Adjutant-General (1778-1797), and Governor of Chelsea Hospital (1796-1804), died at his house in Great George Street, Westminster, March 22, 1804. He had served during the rebellion of 1745, and distinguished himself during the Seven Years' War, where he was aide-de-camp first to General Elliot, and afterwards to the Marquis of Granby. An excellent linguist, he translated from the French, 'Reveries: or Memoirs upon the Art of War, by Field-Marshal Count Saxe' (1757); and from the German, 'Regulations for the Prussian Cavalry' (1757), 'Regulations for the Prussian Infantry', and 'The Prussian Tacticks' (1759). His military and diplomatic services were commemorated by a magnificent funeral on Saturday, March 31, 1804. The body was carried through the streets from Westminster to the chapel of Chelsea Hospital, the Prince Regent, the Duke of Clarence, and the Duke of Kent following the hearse, and eight general officers acting as pall-bearers.] 10.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [At General Harcourt's, St. Leonard's Hill, Windsor, Berkshire.] Burgage Manor, April 9th, 1804. A thousand thanks, my dear and Beloved Augusta, for your affectionate Letter, and so ready compliance with the request of a peevish and fretful Brother; it acted as a cordial on my drooping spirits and for a while dispelled the Gloom which envelopes me in this uncomfortable place. You see what power your letters have over me, so I hope you will be liberal in your epistolary consolation. You will address your next letter to Harrow as I set out from Southwell on Wednesday, and am sorry that I cannot contrive to be with you, as I must resume my studies at Harrow directly. If I speak in public at all, it will not be till the latter end of June or the beginning of July. You are right in your conjecture for I feel not a little nervous in the anticipation _of my Debut_ [1] as _an orator_. By the bye, I do not dislike Harrow. I find _ways_ and _means_ to amuse _myself very pleasantly_ there; the friend, whose correspondence I find so amusing, is an old sporting companion of mine, whose recitals of Shooting and Hunting expeditions are amusing to me as having often been his companion in them, and I hope to be so still oftener. My mother Gives a _party_ to night at which the principal _Southwell Belles_ will be present, with one of which, although I don't as yet know whom I shall so far _honour, having never seen them_, I intend to _fall violently_ in love; it will serve as an amusement _pour passer le temps_ and it will at least have the charm of novelty to recommend it, then you know in the course of a few weeks I shall be quite _au désespoir_, shoot myself and Go out of the world with _éclat_, and my History will furnish materials for a pretty little Romance which shall be entitled and denominated the loves of Lord B. and the cruel and Inconstant Sigismunda Cunegunda Bridgetina, etc., etc., Princess of Terra Incognita. Don't you think that I have a very good Knack for _novel writing_? I have Just this minute been called away from writing to you by two Gentlemen who have given me an invitation to go over to Screveton, a village a few miles off, and spend a few days; but however I shall not accept it, so you will continue to address your letters to Harrow as usual. Write to me as soon as possible and give me a long letter. Remember me to Mrs. Harcourt and all who enquire after me. Continue to love me and believe me, Your truly affectionate Brother and Friend, BYRON. P.S.--My Mother's love to you, Adieu. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Byron, writing to Hanson, July 24, 1804, says, "I was informed by a Gentleman yesterday that he had been at Harrow and heard him speaking, and that he acquitted himself uncommonly well." Byron's name occurs in three of the Harrow speech-bills--July 5, 1804; June 6, 1805; and July 4, 1805. The three bills are printed below:-- HARROW SCHOOL PUBLIC SPEECHES. 1. JULY 5, 1804. Erskine, Maj. Cæsar } Ex Sallustio. Sinclair Cato } Long C. Canuleius ad Pleb. Ex Livio. Molloy, Sr. The Country Box Lloyd. Lord Byron Latinus } Leeke Drances } Ex Virgilio. Peel, Sr. Turnus } Chaplin Henry the Fifth to his Shakespear. Soldiers Clayton Micispa ad Jugurtham Ex Sallustio. Rowley Germanicus moriens Ex Tacito. Grenside, Sr. General Wolfe to his Enfield. Soldiers Morant, Sr. Dido Ex Virgilio. Mr. Calthorpe, Sr. In Catilinam Ex Cicerone. Lloyd, Sr. The Ghost Shakespear. Mr. Powys Tiresias Ex Horatio. Sir Thomas Acland The Boil'd Pig Wesley. Leveson Gower Ad Antonium Ex Cicerone. Drury, Max. Earl of Strafford Hume. 2. JUNE 6, 1805. There were no Speeches for May, 1805. Dr. Butler came to Harrow this year, after the Easter Holiday.--G.B. [1] Doveton Canulcius Ex Livio. Farrer, Sr. Medea Ex Ovidio. Long Caractacus Mason. Rogers Manlius Ex Sallustio. Molloy Micipsa Ex Sallustio. Lord Byron Zanga Young. Drury, Sr. Memmius Ex Sallustio. Hoare Ajax } Ex Ovidio. East Ulysses } Leeke The Passions: an Ode Collins. Calvert, Sr. Galgacus Ex Tacito. Bazett Catilina ad Consp. Ex Sallustio. Franks, Sr. Antony Shakespeare. Wildman, Majr. Sat. ix., Lib. i. Ex Horatio. Lloyd, Sr. The Bard: an Ode Gray. 3. JULY 4, 1805. Lyon Piso ad Milites Ex Tacito. East Cato Addison. Saumarez Drances } Ex Virgilio, _Æn._ xi Annesley Turnus } Calvert Lord Strafford's Hume. Defence Erskine, Sr. Achilles Ex Homero, _Il._ xvi Bazett York Shakespeare. Harrington Camillus Ex Livio. Leeke Ode to the Passions Collins. Sneyd Electra Ex Sophocle. Long Satan's Soliloquy Milton, _P.L._, b. iv Gibson Brutus } Ex Lucano. Drury, Sr. Cato } Lord Byron Lear Shakespeare. Hoare Otho ad Milites Ex Livio. Wildman Caractacus Mason. Franks Wolsey Shakespeare. Of Byron's oratorical powers, Dr. Drury, Head-master of Harrow, formed a high opinion. "The upper part of the school," he writes (see 'Life', p. 20), composed declamations, which, after a revisal by the tutors, were submitted to the master. To him the authors repeated them, that they might be improved in manner and action, before their public delivery. I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with his composition. All who spoke on that day adhered, as usual, to the letter of their composition, as, in the earlier part of his delivery, did Lord Byron; but, to my surprise, he suddenly diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the conclusion. There was no failure; he came round to the close of his composition without discovering any impediment and irregularity on the whole. I questioned him why he had altered his declamation. He declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking, that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him; and, from a knowledge of his temperament, am convinced that, fully impressed with the sense and substance of the subject, he was hurried on to expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had expressed." "My qualities," says Byron, in one of his note-books (quoted by Moore, 'Life', p. 20), "were much more oratorical and martial than poetical; and Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head-master), had a great notion that I should turn out an orator, from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my action. I remember that my first declamation astonished him into some unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden compliments before the declaimers at our first rehearsal." For his subjects Byron chose passages expressive of vehement passion, such as Lear's address to the storm, or the speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, from Young's tragedy 'The Revenge'. Zanga's character and speech are famous in history from their application to Benjamin Franklin, in Wedderburn's speech before the Privy Council (January, 1774) on the Whately Letters (Stanhope's 'History of England', vol. v. p. 327, ed. 1853):-- "I forg'd the letter, and dispos'd the picture, I hated, I despis'd, and I destroy."] [Sub-Footnote A: Note, in Dr. G. Butler's writing, in the bound volume of Speech-Bills presented by him to the Harrow School Library.] 11.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. Burgage Manor, August 18th, 1804. MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--I seize this interval of my _amiable_ mother's absence this afternoon, again to inform you, or rather to desire to be informed by you, of what is going on. For my own part I can send nothing to amuse you, excepting a repetition of my complaints against my tormentor, whose _diabolical_ disposition (pardon me for staining my paper with so harsh a word) seems to increase with age, and to acquire new force with Time. The more I see of her the more my dislike augments; nor can I so entirely conquer the appearance of it, as to prevent her from perceiving my opinion; this, so far from calming the Gale, blows it into a _hurricane_, which threatens to destroy everything, till exhausted by its own violence, it is lulled into a sullen torpor, which, after a short period, is again roused into fresh and revived phrenzy, to me most terrible, and to every other Spectator astonishing. She then declares that she plainly sees I hate her, that I am leagued with her bitter enemies, viz. Yourself, L'd C[arlisle] and Mr. H[anson], and, as I never Dissemble or contradict her, we are all _honoured_ with a multiplicity of epithets, too _numerous_, and some of them too _gross_, to be repeated. In this society, and in this amusing and instructive manner, have I dragged out a weary fortnight, and am condemned to pass another or three weeks as happily as the former. No captive Negro, or Prisoner of war, ever looked forward to their emancipation, and return to Liberty with more Joy, and with more lingering expectation, than I do to my escape from this maternal bondage, and this accursed place, which is the region of dullness itself, and more stupid than the banks of Lethe, though it possesses contrary qualities to the river of oblivion, as the detested scenes I now witness, make me regret the happier ones already passed, and wish their restoration. Such Augusta is the happy life I now lead, such my _amusements_. I wander about hating everything I behold, and if I remained here a few months longer, I should become, what with _envy, spleen and all uncharitableness_, a complete _misanthrope_, but notwithstanding this, Believe me, Dearest Augusta, ever yours, etc., etc., BYRON. 12.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. [1] Burgage Manor, August 29, 1804. I received the arms, my dear Miss Pigot, and am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. It is impossible I should have any fault to find with them. The sight of the drawings gives me great pleasure for a double reason,--in the first place, they will ornament my books, in the next, they convince me that _you_ have not entirely _forgot_ me. I am, however, sorry you do not return sooner--you have already been gone an _age_. I perhaps may have taken my departure for London before you come back; but, however, I will hope not. Do not overlook my watch-riband and purse, as I wish to carry them with me. Your note was given me by Harry, [2] at the play, whither I attended Miss Leacroft, [3] and Dr. S----; and now I have sat down to answer it before I go to bed. If I am at Southwell when you return,--and I sincerely hope you will soon, for I very much regret your absence,--I shall be happy to hear you sing my favourite, "The Maid of Lodi." [4] My mother, together with myself, desires to be affectionately remembered to Mrs. Pigot, and, believe me, my dear Miss Pigot, I remain, your affectionate friend, BYRON. P.S.--If you think proper to send me any answer to this, I shall be extremely happy to receive it. Adieu. P.S.2d.--As you say you are a novice in the art of knitting, I hope it don't give you too much trouble. Go on _slowly_, but surely. Once more, adieu. [Footnote 1: Elizabeth Bridget Pigot lived with her mother and two brothers on Southwell Green, in a house opposite Burgage Manor. Miss Pigot thus describes her first meeting with Byron ('Life', p. 32):-- "The first time I was introduced to him was at a party at his mother's, when he was so shy that she was forced to send for him three times before she could persuade him to come into the drawing-room, to play with the young people at a round game. He was then a fat, bashful boy, with his hair combed straight over his forehead, and extremely like a miniature picture that his mother had painted by M. de Chambruland. The next morning Mrs. Byron brought him to call at our house, when he still continued shy and formal in his manner. The conversation turned upon Cheltenham, where we had been staying, the amusements there, the plays, etc.; and I mentioned that I had seen the character of Gabriel Lackbrain very well performed. His mother getting up to go, he accompanied her, making a formal bow, and I, in allusion to the play, said, 'Good-by, Gaby.' His countenance lighted up, his handsome mouth displayed a broad grin, all his shyness vanished, never to return, and, upon his mother's saying, 'Come, Byron, are you ready?'--no, she might go by herself, he would stay and talk a little longer; and from that moment he used to come in and go out at all hours, as it pleased him, and in our house considered himself perfectly at home." The character of "Gabriel Lackbrain," mentioned above, occurs in 'Life', a comedy by F. Reynolds. It was at Byron's suggestion that Moore, when preparing the 'Life', applied to Miss Pigot for letters. On January 22, 1828, he was taken to call on her and her mother by the Rev. John Becher. "Their reception of me most cordial and flattering; made me sit in the chair which Byron used to sit in, and remarked, as a singularity, that this was the poor fellow's birthday; he would to-day have been forty. On parting with Mrs. Pigot, a fine, intelligent old lady, who has been bedridden for years, she kissed my hand most affectionately, and said that, much as she had always admired me as a poet, it was as the friend of Byron she valued and loved me ... Her affection, indeed, to his memory is unbounded, and she seems unwilling to allow that he had a single fault ... Miss Pigot in the evening, with his letters, which interested me exceedingly; some written when he was quite a boy, and the bad spelling and scrambling handwriting delightful; spelling, indeed, was a very late accomplishment with him" ('Diary of Thomas Moore', vol. v. p. 249). (See "To Eliza," 'Poems', vol. i. pp.47-49; see also the lines "To M. S. G.," 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 79, 80; see for the lines which Byron wrote in her copy of Burns, 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 233, 234.) Miss Pigot died at Southwell in 1866, her brother John (see letter of August 9, 1806, p. 100, note 3) in 1871. Her brother Henry, whom Byron used to call his grandson, died October 28, 1830, a captain in the 23rd Native Infantry in the service of the East India Company. The following undated note (1810) from Mrs. Pigot to Mrs. Byron illustrates the enthusiastic interest with which the Pigots followed Byron's career:-- "Indeed, my dear Mrs. Byron, you have given me a very 'great treat' in sending me 'English Bards' to look at; you know how very highly I thought of the 'first' edition, and this is certainly much improved; indeed, I do not think anybody but Lord Byron could (in these our days) have produced such a work, for it has all the fire of ancient genius. I have always been accustomed to tell you my thoughts most sincerely, and I cannot say that I like that addition to the part where 'Bowles' is mentioned; it wants that 'brilliant spirit' which almost invariably accompanies Lord B.'s writings. Maurice, too, and his granite weight of leaves, is in truth a heavy comparison. But I turn with pleasure from these specks in the sun to notice 'Vice and folly, Greville and Argyle;' it is 'most admirable': the 'same pen' may 'equal', but I think it is not in the power of human abilities to 'exceed' it. As to Lord Carlisle, I think he well deserves the Note Lord B. has put in; I am 'very much' pleased with it, and the little word 'Amen' at the end, gives a point 'indescribably good'. The whole of the conclusion is excellent, and the Postscript I think must entertain everybody except 'Jeffrey'. I hope the poor Bear is well; I wish you could make him understand that he is 'immortalized', for, if 'four-leg'd Bears' have any vanity, it would certainly delight him. Walter Scott, too (I really do not mean to call him a Bear), will be highly gratified: the compliment to him is very elegant: in short, I look upon it as a most 'highly finished' work, and Lord Byron has certainly taken the Palm from 'all our' Poets.... A good account of yourself I assure you will always give the most sincere pleasure to my dear Mrs. Byron's very affectionate friend, Margt. Pigot. Elizabeth begs her compts."] [Footnote 2: Henry Pigot. (See p. 33, note 1.)] [Footnote 3: Miss Julia Leacroft, daughter of a neighbour, Mr. John Leacroft. (See lines "To Lesbia," 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 41-43.) The private theatricals in September, 1806 (see p. 117 [Letter 81], [Foot]note 3 [4]), were held at Mr. Leacroft's house. Later, Captain Leacroft expostulated with Byron on his attentions to his sister, and, according to Moore, threatened to call him out. Byron was ready to meet him; but afterwards, on consulting Becher, resolved never to go near the house again.--'Prose and Verse of Thomas Moore', edited by Richard Herne Shepherd (London, 1878), p. 420. (But see Letters 62, 63, 64.) ] [Footnote 4: By Dibdin, set to music by Shield. (See Moore's 'Life', p. 33.) Byron's love for simple ballad music lasted throughout his life. As a boy at Harrow, he was famous for the vigour with which he sang "This Bottle's the Sun of our Table" at Mother Barnard's. He liked the Welsh air "Mary Anne," sung by Miss Chaworth; the songs in 'The Duenna'; "When Time who steals our Years away," which he sang with Miss Pigot; or "Robin Adair," in which he was accompanied by Miss Hanson on her harp. "It is very odd," he said to Miss Pigot, "I sing much better to your playing than to any one else's." "That is," she answered, "because I play to your singing." Moore ('Journal and Correspondence', vol. v. pp. 295, 296), speaking of "Byron's chanting method of repeating poetry," says that "it is the men who have the worst ears for music that 'sing' out poetry in this manner, having no nice perception of the difference there ought to be between animated reading and 'chant'." Rogers ('Table-Talk, etc.', pp. 224, 225) expresses the same opinion, when he says, "I can discover from a poet's versification whether or not he has an ear for music. To instance poets of the present day:--from Bowles's and Moore's, I should know that they had fine ears for music; from Southey's, Wordsworth's, and Byron's, that they had no ears for it."] 13.-To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, Malton, Yorkshire.] Harrow-on-the-Hill, October 25th, 1804. My dear Augusta,--In compliance with your wishes, as well as gratitude for your affectionate letter, I proceed as soon as possible to answer it; I am glad to hear that _any body_ gives a good account of me; but from the quarter you mention, I should imagine it was exaggerated. That you are unhappy, my dear Sister, makes me so also; were it in my power to relieve your sorrows you would soon recover your spirits; as it is, I sympathize better than you yourself expect. But really, after all (pardon me my dear Sister), I feel a little inclined to laugh at you, for love, in my humble opinion, is utter nonsense, a mere jargon of compliments, romance, and deceit; now, for my part, had I fifty mistresses, I should in the course of a fortnight, forget them all, and, if by any chance I ever recollected one, should laugh at it as a dream, and bless my stars, for delivering me from the hands of the little mischievous Blind God. Can't you drive this Cousin [1] of ours out of your pretty little head (for as to _hearts_ I think they are out of the question), or if you are so far gone, why don't you give old L'Harpagon [2] (I mean the General) the slip, and take a trip to Scotland, you are now pretty near the Borders. Be sure to Remember me to my formal Guardy Lord Carlisle, [3] whose magisterial presence I have not been into for some years, nor have I any ambition to attain so great an honour. As to your favourite Lady Gertrude, I don't remember her; pray, is she handsome? I dare say she is, for although they are a _disagreeable, formal, stiff_ Generation, yet they have by no means plain _persons_, I remember Lady Cawdor was a sweet, pretty woman; pray, does your sentimental Gertrude resemble her? I have heard that the duchess of Rutland was handsome also, but we will say nothing about her temper, as I hate Scandal. Adieu, my pretty Sister, forgive my levity, write soon, and God bless you. I remain, your very affectionate Brother, BYRON. P.S.--I left my mother at Southwell, some time since, in a monstrous pet with you for not writing. I am sorry to say the old lady and myself don't agree like lambs in a meadow, but I believe it is all my own fault, I am rather too fidgety, which my precise mama objects to, we differ, then argue, and to my shame be it spoken fall out a _little_, however after a storm comes a calm; what's become of our aunt the amiable antiquated Sophia? [4] is she yet in the land of the living, or does she sing psalms with the _Blessed_ in the other world. Adieu. I am happy enough and Comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, but select; among them I rank as the principal Lord Delawarr, [5] who is very amiable and my particular friend; do you know the family at all? Lady Delawarr is frequently in town, perhaps you may have seen her; if she resembles her son she is the most amiable woman in Europe. I have plenty of acquaintances, but I reckon them as mere Blanks. Adieu, my dear Augusta. [Footnote 1: Colonel George Leigh.] [Footnote 2: General Leigh, father of the colonel. Both Harpagon and Cléante ('L'Avare') wish to marry Mariane; but the miser prefers his casket to the lady, who therefore marries Cléante. ] [Footnote 3: Frederick Howard, fifth Earl of Carlisle (1748-1825), was, on his mother's side, connected with the Byron family. The Hon. Isabella Byron (1721-1795), daughter of the fourth Lord Byron, married, in 1742, Henry, fourth Earl of Carlisle. She subsequently, after the death of Lord Carlisle (1758), married, as her second husband, Sir William Musgrave. She was a woman of considerable ability, and apparently, in later life, of eccentric habits--a "recluse in pride and rags." She was the reputed writer of some published poetry, and of 'Maxims addressed to Young Ladies'. Some of these maxims might have been of use to her grand-nephew: "Habituate yourself to that way of life most agreeable to the person to whom you are united; be content in retirement, or with society, in town, or country." Her 'Answer' to Mrs. Greville's ode on 'Indifference' has more of the neck-or-nothing temper of the Byrons:-- "Is that your wish, to lose all sense In dull lethargic ease, And wrapt in cold indifference, But half be pleased or please? ... It never shall be my desire To bear a heart unmov'd, To feel by halves the gen'rous fire, Or be but half belov'd. Let me drink deep the dang'rous cup, In hopes the prize to gain, Nor tamely give the pleasure up For fear to share the pain. Give me, whatever I possess, To know and feel it all; When youth and love no more can bless, Let death obey my call." Lady Carlisle's son, Frederick, who was educated at Eton and Cambridge, succeeded his father as fifth Earl of Carlisle, in 1758, when he was ten years old. After leaving Cambridge, he started on a continental tour with two Eton friends--Lord FitzWilliam and Charles James Fox. A lively letter-writer, his correspondence with his friend George Selwyn, while in Italy, shows him to have been a young man of wit, feeling, and taste. It is curious to notice that, at Rome, he singles out, like his cousin in 'Childe Harold' or 'Manfred', as the most striking objects, the general aspect of the "marbled wilderness", the moonlight view of the amphitheatre, the Laocoon, the Belvedere Apollo, and the group of Niobe and her daughters. One other taste he shared with Byron--he was a lover of dogs, and "Rover" was his constant companion abroad. Lord Carlisle returned to England in 1769. Like Fox, he was a prodigious dandy. They "once travelled from Paris to Lyons for the express purpose of buying waistcoats; and during the whole journey they talked of nothing else" ('Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', pp. 73, 74). Already well known in London society, Carlisle was a close friend of George Selwyn, a familiar figure at White's and Brookes's, an inveterate gambler, an adorer of Lady Sarah Bunbury, who, as Lady Sarah Lennox, had won the heart of George III. The flirtation provoked from Lord Holland an adaptation of 'Lydia, dic per omnes':-- "Sally, Sally, don't deny, But, for God's sake, tell me why You have flirted so, to spoil That once lively youth, Carlisle? He used to mount while it was dark; Now he lies in bed till noon, And, you not meeting in the park, Thinks that he gets up too soon," etc. In 1770 Lord Carlisle married Lady Margaret Leveson Gower, a beautiful and charming woman. "Everybody," writes Lord Holland to George Selwyn (May 2, 1770), "says it is impossible not to admire Lady Carlisle." But matrimony did not at once steady his character. For the next few years--though in 1773 he published a volume of 'Poems'--his pursuits were mainly those of a young man of fashion, and he impoverished himself at the gaming-table. From 1777 onwards, however, his life took a more serious turn. In that year he became Treasurer of the Household, and was sworn a member of the Privy Council. In 1778 he was the chief of the three commissioners sent out by Lord North to negotiate with the United States. There he declined a challenge from Lafayette, provoked by reflections on the French court and nation, which he had issued with his fellow-commissioners in their political capacity. In 1779 he was nominated Lord-Lieutenant of Yorkshire, and First Lord of Trade and Plantations. He was Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland from 1780 to 1782, and held the post of Lord Privy Seal in the Duke of Portland's administration of 1783. Till the outbreak of the French Revolutionary wars, he was an opponent of Pitt; but after 1792 he consistently supported the Government. Carlisle was a collector of pictures, statuary, and works of art. He was also a writer of verse, tragedies, and pamphlets; but, in literature, his admirable letters are his best claim to be remembered. One of his two tragedies, 'The Father's Revenge' (1783), was praised by Walpole, and received the guarded approval of Dr. Johnson. His published poetry consisted of an ode on the death of Gray, verses on that of Lord Nelson, "Lines for the Monument of a favourite Spaniel," an address to Sir Joshua Reynolds, and translations from Dante. The first two poems provoked Richard Tickell to write the 'Wreath of Fashion' (1780). "The following lines," says Tickell, in his "Advertisement," were "occasioned by the Author's having lately studied, with infinite attention, several fashionable productions in the 'Sentimental' stile.... For example, A Noble Author has lately published his works, which consist of 'three' compositions: 'one' an Ode upon the death of Mr. Gray; the two others upon the death of his Lordship's 'Spaniel'." "Here, placid 'Carlisle' breathes his gentle line, Or haply, gen'rous 'Hare', re-echoes thine. Soft flows the lay: as when, with tears, He paid The last sad honours to his------Spaniel's shade! And lo! he grasps the badge of wit, a wand; He waves it thrice and 'Storer' is at hand." His contemporaries seem to have thought that his poetry, weak though it was, was indebted to his Eton friends, "the Hare with many friends," and Antony Storer. The latter's name is linked with that of Carlisle in another satire, 'Pandolfo Attonito':-- "Fall'n though I am, I ne'er shall mourn, Like the dark Peer on Storer's urn," where a note refers to "Antony Storer, formerly Member for Morpeth ('as some persons' near Carlisle and Castle Howard 'may possibly recollect'), a gentleman well known in the circles of fashion and polite literature." Carlisle's name occurs in many of the satires of the day on literary subjects. 'The Shade of Pope' (ii. 191, 192) says-- "Carlisle is lost with Gillies in surprize, As Lysias charms soft Jersey's classic eyes;" and in the 'Pursuits of Literature' (Dialogue ii. line 234), a note to the line-- "While lyric Carlisle purrs o'er love transformed," again associates his name with that of Lady Jersey. In 1799 Lord Carlisle was persuaded by Hanson to become Byron's guardian, in order to facilitate legal proceedings for the recovery of the Rochdale property, illegally sold by William, fifth Lord Byron. He was introduced to his ward by Hanson, who took the boy to Grosvenor Place, to see his guardian and consult Dr. Baillie in July, 1799. He seemed anxious to befriend the boy; but Byron was eager, as Hanson notes, to leave the house. When Mrs. Byron, in 1800, was anxious to remove her son from Dr. Glennie's care, Carlisle exercised his authority, and forbade the schoolmaster to give him up to his mother. He probably, on this occasion, experienced Mrs. Byron's temper, for Augusta Byron, writing to Hanson (November 18, 1804), says that he dreaded "having any concern whatever with Mrs. Byron." Byron does not seem to have met his guardian again till January, 1805, when Augusta Byron writes to Hanson: "I hear from Lady Gertrude Howard that Lord Carlisle was 'very much' pleased with my brother, and I am sure, from what he said to me at Castle Howard, is disposed to show him all the kindness and attention in his power. I know you are so partial to Byron and so much interested in all that concerns him, that you will rejoice almost as much as I do that his acquaintance with Lord C. is renewed. In the mean time it is a great comfort for me to think that he has spent his Holydays so comfortably and so much to his wishes. You will easily believe that he is a 'very great favourite of mine', and I may add the more I see and hear of him, the more I 'must' love and esteem him." It may be doubted whether Carlisle ever saw the dedication of 'Hours of Idleness'. Augusta Byron, in a letter to Hanson of February 7, 1807, says, "I return you my Brother's poems with many Thanks. Mrs. B. has had the attention to send me 2 copies. I like some of them very much: but you will laugh when I tell you I have never had courage to shew them to Lord Carlisle for fear of his disapproving others." The years 1806-7, spent at Southwell, as his sister says, "in idleness and ill humour with the whole World," were not the most creditable of Byron's life, and Carlisle's efforts to make him return to Cambridge failed. It is, moreover, certain that in 1809 Carlisle was ill; it is also probable that at a time when the scandal of Mary Anne Clarke and the Duke of York threatened to come before the House of Lords, he was unwilling to connect himself in public with a cousin of whom he knew no good, and of whose political views he was ignorant. These causes may have combined to produce the coldly formal letter, in which he told Byron the course of procedure to be adopted in taking his seat in the House of Lords, and ignored the young man's wish that his cousin and guardian should introduce him. (For Byron's attack upon Carlisle, and his subsequent admission of having done him "some wrong," see 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 723-740; and 'Childe Harold', Canto III. stanzas xxix., xxx.) It is possible that the "paralytic puling" may have been suggested by the "placid purring" of previous satirists. In March, 1814, his sister Augusta was trying hard to persuade Byron, as he notes in his Diary, "to make it up with Carlisle. I have refused 'every' body else, but I can't deny her anything, though I had as leif 'drink up Eisel--eat a crocodile.'" Lord Carlisle had three daughters: the eldest, Lady Caroline Isabella Howard, married, in 1789, John, first Lord Cawdor, and died in 1848; the second, Lady Elizabeth, married, in 1799, John Henry, fifth Duke of Rutland, and died in 1825; the third, Lady Gertrude, married, in 1806, William Sloane Stanley, of Paultons, Hants, and died in 1870.] [Footnote 4: No "Aunt Sophia" appears in the pedigree; but his grandmother was Sophia Trevanion, who married, in 1748, the Hon. John Byron, afterwards Admiral Byron. Mrs. Byron knew Dr. Johnson well, and she and Miss Burney were the only two friends who, as Mrs. Piozzi (then Mrs. Thrale) thought, might regret her departure from Streatham in 1782 ('Life and Writings of Mrs. Piozzi', vol. i. p. 171). "Mrs. Byron, who really loves me," says Mrs. Piozzi ('ibid.', p. 125), "was disgusted at Miss Burney's carriage to me." In August, 1820, Mrs. Piozzi writes to a Miss Willoughby, to tell her "what wonders Lord Byron is come home to do, for I see his arrival in the paper. His grandmother was my intimate friend, a Cornish lady, Sophia Trevanion, wife to the Admiral, 'pour ses péchés', and we called her Mrs. B_i_ron always, after the French fashion" ('Life and Writings, etc.', vol. ii. pp. 456, 457)' Mrs. Byron died at Bath in 1790.] [Footnote 5: Lady Delawarr, widow of John Richard, fourth Earl Delawarr, whom she married in 1783, died in 1826. Her only son, George John, fifth earl, succeeded his father in 1795. He went from Harrow to Brasenose College, Oxford; married, in 1813, Lady Elizabeth Sackville; was Lord Chamberlain 1858-9; and died in 1869. He was the "Euryalus" of "Childish Recollections" (see 'Poems', vol. i. p. 100; and lines "To George, Earl of Delawarr," 'ibid.', p. 126).] 14.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. Friday, November 2d, 1804. This morning, my dear Augusta, I received your affectionate letter, and it reached me at a time when I wanted consolation, not however of your kind for I am not yet old enough or Goose enough to be in love; no, my sorrows are of a different nature, though more calculated to provoke risibility than excite compassion. You must know, Sister of mine, that I am the most unlucky wight in Harrow, perhaps in Christendom, and am no sooner out of one scrape than into another. And to day, this very morning, I had a thundering Jobation from our Good Doctor, [1] which deranged my _nervous system_, for at least five minutes. But notwithstanding He and I now and then disagree, yet upon the whole we are very good friends, for there is so much of the Gentleman, so much mildness, and nothing of pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He leaves Harrow soon, _apropos_, so do I. This quitting will be a considerable loss to the school. He is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared; greatly will he be regretted by all who know him. You tell me you don't know my friend L'd Delawarr; he is considerably younger than me, but the most good tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being remarkably handsome, almost too much so for a boy. He is at present very low in the school, not owing to his want of ability, but to his years. I am nearly at the top of it; by the rules of our Seminary he is under my power, but he is too goodnatured ever to offend me, and I like him too well ever to exert my authority over him. If ever you should meet, and chance to know him, take notice of him on my account. You say that you shall write to the Dowager Soon; her address is at Southwell, _that_ I need hardly inform you. Now, Augusta, I am going to tell you a secret, perhaps I shall appear undutiful to you, but, believe me, my affection for you is founded on a more firm basis. My mother has lately behaved to me in such an eccentric manner, that so far from feeling the affection of a Son, it is with difficulty I can restrain my dislike. Not that I can complain of want of liberality; no, She always supplies me with as much money as I can spend, and more than most boys hope for or desire. But with all this she is so hasty, so impatient, that I dread the approach of the holidays, more than most boys do their return from them. In former days she spoilt me; now she is altered to the contrary; for the most trifling thing, she upbraids me in a most outrageous manner, and all our disputes have been lately heightened by my one with that object of my cordial, deliberate detestation, Lord Grey de Ruthyn. She wishes me to explain my reasons for disliking him, which I will never do; would I do it to any one, be assured you, my dear Augusta, would be the first who would know them. She also insists on my being reconciled to him, and once she let drop such an odd expression that I was half inclined to believe the dowager was in love with him. But I hope not, for he is the most disagreeable person (in my opinion) that exists. He called once during my last vacation; she threatened, stormed, begged me to make it up, "he himself loved me, and wished it;" but my reason was so excellent--that neither had effect, nor would I speak or stay in the same room, till he took his departure. No doubt this appears odd; but was my reason known, which it never will be if I can help it, I should be justified in my conduct. Now if I am to be tormented with her and him in this style, I cannot submit to it. You, Augusta, are the only relation I have who treats me as a friend; if you too desert me, I have nobody I can love but Delawarr. If it was not for his sake, Harrow would be a desert, and I should dislike staying at it. You desire me to burn your epistles; indeed I cannot do that, but I will take care that They shall be invisible. If you burn any of mine, I shall be _monstrous angry_; take care of them till we meet. Delawarr [2] and myself are in a manner connected, for one of our forefathers in Charles the 1st's time married into their family. Hartington, [3] whom you enquire after, is on very good terms with me, nothing more, he is of a soft milky disposition, and of a happy apathy of temper which defies the softer emotions, and is insensible of ill treatment; so much for him. Don't betray me to the Dowager. I should like to know your Lady Gertrude, as you and her are so great Friends. Adieu, my Sister, write. From [Signature, etc., cut out.] [Footnote 1: The Rev. Joseph Drury, D.D. (1750-1834), educated at Westminster and Trinity College, Cambridge, was appointed an Assistant-master at Harrow before he was one and twenty. He was Head-master from 1784 to 1805. In that year he retired, and till his death in 1834 lived at Cockwood, in Devonshire, where he devoted himself to farming. The following statement by Dr. Drury illustrates Byron's respect for his Head-master ('Life', p. 20):-- "After my retreat from Harrow, I received from him two very affectionate letters. In my occasional visits subsequently to London, when he had fascinated the public with his productions, I demanded of him, why, as in 'duty bound', he had sent none to me? 'Because,' said he, 'you are the only man I never wish to read them;' but in a few moments, he added, 'What do you think of the 'Corsair'?'" Dr. Drury married Louisa Heath, sister of the Rev. Benjamin Heath, his predecessor in the Head-mastership. They had four children, all of whom have some connection with Byron's life. (1) Henry Joseph Drury (1778-1841), educated at Eton and King's College, Cambridge (Fellow), Assistant-master at Harrow School, married (December 20, 1808) Ann Caroline Tayler, and had a numerous family. Mrs. Drury's sister married the Rev. F. Hodgson (see page 195 [Letter 102], [Foot]note 1). (2) Benjamin Heath Drury (1782-1835), educated at Eton and King's College, Cambridge (Fellow), Assistant-master at Eton. (3) Charles Drury (1788-1869), educated at Harrow and Queen's College, Oxford (Fellow). (4) Louisa Heath Drury (1787-1873) married John Herman Merivale. Dr. Drury's brother, Mark Drury, the Lower Master at Harrow, was the candidate whom Byron supported for the Head-mastership.] [Footnote 2: Thomas, third Lord Delawarr, Captain-general of all the Colonies planted or to be planted in Virginia, died in 1618. His fourth daughter, Cecilie, widow of Sir Francis Bindlose, married Sir John Byron, created Lord Byron by Charles I. His fifth daughter, Lucy, married Sir Robert Byron, brother to Lord Byron. But the first Lord Byron left no heirs, and the title descended to his brother, Richard Byron, from whom the poet was descended.] [Footnote 3: William Spencer, Marquis of Hartington (1790-1858), succeeded his father as sixth Duke of Devonshire in 1811, and died unmarried. His sister, Georgiana Dorothy, married, in 1801, Lord Carlisle's eldest son.] 15.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. Harrow, Saturday, 11th Novr, 1804. I thought, my dear Augusta, [1] that your opinion of my _meek mamma_ would coincide with mine; Her temper is so variable, and, when inflamed, so furious, that I dread our meeting; not but I dare say, that I am troublesome enough, but I always endeavour to be as dutiful as possible. She is so very strenuous, and so tormenting in her entreaties and commands, with regard to my reconciliation, with that detestable Lord G. [2] that I suppose she has a penchant for his Lordship; but I am confident that he does not return it, for he rather dislikes her than otherwise, at least as far as I can judge. But she has an excellent opinion of her personal attractions, sinks her age a good six years, avers that when I was born she was only eighteen, when you, my dear Sister, know as well as I know that she was of age when she married my father, and that I was not born for three years afterwards. But vanity is the weakness of _your sex_,--and these are mere foibles that I have related to you, and, provided she never molested me, I should look upon them as follies very excusable in a woman. But I am now coming to what must shock you, as much as it does me, when she has occasion to lecture me (not very seldom you will think no doubt) she does not do it in a manner that commands respect, and in an impressive style. No! did she do that, I should amend my faults with pleasure, and dread to offend a kind though just mother. But she flies into a fit of phrenzy, upbraids me as if I was the most undutiful wretch in existence, rakes up the ashes of my _father_, abuses him, says I shall be a true Byrrone, which is the worst epithet she can invent. Am I to call this woman mother? Because by nature's law she has authority over me, am I to be trampled upon in this manner? am I to be goaded with insult, loaded with obloquy, and suffer my feelings to be outraged on the most trivial occasions? I owe her respect as a Son, But I renounce her as a Friend. What an example does she shew me! I hope in God I shall never follow it. I have not told you all, nor can I; I respect you as a female, nor, although I ought to confide in you as a Sister, will I shock you with the repetition of Scenes, which you may judge of by the Sample I have given you, and which to all but you are buried in oblivion. Would they were so in my mind! I am afraid they never will. And can I, my dear Sister, look up to this mother, with that respect, that affection I ought? Am I to be eternally subjected to her caprice? I hope not--; indeed a few short years will emancipate me from the Shackles I now wear, and then perhaps she will govern her passion better than at present. You mistake me, if you think I dislike Lord Carlisle; I respect him, and might like him did I know him better. For him too my mother has an antipathy, why I know not. I am afraid he could be but of little use to me, in separating me from her, which she would oppose with all her might; but I dare say he would assist me if he could, so I take the will for the Deed, and am obliged to him in exactly the same manner as if he succeeded in his efforts. I am in great hopes, that at Christmas I shall be with Mr. Hanson during the vacation, I shall do all I can to avoid a visit to my mother wherever she is. It is the first duty of a parent, to impress precepts of obedience in their children, but her method is so violent, so capricious, that the patience of Job, the versatility of a member of the House of Commons could not support it. I revere Dr. Drury much more than I do her, yet he is never violent, never outrageous: I dread offending him, not however through fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure. My mother's precepts, never convey instruction, never fix upon my mind; to be sure they are calculated, to inculcate obedience, so are chains, and tortures, but though they may restrain for a time, the mind revolts from such treatment. Not that Mrs. Byron ever injures my _sacred_ person. I am rather too old for that, but her words are of that rough texture, which offend more than personal ill usage. "A talkative woman is like an Adder's tongue," so says one of the prophets, but which I can't tell, and very likely you don't wish to know, but he was a true one whoever he was. The postage of your letters, My dear Augusta, don't fall upon me; but if they did, it would make no difference, for I am Generally in cash, and should think the trifle I paid for your epistles the best laid out I ever spent in my life. Write Soon. Remember me to Lord Carlisle, and, believe me, I ever am Your affectionate Brother and Friend, BYRONE. [Footnote 1: In consequence of this letter, Augusta Byron wrote as follows to Hanson, and Byron spent the Christmas holidays of 1804 with his solicitor:-- "Castle Howard, Nov. 18, 1804. My Dear Sir,--I am afraid you will think I presume almost too much upon the kind permission you have so often given me of applying to you about my Brother's concerns. The reason that induces me now to do so is his having lately written me several Letters containing the most extraordinary accounts of his Mother's conduct towards him and complaints of the uncomfortable Situation he is in during the Holidays when with her. All this you will easily imagine has more _vexed_ than _surprized_ me. I am quite unhappy about him, and wish I could in any way remedy the grievances he confides to me. I wished, as the most likely means of doing this, to mention the subject to Lord Carlisle, who has always expressed the greatest interest about Byron and also shewn me the greatest Kindness. Finding that he did _not object_ to it, I yesterday had some conversation with Lord C. on the subject, and it is partly by his advice and wishes that I trouble you with this Letter. He authorized me to tell you that, if you would allow my Brother to spend the next vacation with you (which _he_ seems _strongly_ to wish), that it would put it into his power to see more of him and shew him more attention than he has hitherto, being withheld from doing so from the dread of having any concern whatever with Mrs. Byron. I need hardly add that it is almost MY first wish that this should be accomplished. I am sure you are of my opinion that it is now of the greatest consequence to Byron to secure the friendship of Lord C., the only relation he has who possesses the _Will_ and _power_ to be of use to him. I think the Letters he writes me _quite perfect_ and he does not express one sentiment or idea I should wish different; he tells me he is soon to leave Harrow, but does not say where he is to go. I conclude to Oxford or Cambridge. Pray be so good as to write me a few lines on this subject. I trust entirely to the interest and friendship you have ever so kindly expressed for my Brother, for _my Forgiveness_. Of course you will not mention to Mrs. B. having heard from me, as she would only accuse me of wishing to estrange her Son from her, which would be very far from being the case further than his Happiness and comfort are concerned in it. My opinion is that _as_ they cannot agree, they had better be separated, for such eternal Scenes of wrangling are enough to spoil the very best temper and Disposition in the universe. I shall hope to hear from you soon, my dear sir, and remain, Most sincerely yours, AUGUSTA BYRON."] [Footnote 2: Lord Grey de Ruthyn. (See p. 23, note 1.)] 16.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, Malton, Yorkshire.] Harrow-on-the-Hill, Novr., Saturday, 17th, 1804. I am glad to hear, My dear Sister, that you like Castle Howard so well, I have no doubt what you say is true and that Lord C. is much more amiable than he has been represented to me. Never having been much with him and always hearing him reviled, it was hardly possible I should have conceived a very _great friendship_ for his L'dship. My mother, you inform me, commends my _amiable disposition_ and _good understanding;_ if she does this to you, it is a great deal more than I ever hear myself, for the one or the other is always found fault with, and I am told to copy the _excellent pattern_ which I see before me in _herself._ You have got an invitation too, you may accept it if you please, but if you value your own comfort, and like a pleasant situation, I advise you to avoid Southwell.--I thank you, My dear Augusta, for your readiness to assist me, and will in some manner avail myself of it; I do not however wish to be separated from _her_ entirely, but not to be so much with her as I hitherto have been, for I do believe she likes me; she manifests that in many instances, particularly with regard to money, which I never want, and have as much as I desire. But her conduct is so strange, her caprices so impossible to be complied with, her passions so outrageous, that the evil quite overbalances her _agreeable qualities._ Amongst other things I forgot to mention a most _ungovernable appetite_ for Scandal, which she never can govern, and employs most of her time abroad, in displaying the faults, and censuring the foibles, of her acquaintance; therefore I do not wonder, that my precious Aunt, comes in for her share of encomiums; This however is nothing to what happens when my conduct admits of animadversion; "then comes the tug of war." My whole family from the conquest are upbraided! myself abused, and I am told that what little accomplishments I possess either in mind or body are derived from her and _her alone._ When I leave Harrow I know not; that depends on her nod; I like it very well. The master Dr. Drury, is the most amiable _clergyman_ I ever knew; he unites the Gentleman with the Scholar, without affectation or pedantry, what little I have learnt I owe to him alone, nor is it his fault that it was not more. I shall always remember his instructions with Gratitude, and cherish a hope that it may one day be in my power to repay the numerous obligations, I am under; to him or some of his family. Our holidays come on in about a fortnight. I however have not mentioned that to my mother, nor do I intend it; but if I can, I shall contrive to evade going to Southwell. Depend upon it I will not approach her for some time to come if It is in my power to avoid it, but she must not know, that it is my wish to be absent. I hope you will excuse my sending so short a letter, but the Bell has just rung to summon us together. Write Soon, and believe me, Ever your affectionate Brother, BYRON. I am afraid you will have some difficulty in decyphering my epistles, but _that_ I know you will excuse. Adieu. Remember me to Lord Carlisle. 17.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, Malton, Yorkshire.] Harrow-on-the-Hill, Novr. 21st, 1804. MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--This morning I received your by no means unwelcome epistle, and thinking it demands an immediate answer, once more take up my pen to employ it in your service. There is no necessity for my mother to know anything of my intentions, till the time approaches; and when it does come, Mr. H. has only to write her a note saying, that, as I could not accept the invitation he gave me last holidays, he imagined I might do it now; to this she surely can make no objections; but, if she entertained the slightest idea of my making any complaint of her very _lenient_ treatment, the scene that would ensue beggars all power of description. You may have some little idea of it, from what I have told you, and what you yourself know. I wrote to you the other day; but you make no mention of receiving my letter in yours of the 18th inst. It is however of little importance, containing merely a recapitulation of circumstances which I have before detailed at full length. To Lord Carlisle make my warmest acknowledgements. I feel more gratitude, than my feelings can well express; I am truly obliged to him for his endeavours, and am perfectly satisfied with your explanation of his reserve, though I was hitherto afraid it might proceed from personal dislike. I have some idea that I leave Harrow these holidays. The Dr., whose character I gave you in my last, leaves the mastership at Easter. Who his successor may be I know not, but he will not be a better I am confident. You inform me that you intend to visit my mother, then you will have an opportunity of seeing what I have described, and hearing a great _deal of Scandal_. She does not trouble me much with epistolary communications; when I do receive them, they are very concise, and much to the purpose. However I will do her the justice to say that she behaves, or rather means, well, and is in some respects very kind, though her manners are not the most conciliating. She likewise expresses a great deal of affection for you, but disapproves your marriage, wishes to know my opinion of it, and complains that you are negligent and do not write to her or care about her. How far her opinion of your love for her is well grounded, you best know. I again request you will return my sincere thanks to Lord Carlisle, and for the future I shall consider him as more my friend than I have hitherto been taught to think. I have more reasons than one, to wish to avoid going to Notts, for there I should be obliged to associate with Lord G. whom I detest, his manners being unlike those of a Gentleman, and the information to be derived from him but little except about shooting, which I do not intend to devote my life to. Besides, I have a particular reason for not liking him. Pray write to me soon. Adieu, my Dear Augusta. I remain, your affectionate Brother, BYRON. 18.-To John Hanson [1]. Saturday, Dec. 1st, 1804. MY DEAR SIR,--Our vacation commences on the 5th of this Month, when I propose to myself the pleasure of spending the Holidays at your House, if it is not too great an Inconvenience. I tell you fairly, that at Southwell I should have nothing in the World to do, but play at cards and listen to the edifying Conversation of old Maids, two things which do not at all suit my inclinations. In my Mother's last Letter I find that my poney and pointers are not yet procured, and that Lord Grey is still at Newstead. The former I should be very dull at such a place as Southwell without; the latter is still more disagreeable to be with. I presume he goes on in the old way,--quarrelling with the farmers, and stretching his judicial powers (he being now in the commission) to the utmost, becoming a torment to himself, and a pest to all around him.--I am glad you approve of my Gun, feeling myself happy, that it has been tried by so _distinguished_ a _Sportsman_. I hope your Campaigns against the Partridges and the rest of the feathered Tribe have been attended with no serious Consequences--_trifling accidents_ such as the top of a few fingers and a Thumb, you _Gentlemen_ of the _city_ being used to, of course occasion no interruption to your field sports. Your Accommodation I have no doubt I shall be perfectly satisfied with, only do exterminate that _vile Generation_ of _Bugs_ which nearly ate me up the last Time I _sojourned_ at your House. After undergoing the Purgatory of Harrow _board_ and _Lodging_ for three Months I shall not be _particular_ or exorbitant in my demands. Pray give my best Compliments to Mrs. Hanson and the now _quilldriving_ Hargreaves [2]. Till I see you, I remain, Yours, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: Byron spent the Christmas holidays of 1804-5 with the Hansons. He gave Hanson to understand that it was his wish to leave the school, and that Dr. Drury agreed with him in the decision. Hanson, after consulting Lord Carlisle, wrote to Drury, urging that Byron was too young to leave the school. Drury's reply, dated December 29, 1804, gave a different colour to the matter. "Your letter," he writes, "supposes that Lord Byron was desirous to leave school, and that I acquiesced in his Wish: but I must do him the Justice to observe that _the wish originated with me._ During his last residence at Harrow his conduct gave me much trouble and uneasiness; and as two of his Associates were to leave me at Christmas, I certainly suggested to him _my wish_ that he might be placed under the care of some private Tutor previously to his admission to either of the Universities. This I did no less with a view to the forming of his mind and manners, than to my own comfort; and I am fully convinced that if such a situation can be procured for his Lordship, it will be much more advantageous for him than a longer residence at school, where his animal spirits and want of judgment may induce him to do wrong, whilst his age and person must prevent his Instructors from treating him in some respects as a schoolboy. If we part now, we may entertain affectionate dispositions towards each other, and his Lordship will have left the school with credit; as my dissatisfactions were expressed to him only privately, and in such a manner as not to affect his public situation in the school." Finally, however, Dr. Drury, yielding to the appeal of Lord Carlisle and Hanson, allowed the boy to return to Harrow, and Byron remained at the school till July, 1805, the last three months being passed under the rule of Dr. Butler.] [Footnote 2: Hargreaves Hanson, second son of John Hanson, had just left Harrow, and was articled as a pupil in his father's business. He died in 1811, at the age of 23.] 19.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. 6, Chancery Lane, Wednesday, 30th Jany., 1805. I have delayed writing to you so long, My dearest Augusta, from ignorance of your residence, not knowing whether you _graced_ Castle Howard, or Kireton with your _presence._ The instant Mr. H[anson] informed me where you was, I prepared to address you, and you have but just forestalled my intention. And now, I scarcely know what to begin with; I have so many things, to tell you. I wish to God, that we were together, for It is impossible that I can confine all I have got to say in an epistle, without I was to follow your example, and fill eleven pages, as I was informed, by my _proficiency_ in _the art of magic,_ that you sometimes send that _number_ to _Lady Gertrude._ To begin with an article of _grand importance;_ I on Saturday dined with Lord Carlisle, and on further acquaintance I like them all very much. Amongst other circumstances, I heard of your _boldness_ as a _Rider,_ especially one anecdote about your horse carrying you into the stable _perforce._ I should have admired amazingly to have seen your progress, provided you met with no accident. I hope you recollect the circumstance, and know what I allude to; else, you may think that I am _soaring_ into the _Regions of Romance._ I wish you to corroborate my account in your next, and inform me whether my information was correct. I think your friend Lady G. is a sweet girl. If your taste in _love_, is as good as it is in _friendship_, I shall think you a _very discerning little Gentlewoman_. His Lordship too improves upon further acquaintance, Her Ladyship I always liked, but of the Junior part of the family Frederick [1] is my favourite. I believe with regard to my future destination, that I return to Harrow until June, and then I'm off for the university. Could I have found Room there, I was to have gone immediately. I have contrived to pass the holidays with Mr. and Mrs. Hanson, to whom I am greatly obliged for their hospitality. You are now within a days journey of my _amiable Mama_. If you wish your spirits _raised_, or rather _roused_, I would recommend you to pass a week or two with her. However I daresay she would behave very well to _you_, for you do not know her disposition so well as I do. I return you, my dear Girl, a thousand thanks for hinting to Mr. H. and Lord C. my uncomfortable situation, I shall always remember it with gratitude, as a most _essential service_. I rather think that, if you were any time with my mother, she would bore you about your marriage which she _disapproves_ of, as much for the sake of finding fault as any thing, for that is her favourite amusement. At any rate she would be very inquisitive, for she was always tormenting me about it, and, if you told her any thing, she might very possibly divulge it; I therefore advise you, _when you see her_ to say nothing, or as little, about it, as you can help. If you make haste, you can answer this _well written_ epistle by return of post, for I wish again to hear from you immediately; you need not fill _eleven pages, nine_ will be sufficient; but whether it contains nine pages or nine lines, it will always be most welcome, my beloved Sister, to Your affectionate Brother and Friend, BYRON. [Footnote 1: The Hon. Frederick Howard, third son of Lord Carlisle, the "young, gallant Howard" of _Childe Harold_ (Canto III. stanzas xxix, xxx; see Byron's note), was killed at Waterloo. "The best of his race," says Byron, in a letter to Moore, July 7, 1815.] 20.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [London], Thursday, 4th April, 1805. MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--You certainly have excellent reasons for complaint against my want of punctuality in our correspondence; but, as it does not proceed from want of affection, but an idle disposition, you will, I hope, accept my excuses. I am afraid, however, that when I shall take up my pen, you will not be greatly _edified_ or _amused_, especially at present, since, I sit down in very bad spirits, out of humour with myself, and all the world, except _you_. I left Harrow yesterday, and am now at Mr. Hanson's till Sunday morning, when I depart for Nottinghamshire, to pay a visit to my _mother_, with whom I shall remain for a week or two, when I return to town, and from thence to Harrow, until July, when I take my departure for the university, but which I am as yet undecided. Mr. H. Recommends Cambridge; Ld. Carlisle allows me to chuse for myself, and I must own I prefer Oxford. But, I am not violently bent upon it, and whichever is determined upon will meet with my concurrence.--This is the outline of my plans for the next 6 months. I am Glad that you are Going to pay his _Lordship_ a visit, as I shall have an opportunity of seeing you on my return to town, a pleasure, which, as I have been long debarred of it, will be doubly felt after so long a separation. My visit to the Dowager does not promise me all the happiness I could wish; however, it must be gone through, as it is some time since I have seen her. It shall be as short as possible. I shall expect to find a letter from you, when I come down, as I wish to know when you go to town, and how long you remain there. If you stay till The middle of next month, you may have an opportunity of hearing me speak, as the first day of our _Harrow orations_ occurs in May. My friend Delawarr [1], (as you observed) danced with the little Princess, nor did I in the least _envy_ him the honour. I presume you have heard That Dr. Drury leaves Harrow this Easter, and That, as a memorial of our Gratitude for his long services, The scholars presented him with plate to the amount of 330 Guineas. I hope you will excuse this _Hypocondriac_ epistle, as I never was in such low spirits in my life. Adieu, my Dearest Sister, and believe me, Your ever affectionate though negligent Brother, BYRON. [Footnote 1: On February 25, 1805, their Majesties gave a magnificent "house-warming" at Windsor Castle. "The expenditure," says the 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1805 (part i. pp. 262-264), "cannot have cost less than £50,000. The floor of the ball-room, instead of being chalked, was painted with most fanciful and appropriate devices by an eminent artist." The "little Princess" Charlotte of Wales, we are told, left the Castle at half-past nine.] 21.--To Hargreaves Hanson. Burgage Manor, Southwell, Notts, 15 April, 1805. DEAR HARGREAVES,--As I have been unable to return to Town with your father, I must request, that you will take care of my Books, and a parcel which I expect from my Taylor's, and, as I understand you are going to pay Farleigh a visit, I would be obliged to you to leave them under the care of one of the Clerks, or a Servant, who may inform me where to find them. I shall be in Town on Wednesday the 24th at furthest, when I shall not hope to see you, or wish it; not but what I should be glad of your _entertaining and loquacious Society_, but as I think you will be more amused at Farleigh, it would be selfish in me to wish that you should forego the pleasures of contemplating _pigs_, _poultry_, _pork_, _pease_, and _potatoes_ together, with other Rural Delights, for my Company. Much pleasure may you find in your excursion and I dare say, when you have exchanged _pleadings_ for _ploughshares_ and _fleecing clients_ for _feeding flocks_, you will be in no hurry to resume your Law Functions. Remember me to your Father and Mother and the Juniors, and if you should find it convenient to dispatch a note in answer to this epistle, it will afford great pleasure to Yours very sincerely and affectionately, BYRON. P.S.--It is hardly necessary to inform you that I am heartily tired of Southwell, for I am at this minute experiencing those delights which I have recapitulated to you and which are more entertaining to be _talked_ of at a distance than enjoyed at Home. I allude to the Eloquence of a _near relation_ of mine, which is as remarkable as your _taciturnity_. 22.--To Hargreaves Hanson. Burgage Manor, April 20, 1805. Dear Hargreaves,--Dr. Butler, [1] our new Master, has thought proper to postpone our Meeting till the 8th of May, which obliges me to delay my return to Town for one week, so that instead of Wednesday the 24th I shall not arrive in London till the 1st of May, on which Day (If I live) I shall certainly be in town, where I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you. I shall remain with you only a week, as we are all to return to the very day, on account of the prolongation of our Holidays. However, if you shall previous to that period take a _jaunt_ into Hants, I beg you will leave my _valuables_, etc., etc., in the care of one of the _Gentlemen_ of your office, as that _Razor faced Villain_, James, might perhaps take the Liberty of walking off with a suit. I have heard several times from Tattersall [2] and it is very probable we may see him on my return. I beg you will excuse this short epistle as my time is at present rather taken up, and Believe Me, Yours very sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: The Rev. George Butler (1774-1853), who was Senior Wrangler (1794), succeeded Dr. Drury as Head-master of Harrow School in April, 1805. He was then Fellow, tutor, and classical lecturer at Sydney Sussex College, Cambridge. From affection to Dr. Drury, Byron supported the candidature of his brother, Mark Drury, and avenged himself on Butler for the defeat of his candidate by the lines on "Pomposus" (see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 16, 17, "On a Change of Masters," etc.; and pp. 84-106, "Childish Recollections"). At a later period he became reconciled to Butler, who knew the Continent well, was an excellent linguist, and gave him valuable advice for his foreign tour in 1809-11. Butler resigned the Head-mastership of Harrow in April, 1824, and retired to a country living. In 1842 he was appointed to the Deanery of Peterborough, where he died in 1853.] [Footnote 2: John Cecil Tattersall entered Harrow in May, 1801. He was the "Davus" of "Childish Recollections" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 97, 98, and notes). He went from Harrow to Christ Church, Oxford, took orders, and died December 8, 1812.] 23.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [The Earl of Carlisle's, Grosvenor Place, London.] Burgage Manor, April 23d, 1805. MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--I presume by this time, that you are safely arrived at the Earl's, at least I _hope_ so; nor shall I feel myself perfectly easy, till I have the pleasure of hearing from yourself of your safety. I myself shall set out for town this day (Tuesday) week, and intend waiting upon you on Thursday at farthest; in the mean time I must console myself as well as I can; and I am sure, no unhappy mortal ever required much more consolation than I do at present. You as well as myself know the _sweet_ and _amiable_ temper of a certain personage to whom I am nearly related; of _course_, the pleasure I have enjoyed during my vacation, (although it has been greater than I expected) yet has not been so _superabundant_ as to make me wish to stay a day longer than I can avoid. However, notwithstanding the dullness of the place, and certain _unpleasant things_ that occur In a family not a hundred miles distant from Southwell, I contrived to pass my time in peace, till to day, when unhappily, In a most inadvertent manner, I said that Southwell was not _peculiarly_ to my taste; but however, I merely expressed this in common conversation, without speaking disrespectfully of the _sweet_ town; (which, between you and I, I wish was swallowed up by an earthquake, provided my _Eloquent mother_ was not in it). No sooner had the unlucky sentence, which I believe was prompted by my evil Genius, escaped my lips, than I was treated with an Oration in the _ancient style_, which I have often so _pathetically_ described to you, unequalled by any thing of _modern_ or _antique_ date; nay the _Philippics_ against Lord Melville [1] were nothing to it; one would really Imagine, to have heard the _Good Lady_, that I was a most _treasonable culprit_, but thank St. Peter, after undergoing this _Purgatory_ for the last hour, it is at length blown over, and I have sat down under these _pleasing impressions_ to address you, so that I am afraid my epistle will not be the most entertaining. I assure you upon my _honour_, jesting apart, I have never been so _scurrilously_, and _violently_ abused by any person, as by that woman, whom I think I am to call mother, by that being who gave me birth, to whom I ought to look up with veneration and respect, but whom I am sorry I cannot love or admire. Within one little hour, I have not only heard myself, but have heard my _whole family_, by the father's side, _stigmatized_ in terms that the _blackest malevolence_ would perhaps shrink from, and that too in words you would be shocked to hear. Such, Augusta, such is my mother; _my mother!_ I disclaim her from this time, and although I cannot help treating her with respect, I cannot reverence, as I ought to do, that parent who by her outrageous conduct forfeits all title to filial affection. To you, Augusta, I must look up, as my nearest relation, to you I must confide what I cannot mention to others, and I am sure you will pity me; but I entreat you to keep this a secret, nor expose that unhappy failing of this woman, which I must bear with patience. I would be very sorry to have it discovered, as I have only one week more, for the present. In the mean time you may write to me with the greatest safety, as she would not open any of my letters, even from you. I entreat then that you will favour me with an answer to this. I hope however to have the pleasure of seeing you on the day appointed, but If you could contrive any way that I may avoid being asked to dinner by L'd C. I would be obliged to you, as I hate strangers. Adieu, my Beloved Sister, I remain ever yours, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Henry Dundas (1742-1811), created Viscount Melville in 1802, Lord Advocate (1775-83), made himself useful to Lord North's Government as a shrewd, hard-working man of business, a ready speaker--in broad Scotch, and a consummate election agent. For twenty years he was the right-hand man of Pitt-- "Too proud from pilfered greatness to descend, Too humble not to call Dundas his friend." Not only was he Pitt's political colleague, but in private life his boon companion. A well-known epigram commemorates in a dialogue their convivial habits-- 'Pitt'. "I cannot see the Speaker, Hal; can you?" 'Dundas'. "Not see the Speaker, Billy? I see two." Melville, for a long series of years, held important political posts. He was Treasurer of the Navy (1782-1800); member of the Board of Control for India (1784-1802) and President (1790-1802); Home Secretary (1791-94); Secretary of War (1794-1801); First Lord of the Admiralty (1804-5). In 1802 a Commission had been appointed to examine into the accounts of the naval department for the past twenty years, and, in consequence of their tenth report, a series of resolutions were moved in the House of Commons (April, 1805) against Melville. The voting was even--216 for and 216 against; the resolutions were carried by the casting vote of Speaker Abbott. "Pitt was overcome; his friend was ruined. At the sound of the Speaker's voice, the Prime Minister crushed his hat over his brows to hide the tears that poured over his cheeks: he pushed in haste out of the House. Some of his opponents, I am ashamed to say, thrust themselves near, 'to see how Billy took it.'" (Mark Boyd's 'Reminiscences of Fifty Years', p. 404.) Melville, who was heard at the bar of the House of Commons in his own defence, was impeached before the House of Lords (June 26, 1805) of high crimes and misdemeanours. At the close of the proceedings, which began in Westminster Hall on April 29, 1806, Melville was acquitted on all the charges. Whitbread took the leading part in the impeachment. See 'All the Talents: a Satirical Poem', by Polypus (E. S. Barrett)-- "Rough as his porter, bitter as his barm, He sacrificed his fame to M--lv--lle's harm." Dialogue ii.] 24.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [The Earl of Carlisle's, Grosvenor Place, London.] Burgage Manor, Southwell, Friday, April 25th, 1805. My dearest Augusta,--Thank God, I believe I shall be in town on Wednesday next, and at last relieved from those _agreeable amusements_, I described to you in my last. I return you and Lady G. many thanks for your _benediction_, nor do I doubt its efficacy as it is bestowed by _two such Angelic beings_; but as I am afraid my _profane blessing_ would but expedite your road to _Purgatory_, instead of _Salvation_, you must be content with my best wishes in return, since the _unhallowed adjurations_ of a mere mortal would be of no effect. You say, you are sick of the Installation; [1] and that L'd C. was not present; I however saw his name in the _Morning Post_, as one of the Knights Companions. I indeed expected that _you_ would have been present at the Ceremony. I have seen this young Roscius [2] several times at the hazard of my life, from the _affectionate squeezes_ of the surrounding crowd. I think him tolerable in some characters, but by no means equal to the ridiculous praises showered upon him by _John Bull_. I am afraid that my stay in town ceases after the 10th. I should not continue it so long, as we meet on the 8th at Harrow, But, I remain on purpose to hear our _Sapient_ and _noble Legislators_ of Both Houses debate on the Catholic Question, [3] as I have no doubt there will be many _nonsensical_, and some _Clever_ things said on the occasion. I am extremely glad that you _sport_ an audience Chamber for the Benefit of your _modest_ visitors, amongst whom I have the _honour_ to reckon myself: I shall certainly be most happy again to see you, notwithstanding my _wise_ and _Good_ mother (who is at this minute thundering against Somebody or other below in the Dining Room), has interdicted my visiting at his _Lordship's_ house, with the threat of her malediction, in case of disobedience, as she says he has behaved very ill to her; the truth of this I much doubt, nor should the orders of all the mothers (especially such mothers) in the world, prevent me from seeing my Beloved Sister after so long an Absence. I beg you will forgive this _well written epistle_, for I write in a great Hurry, and, believe me, with the greatest impatience again to behold you, your Attached Brother and [Friend, BYRON]. P.S.--By the bye Lady G. ought not to complain of your writing a _decent_ long letter to me, since I remember your _11 Pages_ to her, at which I did not make the least complaint, but submitted like a _meek Lamb_ to the innovation of my privileges, for nobody _ought_ to have had so long an epistle but my _most excellent Self_. [Footnote 1: On St. George's Day, April 23, 1805, seven Knights were installed at Windsor as Knights of the Garter, each in turn being invested with the surcoat, girdle, and sword. The new Knights were the Dukes of Rutland and Beaufort; the Marquis of Abercorn; the Earls of Chesterfield, Pembroke, and Winchilsea; and, by proxy, the Earl of Hardwicke. Lady Louisa Strangways, writing to her sister, Lady Harriet Frampton, on April 24, 1805 ('Journal of Mary Frampton', p. 129), says, "I was full dressed for seventeen hours yesterday, and sat in one spot for seven, which is enough to tire any one who enjoyed what was going on, which I did not. I saw them walk to St. George's Chapel, which was the best part, as it did not last long ... Their dresses were very magnificent. The Knights, before they were installed, were in white and silver, like the old pictures of Henry VIII., and afterwards they had a purple mantle put on. They had immense plumes of ostrich feathers, with a heron's feather in the middle."] [Footnote 2: William Henry West Betty (1791-1874), the "Young Roscius," made his first appearance on the stage at Belfast, in 1803, in the part of "Osman," in Hill's 'Zara;' and on December 1, 1804, at Covent Garden, as "Selim" disguised as "Achmet," in Browne's 'Barbarossa'. In the winter season of 1804-5, when he appeared at Covent Garden and Drury Lane, such crowds collected to see him, that the military were called out to preserve order. Leslie ('Autobiographical Recollections', vol. i. p. 218) speaks of him as a boy "of handsome features and graceful manners, with a charming voice." Fox, who saw him in 'Hamlet', said, "This is finer than Garrick" ('Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', p. 88). Northcote ('Conversations', p. 23) spoke of his acting as "a beautiful effusion of natural sensibility; and then that graceful play of the limbs in youth gave such an advantage over every one about him." "Young Roscius's premature powers," writes Mrs. Piozzi, February 21, 1805, "attract universal attention, and I suppose that if less than an angel had told 'his' parents that a bulletin of that child's health should be necessary to quiet the anxiety of a metropolis for his safety, they would not have believed the prediction" ('Life and Writings of Mrs. Piozzi', vol. ii. p. 263). In society he was the universal topic of conversation, and he commanded a salary of £50 a night, at a time when John Kemble was paid £37 16's'. a week ('Life of Frederick Reynolds', vol. ii. p. 364). "When," writes Mrs. Byron of her son to Hanson (December 8, 1804), "he goes to see the Young Roscius, I hope he will take care of himself in the crowd, and not go alone." Betty lost his attractiveness with the growth of his beard. Byron's opinion of the merits of the youthful prodigy became that of the general public; but not till the actor had made a large fortune. He retired from the stage in 1824.] [Footnote 3: On March 25, 1805, petitions were presented by Lord Grenville in the House of Lords, and Fox in the House of Commons, calling the attention of the country to the claims of the Roman Catholics, and praying their relief from their disabilities, civil, naval, and military. On Friday, May 10, Lord Grenville moved, in the Upper House, for a committee of the whole House to consider the petition. At six o'clock on the morning of Tuesday, May 14, the motion was negatived by a division of 178 against 49. On Monday, May 13, Fox, in the Lower House, made a similar motion, which was negatived, at five o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, May 15, by a division of 336 against 126. Byron, on April 21, 1812, in the second of his three Parliamentary speeches, supported the relief of the Roman Catholics.] 25.--To John Hanson. Harrow-on-the-Hill, 11 May, 1805. Dear Sir,--As you promised to cash my Draft on the Day that I left your house, and as you was only prevented by the Bankers being shut up, I will be very much obliged to you to _give the ready_ to this old Girl, Mother Barnard, [1] who will either present herself or send a Messenger, as she demurs on its being not payable till the 25th of June. Believe me, Sir, by doing this you will greatly oblige Yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote: 1. Mother Barnard was the keeper of the "tuck-shop" at Harrow.] 26.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [The Earl of Carlisle's, Grosvenor Place, London.] [Harrow, Wednesday, June 5, 1805.] My Dearest Augusta,--At last you have a _decent_ specimen of the dowager's talents for epistles in the _furioso_ style. You are now freed from the _shackles_ of her correspondence, and when I revisit her, I shall be bored with long stories of your _ingratitude_, etc., etc. She is as I have before declared certainly mad (to say she was in her senses, would be condemning her as a Criminal), her conduct is a _happy_ compound of derangement and Folly. I had the other day an epistle from her; not a word was mentioned about you, but I had some of the usual _compliments_ on my own account. I am now about to answer her letter, though I shall scarcely have patience, to treat her with civility, far less with affection, that was almost over before, and this has given the finishing stroke to _filial_, which now gives way to _fraternal_ duty. Believe me, dearest Augusta, not ten thousand _such_ mothers, or indeed any mothers, Could induce me to give you up.--No, No, as the dowager says in that rare epistle which now lies before me, "the time has been, but that is past long since," and nothing now can influence your _pretty_ _sort of_ a _brother_ (bad as he is) to forget that he is your _Brother_. Our first Speech day will be over ere this reaches you, but against the 2d you shall have timely notice.--I am glad to hear your illness is not of a Serious nature; _young Ladies_ ought not to throw themselves in to the fidgets about a trifling delay of 9 or 10 years; age brings experience and when you in the flower of youth, between 40 and 50, shall then marry, you will no doubt say that I am a _wise man_, and that the later one makes one's self miserable with the matrimonial clog, the better. Adieu, my dearest Augusta, I bestow my _patriarchal blessing_ on you and Lady G. and remain, [Signature cut out.] 27.--To John Hanson. Harrow-on-the-Hill, 27 June, 1805. Dear Sir,--I will be in Town on Saturday Morning, but it is absolutely necessary for me to return to Harrow on Tuesday or Wednesday, as Thursday is our 2d Speechday and Butler says he cannot dispense with my Presence on that Day. I thank you for your Compliment in the Beginning of your Letter, and with the Hope of seeing you and Hargreaves well on Saturday, I remain, yours, etc., etc., BYRON. 28.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Address cut out], Tuesday, July 2d, 1805. My dearest Augusta,--I am just returned from Cambridge, where I have been to enter myself at Trinity College.--Thursday is our Speechday at Harrow, and as I forgot to remind you of its approach, previous to our first declamation, [1] I have given you _timely_ notice this time. If you intend doing me the _honour_ of attending, I would recommend you not to come without a Gentleman, as I shall be too much engaged all the morning to take care of you, and I should not imagine you would admire _stalking_ about by yourself. You had better be there by 12 o'clock as we begin at 1, and I should like to procure you a good place; Harrow is 11 miles from town, it will just make a _comfortable_ mornings drive for you. I don't know how you are to come, but for _Godsake_ bring as few women with you as possible. I would wish you to Write me an answer immediately, that I may know on Thursday morning, whether you will drive over or not, and I will arrange my other engagements accordingly. I _beg_, _Madam_, you may make your appearance in one of his Lordships most _dashing_ carriages, as our Harrow _etiquette_, admits of nothing but the most _superb_ vehicles, on our Grand _Festivals_. In the mean time, believe me, dearest Augusta, Your affectionate Brother, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Byron, writing to Hanson (June 25, 1805), says, "The fame of Byron's oratory has reached Southwell" (see page 27, note 1).] 29.--To John Hanson. Harrow, 8 July, 1805. My dear Sir,--I have just received a Letter from my Mother, in which she talks of coming to Town about the _commencement_ of our Holidays. If she does, it will be impossible for me to call on _my Sister_, previous to my leaving it, and at the same time I cannot conceive what the Deuce she can want at this season in London. I have written to tell her that my Holidays commence on the 6th of August, but however, July the 1st is the proper day.--I beg that if you cannot find some means to keep her in the Country that you at least will connive at this deception which I can palliate, and then I shall be down in the country before she knows where I am. My reasons for this are, that I do _not wish_ to be detained in Town so uncomfortably as I know I shall be if I remain with her; that _I do wish_ to see my Sister; and in the next place she can just as well come to Town after my return to Notts, as I don't desire to be dragged about according to her caprice, and there are some other causes I think unnecessary to be now mentioned. If you will only contrive by settling this business (if it is in your power), or if that is impossible, not mention anything about the day our Holidays commence, of which you can be easily supposed not to be informed. If, I repeat, you can by any means prevent this Mother from executing her purposes, believe me, you will greatly oblige Yours truly, BYRON. 30.--To Charles O. Gordon. [1] Burgage Manor, Southwell, Notts, August 4, 1805. Although I am greatly afraid, my Dearest Gordon, that you will not receive this epistle till you return from Abergeldie, (as your letter stated that you would be at Ledbury on Thursday next) yet, that is not my fault, for I have not deferred answering yours a moment, and, as I have just now concluded my Journey, my first, and, I trust you will believe me when I say, most pleasing occupation will be to write to you. We have played the Eton and were most confoundedly beat; [2] however it was some comfort to me that I got 11 notches the 1st Innings and 7 the 2nd, which was more than any of our side except Brockman & Ipswich could contrive to hit. After the match we dined together, and were extremely friendly, not a single discordant word was uttered by either party. To be sure, we were most of us rather drunk and went together to the Haymarket Theatre, where we kicked up a row, As you may suppose, when so many Harrovians & Etonians met at one place; I was one of seven in a single hackney, 4 Eton and 3 Harrow, and then we all got into the same box, and the consequence was that such a devil of a noise arose that none of our neighbours could hear a word of the drama, at which, not being _highly delighted_, they began to quarrel with us, and we nearly came to a _battle royal_. How I got home after the play God knows. I hardly recollect, as my brain was so much confused by the heat, the row, and the wine I drank, that I could not remember in the morning how I found my way to bed. The rain was so incessant in the evening that we could hardly get our Jarveys, which was the cause of so many being stowed into one. I saw young Twilt, your brother, with Malet, and saw also an old schoolfellow of mine whom I had not beheld for six years, but he was not the one whom you were so good as to enquire after for me, and for which I return you my sincere thanks. I set off last night at eight o'clock to my mother's, and am just arrived this afternoon, and have not delayed a second in thanking you for so soon fulfilling my request that you would correspond with me. My address at Cambridge will be Trinity College, but I shall not go there till the 20th of October. You may continue to direct your letters here, when I go to Hampshire which will not be till you have returned to Harrow. I will send my address previous to my departure from my mother's. I agree with you in the hope that we shall continue our correspondence for a long time. I trust, my dearest friend, that it will only be interrupted by our being some time or other in the same place or under the same roof, as, when I have finished my _Classical Labour_, and my minority is expired, I shall expect you to be a frequent visitor to Newstead Abbey, my seat in this county which is about 12 miles from my mother's house where I now am. There I can show you plenty of hunting, shooting and fishing, and be assured no one ever will be more welcome guest than yourself--nor is there any one whose correspondence can give me more pleasure, or whose friendship yield me greater delight than yours, sweet, dearest Charles, believe me, will always be the sentiments of Yours most affectionately, BYRON. [Footnote 1: This and Letter 33 are written to Byron's Harrow friend, Charles Gordon, one of his "juniors and favourites," whom he "spoilt by indulgence." Gordon, who was the son of David Gordon of Abergeldie, died in 1829.] [Footnote 2: Byron's reputation as a cricketer rests on this match between Eton and Harrow. It was played on the old cricket ground in Dorset Square, August 2, 1805, and ended in a victory for Eton by an innings and two runs. The score is thus given by Lillywhite, in his _Cricket Scores and Biographies of Celebrated Cricketers from 1745 to 1826_ (vol. i. pp. 319, 320)-- HARROW. First Innings. Second Innings. -------------------------------------------------------- Lord Ipswich, b Carter --10 b Heaton --21 T. Farrer, Esq., b Carter -- 7 c Bradley-- 3 T. Drury, Esq., b Carter -- 0 st Heaton-- 6 --Bolton, Esq., run out -- 2 b Heaton -- 0 C. Lloyd, Esq., b Carter -- 0 b Carter -- 0 A. Shakespeare, Esq., st Heaton-- 8 runout -- 5 Lord Byron, c Barnard-- 7 b Carter -- 2 Hon. T. Erskine, b Carter -- 4 b Heaton -- 8 W. Brockman, Esq., b Heaton -- 9 b Heaton --10 E. Stanley, Esq., not out -- 3 c Canning-- 7 --Asheton, Esq., b Carter -- 3 not out -- 0 Byes -- 2 Byes -- 3 -- -- 55 65 ETON. -------------------------------------------------------- --Heaton, Esq., b Lloyd -- 0 --Slingsby, Esq., b Shakespeare--29 --Carter, Esq., b Shakespeare-- 3 --Farhill, Esq., c Lloyd -- 6 --Canning, Esq., c Farrer --12 --Camplin, Esq., b Ipswich --42 --Bradley, Esq., b Lloyd --16 --Barnard, Esq., b Shakespeare-- 0 --Barnard, Esq., not out -- 3 --Kaye, Esq., b Byron -- 7 --Dover, Esq., c Bolton -- 4 Byes -- 0 -- 122 At this match Lord Stratford de Redcliffe remembers seeing a "moody-looking boy" dismissed for a small score. The boy was Byron. But the moment is not favourable to expression of countenance. 31.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, Malton, Yorkshire.] Burgage Manor, August 6th, 1805. Well, my dearest Augusta, here I am, once more situated at my mother's house, which together with its _inmate_ is as _agreeable_ as ever. I am at this moment _vis à vis_ and Téte à téte with that amiable personage, who is, whilst I am writing, pouring forth complaints against your _ingratitude_, giving me many oblique hints that I ought not to correspond with you, and concluding with an interdiction that if you ever after the expiration of my minority are invited to my residence, _she_ will no longer condescend to grace it with her _Imperial_ presence. You may figure to yourself, for your amusement, my solemn countenance on the occasion, and the _meek Lamblike_ demeanour of her Ladyship, which, contrasted with my _Saintlike visage_, forms a _striking family painting_, whilst in the back ground, the portraits of my Great Grandfather and Grandmother, suspended in their frames, seem to look with an eye of pity on their _unfortunate descendant_, whose _worth_ and _accomplishments_ deserve a milder fate. I am to remain in this _Garden_ of _Eden_ one month, I do not indeed reside at Cambridge till October, but I set out for Hampshire in September where I shall be on a visit till the commencement of the term. In the mean time, Augusta, your _sympathetic_ correspondence must be some alleviation to my sorrows, which however are too ludicrous for me to regard them very seriously; but they are _really_ more _uncomfortable_ than _amusing_. I presume you were rather surprised not to see my _consequential_ name in the papers [1] amongst the orators of our 2nd speech day, but unfortunately some wit who had formerly been at Harrow, suppressed the merits of Long [2], Farrer [3] and myself, who were always supposed to take the Lead in Harrow eloquence, and by way of a _hoax_ thought proper to insert a panegyric on those speakers who were really and truly allowed to have rather disgraced than distinguished themselves, of course for the _wit_ of the thing, the best were left out and the worst inserted, which accounts for the _Gothic omission_ of my _superior talents._ Perhaps it was done with a view to weaken our vanity, which might be too much raised by the flattering paragraphs bestowed on our performance the 1st speechday; be that as it may, we were omitted in the account of the 2nd, to the astonishment of all Harrow. These are _disappointments_ we _great men_ are liable to, and we must learn to bear them with philosophy, especially when they arise from attempts at wit. I was indeed very ill at that time, and after I had finished my speech was so overcome by the exertion that I was obliged to quit the room. I had caught cold by sleeping in damp sheets which was the cause of my indisposition. However I am now perfectly recovered, and live in hopes of being emancipated from the slavery of Burgage manor. But Believe me, Dearest Augusta, whether well or ill, I always am your affect. Brother, BYRON. [Footnote 1: See page 27, note 1.] [Footnote 2: Edward Noel Long, son of E. B. Long of Hampton Lodge, Surrey, the "Cleon" of "Childish Recollections" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 101, 102), entered Harrow in April, 1801. He went with Byron to Trinity College, Cambridge, and till the end of the summer of 1806 was his most intimate friend. "We were," says Byron, in his Diary ('Life', p. 31), "rival swimmers, fond of riding, reading, and of conviviality. Our evenings we passed in music (he was musical, and played on more than one instrument--flute and violoncello), in which I was audience; and I think that our chief beverage was soda-water. In the day we rode, bathed, and lounged, reading occasionally. I remember our buying, with vast alacrity, Moore's new quarto (in 1806), and reading it together in the evenings. ... _His_ friendship, and a violent though pure passion--which held me at the same period--were the then romance of the most romantic period of my life." Long was Byron's companion at Littlehampton in August, 1806. In 1807 he entered the Guards, served with distinction in the expedition to Copenhagen, and was drowned early in 1809, "on his passage to Lisbon with his regiment in the 'St. George' transport, which was run foul of in the night by another transport" ('Life', p. 31. See also Byron's lines "To Edward Noel Long, Esq.," 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 184-188).] [Footnote 3: Thomas Farrer entered Harrow in April, 1801. He played in Byron's XI. against Eton, on the ground in Dorset Square, on August 2, 1805.] CHAPTER II. 1805-1808. CAMBRIDGE AND JUVENILE POEMS. 32.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, Malton, Yorkshire.] Burgage Manor, August 10th, 1805. I have at last succeeded, my dearest Augusta, in pacifying the dowager, and mollifying that _piece_ of _flint_ which the good Lady denominates her heart. She now has condescended to send you her _love_, although with many comments on the occasion, and many compliments to herself. But to me she still continues to be a torment, and I doubt not would continue so till the end of my life. However this is the last time she ever will have an opportunity, as, when I go to college, I shall employ my vacations either in town; or during the summer I intend making a tour through the Highlands, and to Visit the Hebrides with a party of my friends, whom I have engaged for the purpose. This my old preceptor Drury recommended as the most improving way of employing my Summer Vacation, and I have now an additional reason for following his advice, as I by that means will avoid the society of this woman, whose detestable temper destroys every Idea of domestic comfort. It is a happy thing that she is my mother and not my wife, so that I can rid myself of her when I please, and indeed, if she goes on in the style that she has done for this last week that I have been with her, I shall quit her before the month I was to drag out in her company, is expired, and place myself any where, rather than remain with such a vixen. As I am to have a very handsome allowance,[1] which does not deprive her of a sixpence, since there is an addition made from my fortune by the Chancellor for the purpose, I shall be perfectly independent of her, and, as she has long since trampled upon, and harrowed up every affectionate tie, It is my serious determination never again to visit, or be upon any friendly terms with her. This I owe to myself, and to my own comfort, as well as Justice to the memory of my nearest relations, who have been most shamefully libelled by this female 'Tisiphom', a name which your 'Ladyship' will recollect to have belonged to one of the Furies. You need not take the precaution of writing in so enigmatical a style in your next, as, bad as the woman is, she would not dare to open any letter addressed to me from you. Whenever you can find time to write, believe me, your epistles will be productive of the greatest pleasure, to your Affectionate Brother, BYRON. [Footnote 1: During Byron's schooldays, Mrs. Byron received £500 a year from the Court of Chancery for his education. When he went to Cambridge, she gave up this allowance to her son, and the expenditure of a certain sum was sanctioned by Chancery for furniture, clothes, plate, etc. At the same time, Mrs. Byron applied for an allowance of £200 a year, but in 1807 the allowance had not been granted. Her pension, it may be added, most irregularly paid at all times, was reduced to £200 a year. Writing to Hanson (September 23, 1805), she says, "I give up the five hundred a year to my son, and you will supply him with money accordingly. The two hundred a year addition I shall reserve for myself; nor can I do with less, as my house will always be a home for my son whenever he chooses to come to it."] 33.--To Charles O. Gordon. Burgage Manor, August 14, 1805. Believe me, my dearest Charles, no letter from you can ever be unentertaining or dull, at least to me; on the contrary they will always be productive of the highest pleasure as often as you think proper to gratify me by your correspondence. My answer to your first was addressed to Ledbury; and I fear you will not receive it till you return from your tour, which I hope may answer your expectation in every respect; I recollect some years ago passing near Abergeldie on an excursion through the Highlands, it was at that time a most beautiful place. I suppose you will soon have a view of the eternal snows that summit the top of Lachin y Gair, which towers so magnificently above the rest of our _Northern Alps_. I still remember with pleasure the admiration which filled my mind, when I first beheld it, and further on the dark frowning mountains which rise near Invercauld, together with the romantic rocks that overshadow Mar Lodge, a seat of Lord Fife's, and the cataract of the Dee, which dashes down the declivity with impetuous violence in the grounds adjoining to the House. All these I presume you will soon see, so that it is unnecessary for me to expatiate on the subject. I sincerely wish that every happiness may attend you in your progress. I have given you an account of our match in my epistle to Herefordshire. We unfortunately lost it. I got 11 notches the first innings and 7 the 2nd, making 18 in all, which was more runs than any of our side (except Ipswich) could make. Brockman also scored 18. We were very _convivial_ in the evening.[1] [Footnote 1: Here the letter, which is printed from a copy made by the Rev. W. Harness (see page 177 [Letter 92], [Foot]note 1), comes to an end.] 34.--To Hargreaves Hanson. Burgage Manor, August 19th, 1805. My Dear Hargreaves,--You may depend upon my Observance of your father's Invitation to Farleigh [1] in September, where I hope we shall be the cause of much destruction to the feathered Tribe and great Amusement to ourselves. The Lancashire Trial [2] comes on very soon, and Mr. Hanson will come down by Nottingham; perhaps, I may then have a chance of seeing him; at all events, I shall probably accompany him on his way back; as I hope his Health is by this time perfectly reestablished, and will not require a journey to Harrowgate. I shall not as you justly conjecture have any occasion for my _Chapeau de Bras_, as there is nobody in the Neighbourhood who would be worth the trouble of wearing it, when I went to their parties. I am uncommonly dull at this place, as you may easily imagine, nor do I think I shall have much Amusement till the commencement of the shooting season. I shall expect (when you next write) an account of your military preparations, to repel the Invader of our Isle whenever he makes the attempt.--_You_ will doubtless acquire _great Glory_ on the occasion, and in expectation of hearing of your Warlike Exploits, I remain, yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Hanson had property at Farleigh, near Basingstoke.] [Footnote 2: The Rochdale property of the Byron family had been illegally sold by William, fifth Lord Byron. Proceedings were taken to recover the property; but fresh points arose at every stage, and eventually Byron, unable to wait longer, sold Newstead.] 35.--To Hargreaves Hanson. Burgage Manor. My Dear Hargeaves,--I would be obliged to you, if you would write to your father, and enquire--what time it will be most convenient for him to receive my visit, and I will come to Town immediately to the time appointed and accompany you to the _Rural Shades_ and _Fertile Fields_ of Hants. You must excuse the laconic Style of my Epistle as this place is damned dull and I have nothing to relate, but believe me, Yours truly, BYRON. 36.--To Hargreaves Hanson. Trinity Coll., October 25, 1805. Dear Hargreaves,--I presume your father has by this time informed you of our safe Arrival here. [1] I can as yet hardly form an Opinion in favour, or against the College, but as soon as I am settled you shall have an account. I wish you to pack up carefully--& send immediately the remainder of my books, and also my _Stocks_ which were left in Chancery Lane. _Mon Chapeau de Bras_ take care of till Winter extends his Icy Reign and I shall visit the Metropolis. Tell your father that I am getting in the furniture he spoke of, but shall defer papering and painting till the Recess. The sooner you execute my _commands_ the better. Beware of Mr. Terry, And believe me, yours faithfully, BYRON. The Bills for Furniture I shall send to Mr. H., your worthy papa, according to his _particular Desire_. The Cambridge Coach sets off from the White Horse, Fetter Lane. [Footnote 1: Byron entered Trinity on July 1, 1805; but he did not go into residence till the following October. His tutors were the Rev. Thomas Jones (1756-1807), who was Senior Tutor from 1787 till his death in 1807, and the Rev. George Frederick Tavell (B.A., 1792; M.A., 1795), to whom Byron alludes in 'Hints from Horace', lines 228-230:-- "Unlucky Tavell! doom'd to daily cares By pugilistic pupils, and by bears!"] 37.--To John Hanson. Trinity Coll., Oct. 26, 1805. Dear Sir,--I will be obliged to you to order me down 4 Dozen of Wine--Port, Sherry, Claret, and Madeira, one dozen of each. I have got part of my furniture in, and begin to admire a College life. Yesterday my appearance in the Hall in my State Robes was _Superb_, but uncomfortable to my _Diffidence_. You may order the Saddle, etc., etc., for "Oateater" as soon as you please and I will pay for them. I remain, Sir, yours truly, BYRON. P.S.--Give Hargreaves a hint to be expeditious in his sending my _Valuables_ which I begin to want. Your Cook had the Impudence to charge my Servant 15 Shillings for 5 Days provision which I think is exorbitant; but I hear that in _Town_ it is but reasonable. Pray is it the custom to allow your Servants 3/6 per Diem, in London? I will thank you for Information on the Subject. 38.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, near Malton, Yorkshire.] Trin. Coll. [Wednesday], Novr. 6th, 1805. My dear Augusta,--As might be supposed I like a College Life extremely, especially as I have escaped the Trammels or rather _Fetters_ of my domestic Tyrant Mrs. Byron, who continued to plague me during my visit in July and September. I am now most pleasantly situated in _Super_excellent Rooms, flanked on one side by my Tutor, on the other by an old Fellow, both of whom are rather checks upon my _vivacity_. I am allowed 500 a year, a Servant and Horse, so Feel as independent as a German Prince who coins his own Cash, or a Cherokee Chief who coins no Cash at all, but enjoys what is more precious, Liberty. I talk in raptures of that _Goddess_ because my amiable Mama was so despotic. I am afraid the Specimens I have lately given her of my Spirit, and determination to submit to no more unreasonable demands, (or the insults which follow a refusal to obey her implicitly whether right or wrong,) have given high offence, as I had a most _fiery_ Letter from the _Court_ at _Southwell_ on Tuesday, because I would not turn off my Servant, (whom I had not the least reason to distrust, and who had an excellent Character from his last Master) at her suggestion, from some caprice she had taken into her head. [1] I sent back to the Epistle, which was couched in _elegant_ terms, a severe answer, which so nettled her Ladyship, that after reading it, she returned it in a Cover without deigning a Syllable in return. The Letter and my answer you shall behold when you next see me, that you may judge of the Comparative merits of Each. I shall let her go on in the _Heroics_, till she cools, without taking the least notice. Her Behaviour to me for the last two Years neither merits my respect, nor deserves my affection. I am comfortable here, and having one of the best allowances in College, go on Gaily, but not extravagantly. I need scarcely inform you that I am not the least obliged to Mrs. B. for it, as it comes off my property, and She refused to fit out a single thing for me from her own pocket; [2] my Furniture is paid for, & she has moreover a handsome addition made to her own income, which I do not in the least regret, as I would wish her to be happy, but by _no means_ to live with me in _person_. The sweets of her society I have already drunk to the last dregs, I hope we shall meet on more affectionate Terms, or meet no more. But why do I say _meet?_ her temper precludes every idea of happiness, and therefore in future I shall avoid her _hospitable_ mansion, though she has the folly to suppose She is to be mistress of my house when I come of [age]. I must apologize to you for the [dullness?] of this letter, but to tell you the [truth] [the effects] of last nights Claret have no[t gone] out of my head, as I supped with a large party. I suppose that Fool Hanson in his _vulgar_ Idiom, by the word Jolly did not mean Fat, but High Spirits, for so far from increasing I have lost one pound in a fortnight as I find by being regularly weighed. Adieu, Dearest Augusta. [Signature cut out.] [NB: Words in square brackets were cut and torn out with the seal.] [Footnote 1: The servant, Byron's valet Frank, was accused of obtaining money on false pretences from a Nottingham tradesman, and Mrs. Byron informed her son of the charge. Frank was afterwards transported. (See letter to Lord Clare, February 6, 1807; and letter to Hanson, April 19, 1807.)] [Footnote 2: See page 76, note 1.] 39.--To Hargreaves Hanson. Trinity Coll., Novr. 12th, 1805. DEAR HARGREAVES,--Return my Thanks to your father for the _Expedition_ he has used in filling my _Cellar_. He deserves commendation for the _Attention_ he paid to my Request. The Time of "Oateater's" Journey approaches; I presume he means to repair his Neglect by Punctuality in this Respect. However, no _Trinity Ale_ will be forthcoming, till I have broached the promised _Falernum._ College improves in every thing but Learning. Nobody here seems to look into an Author, ancient or modern, if they can avoid it. The Muses, poor Devils, are totally neglected, except by a few Musty old _Sophs_ and _Fellows_, who, however agreeable they may be to _Minerva_, are perfect Antidotes to the _Graces._ Even I (great as is my _inclination_ for Knowledge) am carried away by the Tide, having only supped at Home twice since I saw your father, and have more engagements on my Hands for a week to come. Still my Tutor and I go on extremely well and for the first three weeks of my life I have not involved myself in any Scrape of Consequence. I have News for you which I bear with _Christian_ Resignation and without any _violent Transports_ of _Grief._ My Mother (whose diabolical Temper you well know) has taken it into her _Sagacious_ Head to quarrel with me her _dutiful Son._ She has such a Devil of a Disposition, that she cannot be quiet, though there are fourscore miles between us, which I wish were lengthened to 400. The Cause too frivolous to require taking up your time to read or mine to write. At last in answer to a _Furious Epistle_ I returned a _Sarcastick_ Answer, which so incensed the _Amiable Dowager_ that my Letter was sent back without her deigning a Line in the cover. When I next see you, you shall behold her Letter and my Answer, which will amuse you as they both contain fiery Philippics. I must request you will write immediately, that I may be informed when my Servant shall convey "Oateater" from London; the 20th was the appointed; but I wish to hear further from your father. I hope all the family are in a convalescent State. I shall see you at Christmas (if I live) as I propose passing the Vacation, which is only a Month, in London. Believe me, Mr. Terry, your's Truly, BYRON. 40.--To John Hanson. Trin. Coll. Cambridge, Novr. 23, 1805. Dear Sir,--Your Advice was good but I have not determined whether I shall follow it; this Place is the _Devil_ or at least his principal residence. They call it the University, but any other Appellation would have suited it much better, for Study is the last pursuit of the Society; the Master [1] eats, drinks, and sleeps, the Fellows [2] _Drink, dispute and pun_; the Employment of the Under graduates you will probably conjecture without my description. I sit down to write with a Head confused with Dissipation which, tho' I hate, I cannot avoid. I have only supped at Home 3 times since my Arrival, and my table is constantly covered with invitations, after all I am the most _steady_ Man in College, nor have I got into many Scrapes, and none of consequence. Whenever you appoint a day my Servant shall come up for "Oateater," and as the Time of paying my Bills now approaches, the remaining £50 will be very _agreeable_. You need not make any deduction as I shall want most of it; I will settle with you for the Saddle and Accoutrements _next_ quarter. The Upholsterer's Bill will not be sent in yet as my rooms are to be papered and painted at Xmas when I will procure them. No Furniture has been got except what was absolutely necessary including some Decanters and Wine Glasses. Your Cook certainly deceived you, as I know my Servant was in Town 5 days, and she stated 4. I have yet had no reason to distrust him, but we will examine the affair when I come to Town when I intend lodging at Mrs. Massingbird's. My Mother and I have quarrelled, which I bear with the _patience_ of a Philosopher; custom reconciles me to everything. In the Hope that Mrs. H. and the _Battalion_ are in good Health. I remain, Sir, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: William Lort Mansel (1753-1820), Master of Trinity (1798-1820), Bishop of Bristol (1808-1820), was the chief wit of Cambridge in his day, and the author of many neat epigrams. "I wish," said Rogers (_Table-Talk_, etc., p. 60), "somebody would collect all the Epigrams written by Dr. Mansel; they are remarkably neat and clever." Beloe, in _The Sexagenarian_ (vol. i. p. 98), speaks of Mansel as "a young man remarkable for his personal confidence, for his wit and humour, and, above all, for his gallantries." Apparently, on the same somewhat unreliable authority, he was, as Master, a severe disciplinarian, and extremely tenacious of his dignity (i. p. 99).] [Footnote 2: Byron probably refers to Richard Porson (1759-1808), Professor of Greek (1792-1808). The son of the parish clerk of Bacton and Earl Ruston, in Norfolk, Porson was entered, by the kindness of friends, on the foundation of Eton College (1774-1778). At Trinity, Cambridge, he became a Scholar in 1780, and a Fellow (1782-1792). In 1792, as he could not conscientiously take orders, he vacated his Fellowship, but was elected Professor of Greek. When Byron was at Cambridge, Porson's health and powers were failing. Silent and reserved, except in the society of his friends, a sloven in his person, he had probably taken to drink as a cure for sleeplessness. In a note to the _Pursuits of Literature_ (Dialogue iv. lines 508-516), "What," asks the author, J. T. Mathias, himself a Fellow of Trinity, "is mere genius without a regulated life! To show the deformity of vice to the rising hopes of the country, the policy of ancient Sparta exhibited an inebriated slave." Yet Porson's fine love of truth and genius for textual criticism make him one of the greatest, if not the greatest, name in British scholarship. Porson married, in 1795, Mrs. Lunan, sister of Mr. Perry, the editor of the 'Morning Chronicle', for which he frequently wrote. In the 'Shade of Alexander Pope', Mathias again attacks him as "Dogmatic Bardolph in his nuptial noose." Porson's wife died shortly after their marriage. His controversial method was merciless. Of his 'Letters to Archdeacon Travis', Green ('Lover of Literature', p. 213) says that "he dandles Travis as a tyger would a fawn: and appears only to reserve him alive, for a time, that he may gratify his appetite for sport, before he consigns his feeble prey, by a rougher squeeze, to destruction."] 41.--To John Hanson. Trinity College, Cambridge, Novr. 30, 1805. Sir,--After the contents of your Epistle, you will probably be less surprized at my answer, than I have been at many points of yours; [1] never was I more astonished than at the perusal, for I confess I expected very different treatment. Your _indirect_ charge of Dissipation does not affect me, nor do I fear the strictest inquiry into my conduct; neither here nor at _Harrow_ have I disgraced myself, the "Metropolis" and the "Cloisters" are alike unconscious of my Debauchery, and on the plains of _merry Sherwood_ I have experienced _Misery_ alone; in July I visited them for the last time. Mrs. Byron and myself are now totally separated, injured by her, I sought refuge with Strangers, too late I see my error, for how was kindness to be expected from _others_, when denied by a _parent_? In you, Sir, I imagined I had found an Instructor; for your advice I thank you; the Hospitality of yourself and Mrs. H. on many occasions I shall always gratefully remember, for I am not of opinion that even present Injustice can cancel past obligations. Before I proceed, it will be necessary to say a few words concerning Mrs. Byron; you hinted a probability of her appearance at Trinity; the instant I hear of her arrival I quit Cambridge, though _Rustication_ or _Expulsion_ be the consequence. Many a weary week of _torment_ have I passed with her, nor have I forgot the insulting _Epithets_ with which myself, my _Sister_, my _father_ and my _Family_ have been repeatedly reviled. To return to you, Sir, though I feel obliged by your Hospitality, etc., etc., in the present instance I have been completely deceived. When I came down to College, and even previous to that period I stipulated that not only my Furniture, but even my Gowns and Books, should be paid for that I might set out free from _Debt_. Now with all the _Sang Froid_ of your profession you tell me, that not only I shall not be permitted to repair my rooms (which was at first agreed to) but that I shall not even be indemnified for my present expence. In one word, hear my determination. I will _never_ pay for them out of my allowance, and the Disgrace will not attach to me but to _those_ by whom I have been deceived. Still, Sir, not even the Shadow of dishonour shall reflect on _my_ Name, for I will see that the Bills are discharged; whether by you or not is to me indifferent, so that the men I employ are not the victims of my Imprudence or your Duplicity. I have ordered nothing extravagant; every man in College is allowed to fit up his rooms; mine are secured to me during my residence which will probably be some time, and in rendering them decent I am more praiseworthy than culpable. The Money I requested was but a secondary consideration; as a _Lawyer_ you were not obliged to advance it till due; as a _Friend_ the request might have been complied with. When it is required at Xmas I shall expect the demand will be answered. In the course of my letter I perhaps have expressed more asperity than I intended, it is my nature to feel warmly, nor shall any consideration of interest or Fear ever deter me from giving vent to my Sentiments, when injured, whether by a Sovereign or a Subject. I remain, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: The quarrel arose from Byron misunderstanding a letter from Hanson on the subject of the allowance made by the Court of Chancery for his furniture.] 42.--To John Hanson. Trin. Coll. Cambridge, Dec. 4, 1805. Sir,--In charging you with downright _Duplicity_ I wronged you, nor do I hesitate to atone for an Injury which I feel I have committed, or add to my Fault by the Vindication of an expression dictated by Resentment, an _expression_ which deserves Censure, and demands the apology I now offer; for I think that Disposition indeed _mean_ which adds Obstinacy to Insult, by attempting the Palliation of unmerited Invective from the mistaken principle of disdaining the Avowal of even _self convicted_ Error. In regard to the other _Declarations_ my Sentiments remain _unaltered;_ the event will shew whether my Prediction is false. I know Mrs. Byron too well to imagine that she would part with a _Sous_, and if by some _Miracle_ she was prevailed upon, the _Details_ of her _Generosity_ in allowing me part of my _own property_ would be continually _thundered_ in my ears, or _launched_ in the _Lightening_ of her letters, so that I had rather encounter the Evils of Embarrassment than lie under an obligation to one who would continually reproach me with her Benevolence, as if her Charity had been extended to a _Stranger_ to the Detriment of her own Fortune. My opinion is perhaps harsh for a Son, but it is justified by experience, it is confirmed by _Facts_, it was generated by oppression, it has been nourished by Injury. To you, Sir, I attach no Blame. I am too much indebted to your kindness to retain my anger for a length of Time, that _Kindness_ which, by a forcible contrast, has taught me to spurn the _Ties_ of _Blood_ unless strengthened by proper and gentle Treatment. I declare upon my honor that the Horror of entering Mrs. Byron's House has of late years been so implanted in my Soul, that I dreaded the approach of the Vacations as the _Harbingers_ of _Misery_. My letters to my Sister, written during my residence at Southwell, would prove my Assertion. With my kind remembrances to Mrs. H. and Hargreaves, I remain, Sir, yours truly, BYRON. 43.--To John Hanson. Trin. Coll. Cambridge, Dec. 13, 1805. DEAR SIR,--I return you my Thanks for the remaining £50 which came in extremely _apropos_, and on my visit to Town about the 19th will give you a regular receipt. In your Extenuation of Mrs. Byron's Conduct you use as a _plea_, that, by her being my Mother, greater allowance ought to be made for those _little_ Traits in her Disposition, so much more _energetic_ than _elegant_. I am afraid, (however good your intention) that you have added to rather than diminished my Dislike, for independent of the moral Obligations she is under to _protect, cherish_, and _instruct_ her _offspring_, what can be expected of that Man's heart and understanding who has continually (from Childhood to Maturity) beheld so pernicious an Example? His nearest relation is the first person he is taught to revere as his Guide and Instructor; the perversion of Temper before him leads to a corruption of his own, and when that is depraved, vice quickly becomes habitual, and, though timely Severity may sometimes be necessary & justifiable, surely a peevish harassing System of Torment is by no means commendable, & when that is interrupted by ridiculous Indulgence, the only purpose answered is to soften the feelings for a moment which are soon after to be doubly wounded by the recal of accustomed Harshness. I will now give this disagreeable Subject to the _Winds_. I conclude by observing that I am the more confirmed in my opinion of the Futility of Natural Ties, unless supported not only by Attachment but _affectionate_ and _prudent_ Behaviour. Tell Mrs. H. that the predicted alteration in my Manners and Habits has not taken place. I am still the Schoolboy and as great a _Rattle_ as ever, and between ourselves College is not the place to improve either Morals or Income. I am, Sir, yours truly, BYRON. 44.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [[Cas]tle Howard, [ne]ar Malton, Yorkshire.] 16, Piccadilly, [Thursday], Decr. 26th, 1805. My dearest Augusta,--By the Date of my Letter you will perceive that I have taken up my Residence in the metropolis, where I presume we shall behold you in the latter end of January. I sincerely hope you will make your appearance at that Time, as I have some subjects to discuss with you, which I do not wish to communicate in my Epistle. The Dowager has thought proper to solicit a reconciliation which in some measure I have agreed to; still there is a coolness which I do not feel inclined to _thaw_, as terms of Civility are the only resource against her impertinent and unjust proceedings with which you are already acquainted. Town is not very full and the weather has been so unpropitious that I have not been able to make use of my Horses above twice since my arrival. I hope your everlasting negotiation with the Father of your _Intended_ is near a conclusion in _some_ manner; if you do not hurry a little, you will be verging into the "_Vale of Years_," and, though you may be blest with Sons and daughters, you will never live to see your _Grandchildren_. When convenient, favour me with an Answer and believe me, [Signature cut out.] 45.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howar[d], neat Malto[n], Yorkshire.] 16, Piccadilly, [Friday], Decr. 27th, 1805. My Dear Augusta,--You will doubtless be surprised to see a second epistle so close upon the arrival of the first, (especially as it is not my custom) but the Business I mentioned rather mysteriously in my last compels me again to proceed. But before I disclose it, I must require the most inviolable Secrecy, for if ever I find that it has transpired, all confidence, all Friendship between us has concluded. I do not mean this exordium as a threat to induce you to comply with my request but merely (whether you accede or not) to keep it a Secret. And although your compliance would essentially oblige me, yet, believe me, my esteem will not be diminished by your Refusal; nor shall I suffer a complaint to escape. The Affair is briefly thus; like all other young men just let loose, and especially one as I am, freed from the worse than bondage of my maternal home, I have been extravagant, and consequently am in want of Money. You will probably now imagine that I am going to apply to you for some. No, if you would offer me thousands, I declare solemnly that I would without hesitation refuse, nor would I accept them were I in danger of Starvation. All I expect or wish is, that you will be joint Security with me for a few Hundreds a person (one of the money lending tribe) has offered to advance in case I can bring forward any collateral guarantee that he will not be a loser, the reason of this requisition is my being a Minor, and might refuse to discharge a debt contracted in my non-age. If I live till the period of my minority expires, you cannot doubt my paying, as I have property to the amount of 100 times the sum I am about to raise; if, as I think rather probable, a pistol or a Fever cuts short the thread of my existence, you will receive half the _Dross_ saved since I was ten years old, and can be no great loser by discharging a debt of 7 or £800 from as many thousands. It is far from my Breast to exact any promise from you that would be detrimental, or tend to lower me in your opinion. If you suppose this leads to either of those consequences, forgive my impertinence and bury it in oblivion. I have many Friends, most of them in the same predicament with myself; to those who are not, I am too proud to apply, for I hate obligation; my Relations you know I _detest_; who then is there that I can address on the subject but yourself? to you therefore I appeal, and if I am disappointed, at least let me not be tormented by the advice of Guardians, and let silence rule your Resolution. I know you will think me foolish, if not criminal; but tell me so yourself, and do not rehearse my failings to others, no, not even to that proud Grandee the Earl, who, whatever his qualities may be, is certainly not amiable, and that Chattering puppy Hanson would make still less allowance for the foibles of a Boy. I am now trying the experiment, whether a woman can retain a secret; let me not be deceived. If you have the least doubt of my integrity, or that you run too great a Risk, do not hesitate in your refusal. Adieu. I expect an answer with impatience, believe me, whether you accede or not, [Signature cut out.] P.S.--I apologize for the numerous errors probably enveloped in this cover; the temper of my mind at present, and the hurry I have written in, must plead for pardon. Adieu. 46.--To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [Castle Howard, near Malton, Yorkshire.] 16, Piccadilly, [Tuesday], January 7th, 1805. [In another hand]--6. My dearest Augusta,--Your efforts to reanimate my sinking spirits will, I am afraid, fail in their effect, for my melancholy proceeds from a very different cause to that which you assign, as, my nerves were always of the strongest texture.--I will not however pretend to say I possess that _Gaieté de Coeur_ which formerly distinguished me, but as the diminution of it arises from what you could not alleviate, and might possibly be painful, you will excuse the Disclosure. Suffice it to know, that it cannot spring from Indisposition, as my Health was never more firmly established than now, nor from the subject on which I lately wrote, as that is in a promising Train, and even were it otherwise, the Failure would not lead to Despair. You know me too well to think it is _Love_; & I have had no quarrel or dissention with Friend or enemy, you may therefore be easy, since no unpleasant consequence will be produced from the present Sombre cast of my Temper. I fear the Business will not be concluded before your arrival in Town, when we will settle it together, as by the 20th these _sordid Bloodsuckers_ who have agreed to furnish the Sum, will have drawn up the Bond. Believe me, my dearest Sister, it never entered in to my head, that you either could or would propose to antic[ipate] my application to others, by a P[resent from?] yourself; I and I only will be [injured] by my own extravagance, nor would I have wished you to take the least concern, had any other means been open for extrication. As it is, I hope you will excuse my Impertinence, or if you feel an inclination to retreat, do not let affection for me counterbalance prudence. [Signature cut out.] [Footnote 1: Words in square brackets accidentally torn off the edge of the paper, and conjecturally supplied.] 47.--To his Mother. 16, Piccadilly, Febry. 26, 1806. Dear Mother,--Notwithstanding your sage and economical advice I have paid my _Harrow_ Debts, as I can better afford to wait for the Money than the poor Devils who were my creditors. I have also discharged my college Bills amounting to £231,--£75 of which I shall trouble Hanson to repay, being for Furniture, and as my allowance is £500 per annum, I do not chuse to lose the overplus as it makes only £125 per Quarter. I happen to have a few hundreds in ready Cash by me, [1] so I have paid the accounts; but I find it inconvenient to remain at College, not for the expence, as I could live on my allowance (only I am naturally extravagant); however the mode of going on does not suit my constitution. Improvement at an English University to a Man of Rank is, you know, impossible, and the very Idea _ridiculous_. Now I sincerely desire to finish my Education and, having been sometime at Cambridge, the Credit of the University is as much attached to my Name, as if I had pursued my Studies _there_ for a Century; but, believe me, it is nothing more than a Name, which is already acquired. I can now leave it with Honour, as I have paid everything, & wish to pass a couple of years abroad, where I am certain of employing my time to far more advantage and at much less expence, than at our English Seminaries. 'Tis true I cannot enter France; but Germany and the Courts of Berlin, Vienna & Petersburg are still open, I shall lay the Plan before Hanson & Lord C. I presume you will all agree, and if you do not, I will, if possible, get away without your Consent, though I should admire it more in the regular manner & with a Tutor of your furnishing. This is my project, at present I wish _you_ to be silent to Hanson about it. Let me have your Answer. I intend remaining in Town a Month longer, when perhaps I shall bring my Horses and myself down to your residence in that _execrable_ Kennel. I hope you have engaged a Man Servant, else it will be impossible for me to visit you, since my Servant must attend chiefly to his horses; at the same Time you must cut an indifferent Figure with only maids in your habitation. I remain, your's, BYRON. [Footnote 1: "The Bills," writes Mrs. Byron to Hanson (January 11, 1806), "are coming in thick upon me to double the amount I expected; he went and ordered just what he pleased here, at Nottingham, and in London. However, it is of no use to say anything about it, and I beg you will take no notice. I am determined to have everything clear within the year, if possible." Again she writes (March 1, 1806): "I beg you will not mention to my son, having heard from me, but try to get out of him his reason for wishing to leave England, and where he got the money. I much fear he has fallen into bad hands, not only in regard to Money Matters, but in other respects. My idea is that he has inveigled himself with some woman that he wishes to get rid of and finds it difficult. But whatever it is, he must be got out of it." Again (March 4, 1806): "That Boy will be the death of me, and drive me mad! I never will consent to his going Abroad. Where can he get Hundreds? Has he got into the hands of Moneylenders? He has no feeling, no Heart. This I have long known; he has behaved as ill as possible to me for years back. This bitter Truth I can no longer conceal: it is wrung from me by _heart-rending agony_. I am well rewarded. I came to Nottinghamshire to please him, and now he hates it. He knows that I am doing everything in my power to pay his Debts, and he writes to me about hiring servants!" Once more (April 24, 1806): "Lord Byron has given £31 10s. to Pitt's statue. He has also bought a Carriage, which he says was intended for me, which I _refused_ to accept of, being in hopes it would stop his having one."] 48.--To John Hanson. 16, Piccadilly, March 3, 1806. Sir,--I called at your House in Chancery Lane yesterday Evening, as I expected you would have been in Town, but was disappointed. If convenient, I should be glad to see you on Wednesday Morning about one o'Clock, as I wish for your advice on some Business. On Saturday one of my Horses threw me; I was stunned for a short time, but soon recovered and suffered no material _Injury_; the accident happened on the Harrow Road. I have paid Jones's Bill amounting to £231.4.5 of which I expect to be reimbursed £75 for Furniture. I have got his Bankers' receipt and the account ready for your Inspection. I now owe nothing at Cambridge; but shall not return this Term, [1] as I have been extremely _unwell_, and at the same time can stay where I am at much less Expence and _equal Improvement_. I wish to consult you on several Subjects and expect you will pay me a visit on Wednesday; in the mean time, I remain, yours, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: Lectures began on February 5, 1806, as is stated on the College bills, sent in by Mr. Jones, the Senior Tutor of Trinity. But Byron preferred to remain in London. Augusta Byron writes to Hanson (March 7, 1806)---- "I trouble you again in consequence of some conversation I had last night with Lord Carlisle about my Brother. He expressed himself to me as kindly on that subject as on all others, and though he says it may not be productive of any good, and that he may be only _able to join his lamentations_ with yours, he should like to talk to you and try if anything can be done. I was much surprized and vexed to see my Brother a week ago at the Play, as I think he ought to be employing his time more profitably at Cambridge."] 49.--To John Hanson. 16, Piccadilly, near Park Lane, 10th March, 1806. SIR,--As in all probability you will not make your appearance tomorrow I must disclose by Letter the Business I intended to have discussed at our interview.--We know each other sufficiently to render Apology unnecessary. I shall therefore without further Prelude proceed to the Subject in Question. You are not ignorant, that I have lately lived at considerable Expence, to support which my allotted Income by the 'sapient' Court of Chancery is inadequate.--I confess I have borrowed a trifling sum and now wish to raise £500 to discharge some Debts I have contracted; my approaching Quarter will bring me £200 due from my Allowance, and if you can procure me the other £300 at a moderate Interest, it will save 100 per cent I must pay my _Israelite_ for the same purpose.--You see by this I have an _excellent_ Idea of Oeconomy even in my Extravagance by being willing to pay as little Money as possible, for the Cash must be disbursed _somewhere_ or _somehow_, and if you decline (as in prudence I tell you fairly you ought), the _Tribe_ of _Levi_ will be my _dernier resort_. However I thought proper to make this Experiment with very slender hopes of success indeed, since Recourse to the _Law_ is at best a _desperate_ effort. I have now laid open my affairs to you without Disguise and Stated the Facts as they appear, declining all Comments, or the use of any Sophistry to palliate my application, or urge my request. All I desire is a speedy Answer, whether successful or not. Believe me, yours truly, BYRON. 50.--To John Hanson. 16, Piccadilly, 25th March, 1806. SIR,--Your last Letter, as I expected, contained much advice, but no Money. I could have excused the former unaccompanied by the latter, since any one thinks himself capable of giving that, but very few chuse to own themselves competent to the other. I do not now write to urge a 2nd Request, one Denial is sufficient. I only require what is my right. This is Lady Day. £125 is due for my last Quarter, and £75 for my expenditure in Furniture at Cambridge and I will thank you to remit. The Court of Chancery may perhaps put in Force your Threat. I have always understood it formed a Sanction for legal plunderers to protract the Decision of Justice from year to year, till weary of spoil it at length condescended to give Sentence, but I never yet understood even its unhallowed Hands preyed upon the Orphan it was bound to protect. Be it so, only let me have your answer. I remain, etc., etc., BYRON. 51.--To Henry Angelo. [1] Trinity College, Cambridge, May 16, 1806. SIR,--You cannot be more indignant, at the insolent and unmerited conduct of Mr. Mortlock, [2] than those who authorised you to request his permission. However we do not yet despair of gaining our point, and every effort shall be made to remove the obstacles, which at present prevent the execution of our project. I yesterday waited on the Master of this College, [3] who, having a personal dispute with the Mayor, declined interfering, but recommended an application to the Vice Chancellor, whose authority is paramount in the University. I shall communicate this to Lord Altamount,[4] and we will endeavour to bend the obstinacy of the _upstart_ magistrate, who seems to be equally deficient in justice and common civility. On my arrival in town, which will take place in a few days, you will see me at Albany Buildings, when we will discuss the subject further. Present my remembrance to the Messrs. Angelo, junior, and believe me, we will yet _humble_ this _impertinent bourgeois_. I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Henry Angelo, the famous fencing-master, was at the head of his profession for nearly forty years. His position was recognized at least as early as 1787, when he published _The School of Fencing_, and fenced, with the Chevalier de St. George and other celebrities, before the Prince of Wales at Carlton House. In 1806 he was travelling down every other week to Cambridge, as he states in his _Pic Nic_ (1837), to visit his pupils. He had made Byron's acquaintance at Harrow by teaching him to fence, and in later years had many bouts with him with the foils, single-sticks, and Highland broadsword. His _Reminiscences_ (1830), together with his _Pic Nic_, contain numerous anecdotes of Byron, to whom he seems to have been sincerely attached. In 1806 he had several rooms in London for the use of his pupils. One of these was at 13, Bond Street, which he shared with Gentleman Jackson, the pugilist and ex-champion. In Cruikshank's picture of the room (Pierce Egan's _Life in London_, p. 254), two fencers have unmasked and stopped their bout to see Jackson spar with Corinthian Tom. Angelo contributed an article on fencing to Sir John Sinclair's _Code of Health and Longevity_, vol. ii. p. 163. Angelo, who retired from London in 1821, and lived near Bath, was in 1806 at the height of his reputation. An old Etonian (1767), he knew every one in London; had dined at the same table with the Prince of Wales, acted with Lord Barrymore, sung comic songs with Dibdin, punned with Bannister and Colman, fished at Benham on the invitation of the Margravine of Anspach, played the flute to Lady Melfort's accompaniment on the piano, and claimed his share of the table-talk at the Keep Line Club. Nearly every celebrity of the day, from Lord Sidmouth and Lord Liverpool to Kean and Macready, was his pupil.] [Footnote 2: Mr. Mortlock, the Mayor of Cambridge, is thus mentioned in a letter from S. T. Coleridge to Southey, dated September 26, 1794: "All last night I was obliged to listen to the damned chatter of "Mortlock, our mayor, a fellow that would certainly be a pantisocrat "were his head and heart as highly illuminated as his face. In the tropical latitude of this fellow's nose was I obliged to fry" (_Letters of S. T. Coleridge_ (1895), vol. i. p. 87).] [Footnote 3: William Lort Mansel, Master of Trinity, and Bishop of Bristol. (See page 84 [Letter 40], [Foot]note 1.)] [Footnote 4: Howe Peter Browne, Lord Altamont (1788-1845), of Jesus College, succeeded his father in 1809 as second Marquis of Sligo. Byron spent some time with him at Athens in 1810. Lord Sligo's letter on the origin of the 'Giaour' is quoted by Moore ('Life', p. 178). (See also page 289 [Letter 144], [Foot]note 1 [3].)] 52.--To John M. B. Pigot. [1] 16, Piccadilly, August 9, 1806. MY DEAR PIGOT,--Many thanks for your amusing narrative of the last proceedings of my amiable Alecto, who now begins to feel the effects of her folly. I have just received a penitential epistle, to which, apprehensive of pursuit, I have despatched a moderate answer, with a _kind_ of promise to return in a fortnight;--this, however (_entre nous_), I never mean to fulfil. Her soft warblings must have delighted her auditors, her higher notes being particularly musical, and on a calm moonlight evening would be heard to great advantage. Had I been present as a spectator, nothing would have pleased me more; but to have come forward as one of the _dramatis personae_--St. Dominic defend me from such a scene! Seriously, your mother has laid me under great obligations, and you, with the rest of your family, merit my warmest thanks for your kind connivance at my escape from "Mrs. Byron _furiosa_." Oh! for the pen of Ariosto to rehearse, in epic, the scolding of that momentous eve,--or rather, let me invoke the shade of Dante to inspire me, for none but the author of the Inferno could properly preside over such an attempt. But, perhaps, where the pen might fail, the pencil would succeed. What a group!--Mrs. B. the principal figure; you cramming your ears with cotton, as the only antidote to total deafness; Mrs.----in vain endeavouring to mitigate the wrath of the lioness robbed of her whelp; and last, though not least, Elizabeth and _Wousky_,--wonderful to relate!--both deprived of their parts of speech, and bringing up the rear in mute astonishment. How did S. B. receive the intelligence? How many _puns_ did he utter on so _facetious_ an event? In your next inform me on this point, and what excuse you made to A. You are probably, by this time, tired of deciphering this hieroglyphical letter;--like Tony Lumpkin, you will pronounce mine to be "a damned up and down hand." All Southwell, without doubt, is involved in amazement. _Apropos_, how does my blue-eyed nun, the fair----? Is she "_robed in sable garb of woe?_" Here I remain at least a week or ten days; previous to my departure you shall receive my address, but what it will be I have not determined. My lodgings must be kept secret from Mrs. B. You may present my compliments to her, and say any attempt to pursue me will fail, as I have taken measures to retreat immediately to Portsmouth, on the first intimation of her removal from Southwell. You may add, I have proceeded to a friend's house in the country, there to remain a fortnight. I have now _blotted_ (I must not say written) a complete double letter, and in return shall expect a _monstrous budget_. Without doubt, the dames of Southwell reprobate the pernicious example I have shown, and tremble lest their _babes_ should disobey their mandates, and quit, in dudgeon, their mammas on any grievance. Adieu. When you begin your next, drop the "lordship," and put "Byron" in its place. Believe me yours, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: J. M. B. Pigot, eldest brother of Miss E. B. Pigot (see Letter of August 29, 1804, page 32, note 1). To him Byron addressed his "Reply" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 53-56) and verses "To the Sighing Strephon" ('Ibid'., pp. 63-66). In 1805-6 Pigot was studying medicine at Edinburgh, and in his vacations saw much of Byron. He died at Ruddington, Notts., November 26, 1871, aged 86. It would appear that Byron had, with the connivance of the Pigots, escaped to London, after a quarrel with his mother; but the caution to keep his lodgings secret gives a theatrical air to the letter, as the rooms, kept by Mrs. Massingberd, were originally taken by Mrs. Byron, and often occupied by her, and she was at the time corresponding with Hanson about her son's debt to Mrs. Massingberd, who seems to have been both landlady and money-lender to Byron.] 53.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. London, August 10, 1806. MY DEAR BRIDGET,--As I have already troubled your brother with more than he will find pleasure in deciphering, you are the next to whom I shall assign the employment of perusing this second epistle. You will perceive from my first, that no idea of Mrs. B.'s arrival had disturbed me at the time it was written; _not_ so the present, since the appearance of a note from the _illustrious cause_ of my _sudden decampment_ has driven the "natural ruby from my cheeks," and completely blanched my woebegone countenance. This gunpowder intimation of her arrival (confound her activity!) breathes less of terror and dismay than you will probably imagine, from the volcanic temperament of her ladyship; and concludes with the comfortable assurance of _present motion_ being prevented by the fatigue of her journey, for which my _blessings_ are due to the rough roads and restive quadrupeds of his Majesty's highways. As I have not the smallest inclination to be chased round the country, I shall e'en make a merit of necessity; and since, like Macbeth, "they've tied me to the stake, I cannot fly," I shall imitate that valorous tyrant, and bear-like fight the "course," all escape being precluded. I can now engage with less disadvantage, having drawn the enemy from her intrenchments, though, like the _prototype_ to whom I have compared myself, with an excellent chance of being knocked on the head. However, "lay on Macduff", and "damned be he who first cries, Hold, enough." I shall remain in town for, at least, a week, and expect to hear from _you_ before its expiration. I presume the printer has brought you the offspring of my _poetic mania_. [1] Remember in the first line to read "_loud_ the winds whistle," instead of "round," which that blockhead Ridge had inserted by mistake, and makes nonsense of the whole stanza. Addio!--Now to encounter my _Hydra_. Yours ever. [Footnote 1: Byron's first volume of verse was now in the press. The line to which he alludes is the first line of the poem, "On Leaving Newstead Abbey" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 1-4). It now runs-- "Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle." (For the bibliography of his early poems, see 'Poems', vol. i., Bibliographical Note; and vol. vi., Appendix.) The first collection ('Fugitive Pieces', printed by S. and J. Ridge, Newark, 4to, 1806) was destroyed, with the exception of two copies, by the advice of the Rev. J. T. Becher (see page 182 [Letter 94], [Foot]note 1 [2]). The second collection ('Poems on Various Occasions', printed by S. and J. Ridge, Newark, 12mo, 1807) was published anonymously. It is to this edition that Letters 60, 61, 65, 67, 68, 69, 70, refer. In the summer of 1807, 'Poems on Various Occasions' was superseded by the third collection, called 'Hours of Idleness' (printed by S. and J. Ridge, Newark, 12mo, 1807), published with the author's name. To this edition Letters 76 and 78 refer. 'Hours of Idleness' was reviewed by Lord Brougham ('Notes from a Diary', by Sir M. E. Grant Duff, vol. ii. p. 189) in the 'Edinburgh Review' for January, 1808. The fourth and final collection, entitled 'Poems Original and Translated' (printed by S. and J. Ridge, Newark, 12mo, 1808), was dedicated to the Earl of Carlisle. 54.--To John M. B. Pigot. London, Sunday, midnight, August 10, 1806. Dear Pigot,--This _astonishing_ packet will, doubtless, amaze you; but having an idle hour this evening, I wrote the enclosed stanzas, [2] which I request you will deliver to Ridge, to be printed _separate_ from my other compositions, as you will perceive them to be improper for the perusal of ladies; of course, none of the females of your family must see them. I offer 1000 apologies for the trouble I have given you in this and other instances. Yours truly. [Footnote 1: These are probably some silly lines "To Mary," written in the erotic style of Moore's early verse. To the same Mary, of whom nothing is known, are addressed the lines "To Mary, on receiving her Picture" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 32, 33).] 55.--To John M. B. Pigot. Piccadilly, August 16, 1806. I cannot exactly say with Caesar, "Veni, vidi, vici:" however, the most important part of his laconic account of success applies to my present situation; for, though Mrs. Byron took the _trouble_ of "_coming_," and "_seeing_," yet your humble servant proved the _victor_. After an obstinate engagement of some hours, in which we suffered considerable damage, from the quickness of the enemy's fire, they at length retired in confusion, leaving behind the artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners: their defeat is decisive for the present campaign. To speak more intelligibly, Mrs. B. returns immediately, but I proceed, with all my laurels, to Worthing, on the Sussex coast; to which place you will address (to be left at the post office) your next epistle. By the enclosure of a second _gingle of rhyme_, you will probably conceive my muse to be _vastly prolific_; her inserted production was brought forth a few years ago, and found by accident on Thursday among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, adding the proper date, request that it may be printed with the rest of the family. I thought your sentiments on the last bantling would coincide with mine, but it was impossible to give it any other garb, being founded on _facts_. My stay at Worthing will not exceed three weeks, and you may _possibly_ behold me again at Southwell the middle of September. Will you desire Ridge to suspend the printing of my poems till he hears further from me, as I have determined to give them a new form entirely? This prohibition does not extend to the two last pieces I have sent with my letters to you. You will excuse the _dull vanity_ of this epistle, as my brain is a _chaos_ of absurd images, and full of business, preparations, and projects. I shall expect an answer with impatience;--believe me, there is nothing at this moment could give me greater delight than your letter. 56.--To John M. B. Pigot. London, August 18, 1806. I am just on the point of setting off for Worthing, and write merely to request you will send that _idle scoundrel Charles_ with my horses immediately; tell him I am excessively provoked he has not made his appearance before, or written to inform me of the cause of his delay, particularly as I supplied him with money for his journey. On _no_ pretext is he to postpone his _march_ one day longer; and if, in obedience to the caprices of Mrs. B. (who, I presume, is again spreading desolation through her little monarchy), he thinks proper to disregard my positive orders, I shall not, in future, consider him as my servant. He must bring the surgeon's bill with him, which I will discharge immediately on receiving it. Nor can I conceive the reason of his not acquainting Frank with the state of my unfortunate quadrupeds. Dear Pigot, forgive this _petulant_ effusion, and attribute it to the idle conduct of that _precious_ rascal, who, instead of obeying my injunctions, is sauntering through the streets of that _political Pandemonium_, Nottingham. Present my remembrance to your family and the Leacrofts, and believe me, etc. P.S.--I delegate to _you_ the unpleasant task of despatching him on his journey--Mrs. B.'s orders to the contrary are not to be attended to: he is to proceed first to London, and then to Worthing, without delay. Every thing I have _left_ must be sent to London. My _Poetics you_ will _pack up_ for the same place, and not even reserve a copy for yourself and sister, as I am about to give them an _entire new form_: when they are complete, you shall have the _first fruits_. Mrs. B. on no account is to _see_ or touch them. Adieu. 57.--To John M. B. Pigot. Little Hampton, August 26, 1806. I this morning received your epistle, which I was obliged to send for to Worthing, whence I have removed to this place, on the same coast, about eight miles distant from the former. You will probably not be displeased with this letter, when it informs you that I am £30,000 richer than I was at our parting, having just received intelligence from my lawyer that a cause has been gained at Lancaster assizes, [1] which will be worth that sum by the time I come of age. Mrs. B. is, doubtless, acquainted of this acquisition, though not apprised of its exact _value_, of which she had better be ignorant; for her behaviour under any sudden piece of favourable intelligence, is, if possible, more ridiculous than her detestable conduct on the most trifling circumstances of an unpleasant nature. You may give my compliments to her, and say that her detaining my servant's things shall only lengthen my absence: for unless they are immediately despatched to 16, Piccadilly, together with those which have been so long delayed, belonging to myself, she shall never again behold my _radiant countenance_ illuminating her gloomy mansion. If they are sent, I may probably appear in less than two years from the date of my present epistle. Metrical compliment is an ample reward for my strains: you are one of the few votaries of Apollo who unite the sciences over which that deity presides. I wish you to send my poems to my lodgings in London immediately, as I have several alterations and some additions to make; _every_ copy must be sent, as I am about to _amend_ them, and you shall soon behold them in all their glory. I hope you have kept them from that upas tree, that antidote to the arts, Mrs. B. _Entre nous_, --you may expect to see me soon. Adieu. Yours ever. [Footnote 1: Byron was disappointed in his expectations. Fresh legal difficulties arose, and Newstead had to be sold before they were settled (see page 78 [Letter 34], [Foot]note 2).] 58.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. [1] My Dear Bridget,--I have only just dismounted from my _Pegasus_, which has prevented me from descending to _plain prose_ in an epistle of greater length to your _fair_ self. You regretted, in a former letter, that my poems were not more extensive; I now for your satisfaction announce that I have nearly doubled them, partly by the discovery of some I conceived to be lost, and partly by some new productions. We shall meet on Wednesday next; till then, believe me, Yours affectionately, BYRON. P.S.--Your brother John is seized with a poetic mania, and is now rhyming away at the rate of three lines _per hour_--so much for _inspiration_! Adieu! [Footnote 1: This letter was written about September, 1806, from Harrogate, where Byron had gone with John Pigot. It forms the conclusion of a longer letter, written by Pigot to his sister, from which Moore quotes ('Life', p. 37) the following passage:-- "Harrowgate is still extremely full; Wednesday (to-day) is our ball-night, and I meditate going into the room for an hour, although I am by no means fond of strange faces. Lord B., you know, is even more shy than myself; but for an hour this evening I will shake it off.... How do our theatricals proceed? Lord Byron can say 'all' his part, and I 'most' of mine. He certainly acts it inimitably. Lord B. is now 'poetising', and, since he has been here, has written some very pretty verses ['To a Beautiful Quaker,' see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 38-41]. He is very good in trying to amuse me as much as possible, but it is not in my nature to be happy without either female society or study.... There are many pleasant rides about here, which I have taken in company with Bo'swain, who, with Brighton, is universally admired. 'You' must read this to Mrs. B., as it is a little 'Tony Lumpkinish'. Lord B. desires some space left: therefore, with respect to all the comedians 'elect', believe me," etc., etc. (For the theatricals to which Mr. Pigot alludes, see page 117 [Letter 65], [Foot]note 3 [4].) Brighton, it may be added, was one of Byron's horses; the other was called Sultan. Bo'swain was the dog to which Byron addressed the well-known epitaph (see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 280, 281, and note 1). Moore also quotes Pigot's recollections of the visit to Harrogate ('Life', pp. 37, 38). "We, I remember, went in Lord Byron's own carriage, with post-horses; and he sent his groom with two saddle-horses, and a beautifully formed, very ferocious, bull-mastiff, called Nelson, to meet us there. Boatswain went by the side of his valet Frank on the box, with us. "The bull-dog, Nelson, always wore a muzzle, and was occasionally sent for into our private room, when the muzzle was taken off, much to my annoyance, and he and his master amused themselves with throwing the room into disorder. There was always a jealous feud between this Nelson and Boatswain; and whenever he latter came into the room while the former was there, they instantly seized each other; and then, Byron, myself, Frank, and all the waiters that could be found, were vigorously engaged in parting them,--which was in general only effected by thrusting poker and tongs into the mouths of each. But, one day, Nelson unfortunately escaped out of the room without his muzzle, and going into the stable-yard fastened upon the throat of a horse from which he could not be disengaged. The stable-boys ran in alarm to find Frank, who taking one of his Lord's Wogdon's pistols, always kept loaded in his room, shot poor Nelson through the head, to the great regret of Byron. "We were at the Crown Inn, at Low Harrowgate. We always dined in the public room, but retired very soon after dinner to our private one; for Byron was no more a friend to drinking than myself. We lived retired, and made few acquaintance; for he was naturally shy, 'very' shy; which people who did not know him mistook for pride. While at Harrowgate he accidentally met with Professor Hailstone from Cambridge, and appeared much delighted to see him. The professor was at Upper Harrowgate: we called upon him one evening to take him to the theatre, I think,--and Lord Byron sent his carriage for him, another time, to a ball at the Granby. This desire to show attention to one of the professors of his college is a proof that, though he might choose to satirise the mode of education in the university, and to abuse the antiquated regulations and restrictions to which undergraduates are subjected, he had yet a due discrimination in his respect for the individuals who belonged to it. I have always, indeed, heard him speak in high terms of praise of Hailstone, as well as of his master, Bishop Mansel, of Trinity College, and of others whose names I have now forgotten. "Few people understood Byron; but I know that he had naturally a kind and feeling heart, and that there was not a single spark of malice in his composition." Professor Hailstone was Woodwardian Professor of Geology (1788-1818). (For Bishop Mansel, see page 84, note 1.)] 59.--To John Hanson. [1] Southwell, Dec. 7th, 1806. Sir,--A Letter to Mrs. Byron has just arrived which states, from what "you have _heard_ of the Tenor of my Letters," you will not put up with Insult. I presume this means (for I will not be positive on what is rather ambiguously expressed) that some offence to you has been conveyed in the above mentioned Epistles. If you will peruse the papers in question, you will discover that the _person_ insulted is not _yourself_, or any one of your "_Connections_." On Mr. B.'s apology, I have expressed my opinion in a Letter to your Son, if any Misrepresentation has taken place, it must be those "Connections" to whom I am to pay such Deference, & whose conduct to me has deserved such _ample respect_. I must now beg leave to observe in turn, that I am by no means disposed to bear Insult, &, be the consequences what they may, I will always declare, in plain and explicit Terms, my Grievance, nor will I overlook the slightest Mark of disrespect, & silently brood over affronts from a mean and interested dread of Injury to my person or property. The former I have Strength and resolution to protect; the latter is too trifling by its Loss to occasion a moments Uneasiness. Though not conversant with the methodical & dilatory arrangements of Law or Business, I know enough of Justice to direct my conduct by the principles of Equity, nor can I reconcile the "Insolence of office" to her regulations or forget in an Instant a poignant Affront. But enough of this Dispute. You will perceive my Sentiments on the Subject, in my correspondence with Mr. B. and Mr. H. Junior. In future to prevent a repetition and altercation I shall advise; but as, even then, some Demur may take place, I wish to be informed, if the equitable Court of Chancery, whose paternal care of their Ward can never be sufficiently commended, have determined, in the great Flow of parental Affection, to withhold their beneficent Support, till I return to "Alma Mater" (i.e.) Cambridge. Your Information on this point will oblige, as a College life is neither conducive to my Improvement, nor suitable to my Inclination. As to the reverse of the Rochdale Trial, I received the News of Success without confidence or exultation; I now sustain the Loss without repining. My Expectations from _Law_ were never very sanguine. I remain, yr very obedt. sert., BYRON. [Footnote 1: Hanson's partner, Birch, the "Mr. B." of the letter, seems to have irritated Byron by withholding the income allotted to him by the Court of Chancery for his education at Cambridge. The attempt to compel his return to Trinity by cutting off the supplies, failed. He did not appear again at Cambridge till the summer term of 1807.] 60.--To J. Ridge. Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle Street, Jany. 12, 1807. Mr. Ridge,--I understand from some of my friends, that several of the papers are in the habit of publishing extracts from my volume, particularly the _Morning Herald_. I cannot say for my own part I have observed this, but I am assured it is so. The thing is of no consequence to me, except that I dislike it. But it is to you, and as publisher you should put a stop to it. The _Morning Herald_ is the paper; of course you cannot address any other, as I am sure I have seen nothing of the kind in mine. You will act upon this as you think proper, and proceed with the 2d. Edition as you please. I am in no hurry, and I still think you were _premature_ in undertaking it. Etc., etc., BYRON. P.S.--Present a copy of the _Antijacobin_ therein to Mrs. Byron. 61.--To John M. B. Pigot. Southwell, Jan. 13, 1807. I ought to begin with _sundry_ apologies, for my own negligence, but the variety of my avocations in _prose_ and _verse_ must plead my excuse. With this epistle you will receive a volume of all my _Juvenilia_, published since your departure: it is of considerably greater size than the _copy_ in your possession, which I beg you will destroy, as the present is much more complete. That _unlucky_ poem to my poor Mary [1] has been the cause of some animadversion from _ladies in years_. I have not printed it in this collection, in consequence of my being pronounced a most _profligate sinner_, in short, a "_young Moore_," [2] by------, your----friend. I believe, in general, they have been favourably received, and surely the age of their author will preclude _severe_ criticism. The adventures of my life from sixteen to nineteen, and the dissipation into which I have been thrown in London, have given a voluptuous tint to my ideas; but the occasions which called forth my muse could hardly admit any other colouring. This volume is _vastly_ correct and miraculously chaste. Apropos, talking of love, ... ... If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of unconnected nonsense, you need not doubt what gratification will accrue from your reply to yours ever, etc. [Footnote 1: See page 104 [Letter 53], [Foot]note 2 [1].] [Footnote 2: Thomas Moore (1779-1852) had already published 'Anacreon' (1800), 'The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little' (1801), and 'Odes, Epistles, and other Poems' (1806). In all, especially in the second, the poetry was of an erotic character. "So heartily," said Rogers ('Table-Talk, etc.', pp. 281, 282), "has Moore repented of having published 'Little's Poems', that I have seen him shed tears--tears of deep contrition--when we were talking of them. Young ladies read his 'Lalla Rookh' without being aware (I presume) of the grossness of 'The Veiled Prophet'. These lines by Mr. Sneyd are amusing enough-- "''Lalla Rookh' Is a naughty book By Tommy Moore, Who has written four, Each warmer Than the former. So the most recent Is the least decent.'"] 62.--To Captain John Leacroft. [1] January 31, 1807. Sir,--Upon serious reflection on the conversation we last night held, I am concerned to say, that the only effectual method to crash the animadversions of officious malevolence, is by my declining all future intercourse with those whom my acquaintance has unintentionally injured. At the same time I must observe that I do not form this resolution from any resentment at your representation, which was temperate and gentlemanly, but from a thorough conviction that the desirable end can be attained by no other line of conduct. I beg leave to return my thanks to Mr. & Mrs. Leacroft, for the attention and hospitality I have always experienced, of which I shall ever retain a grateful remembrance. So much to them; with your permission, I must add a few words for myself. You will be sensible, that a coolness between families, hitherto remarkable for their intimacy, cannot remain unobserved in a town, whose inhabitants are notorious for officious curiosity; that the causes for our separation will be mis-represented I have little doubt; if, therefore, I discover that such misrepresentation does take place, I shall call upon you, to unite with myself in making a serious example of those _men_, be they _who_ they may, that dare to cast an aspersion on the character I am sacrificing my own comfort to protect. If, on the other hand, they imagine, that my conduct is the consequence of intimidation, from my conference with you, I must require a further explanation of what passed between us on the subject, as, however careful I am of your Sister's honour, I am equally tenacious of my own. I do not wish this to be misconstrued into any desire to quarrel; it is what I shall endeavour to avoid; but, as a young man very lately entered into the world, I feel compelled to state, that I can permit no suspicion to be attached to my name with impunity. I have the honour to remain, Your very obedient Servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: This and the two following letters refer to a quarrel between Byron and the Leacroft family, which arose from his attentions to Miss Julia Leacroft. Moore's statement, that Captain Leacroft, the lady's brother (see page 34 [Letter 12], [foot]note 3), sent a challenge to Byron, who was at first inclined to accept it, is inaccurate. But it is possible that Byron was acting on the advice of the Rev. J. T. Becher, when he decided, in order to prevent misunderstanding, to break off his acquaintance with the Leacrofts absolutely.] 63.--To Captain John Leacroft. February 4th, 1807. Sir,--I have just received your note, which conveys all that can be said on the subject. I can easily conceive your feelings must have been irritated in the course of the affair. I am sorry that I have been the unintentional cause of so disagreeable a business. The line of conduct, however painful to myself, which I have adopted, is the only effectual method to prevent the remarks of a _meddling world_. I therefore again take my leave for the last time. I repeat, that, though the intercourse, from which I have derived so many hours of happiness, is for ever interrupted, the remembrance can never be effaced from the bosom of Your very obedient Servant, BYRON. 64.--To Captain John Leacroft. February 4th, 1807. Sir,--I am concerned to be obliged again to trouble you, as I had hoped that our conversations had terminated amicably. Your good Father, it seems, has desired otherwise; he has just sent a most _agreeable_ epistle, in which I am honoured with the appellations of _unfeeling_ and ungrateful. But as the consequences of all this must ultimately fall on you and myself, I merely write this to apprise you that the dispute is not of my seeking, and that, if we must cut each other's throats to please our relations, you will do me the justice to say it is from no _personal_ animosity between us, or from any insult on my part, that such _disagreeable_ events (for I am not so much enamoured of quarrels as to call them _pleasant_) have arisen. I remain, your's, etc., BYRON. 65.-To the Earl of Clare. [1] Southwell, Notts, February 6, 1807. My Dearest Clare,--Were I to make all the apologies necessary to atone for my late negligence, you would justly say you had received a petition instead of a letter, as it would be filled with prayers for forgiveness; but instead of this, I will acknowledge my _sins_ at once, and I trust to your friendship and generosity rather than to my own excuses. Though my health is not perfectly re-established, I am out of all danger, and have recovered every thing but my spirits, which are subject to depression. You will be astonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarr, [2] for the purpose of explaining (as far as possible without involving some _old friends_ of mine in the business) the cause of my behaviour to him during my last residence at Harrow (nearly two years ago), which you will recollect was rather "_en cavalier_." Since that period, I have discovered he was treated with injustice both by those who misrepresented his conduct, and by me in consequence of their suggestions. I have therefore made all the reparation in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though with very faint hopes of success; indeed I never expected any answer, but desired one for form's sake; _that_ has not yet arrived, and most probably never will. However, I have _eased_ my own _conscience_ by the atonement, which is humiliating enough to one of my disposition; yet I could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, _even unintentionally_, injured any individual. I have done all that could be done to repair the injury, and there the affair must end. Whether we renew our intimacy or not is of very trivial consequence. My time has lately been much occupied with very different pursuits. I have been _transporting_ a servant, [3] who cheated me,--rather a disagreeable event;--performing in private theatricals; [4]--publishing a volume of poems (at the request of my friends, for their perusal);--making love,--and taking physic. The two last amusements have not had the best effect in the world; for my attentions have been divided amongst so many fair damsels, and the drugs I swallow are of such variety in their composition, that between Venus and Æsculapius I am harassed to death. However, I have still leisure to devote some hours to the recollections of past, regretted friendships, and in the interval to take the advantage of the moment, to assure you how much I am, and ever will be, my dearest Clare, Your truly attached and sincere BYRON. [Footnote 1: John Fitzgibbon (1792-1851), son of the first Earl of Clare, by his wife Anne Whaley, succeeded his father as second Earl in January, 1802. A schoolfellow of Byron's at Harrow, he was the "Lycus" of "Childish Recollections," and one of his dearest friends. Clare, after leaving Harrow, went to a private tutor, the Rev. Mr. Smith, at Woodnesborough, near Sandwich. There he formed so close a friendship with Lord John Russell as to provoke Byron's jealousy ('Life', p. 21). Clare was at Christ Church, Oxford (B.A. 1812); Byron at Trinity, Cambridge. They rarely met after leaving Harrow. Their meeting on the road between Imola and Bologna in 1821, "annihilated for a moment," says Byron (see 'Life', p. 540; 'Detached Thoughts', November 5, 1821), "all the years between the present time and the days of Harrow. We were but five minutes together, and on the public road; but I hardly recollect an hour of my existence which could be weighed against them. Of all I have ever known, he has always been the least altered in everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him from others, during absence and distance." Lord Clare was Governor of Bombay from 1830 to 1834.] [Footnote 2: See page 41 [Letter 14], note 1 [Footnote 5].] [Footnote 3: See page 81 [Letter 38], [Foot]note 1.] [Footnote 4: In the theatricals, which took place at Southwell in the autumn of 1806, Byron was the chief mover. A letter received by Mr. Pigot, quoted by Moore ('Life', p. 38), shows how eagerly his return from Harrogate was expected:-- "Tell Lord Byron that, if any accident should retard his return, his mother desires he will write to her, as she shall be 'miserable' if he does not arrive the day he fixes. Mr. W. B. has written a card to Mrs. H. to offer for the character of 'Henry Woodville,'--Mr. and Mrs.---- not approving of their son's taking a part in the play: but I believe he will persist in it. Mr. G. W. says, that sooner than the party should be disappointed, 'he' will take any part,--sing--dance--in short, do any thing to oblige. Till Lord Byron returns, nothing can be done; and positively he must not be later than Tuesday or Wednesday." A full account of the theatricals is given in a manuscript written by Miss Bristoe, one of the performers. Two plays were represented, (1) Cumberland's 'Wheel of Fortune' and (2) Allingham's 'Weathercock'. The following were the respective casts:-- (1) 'Penruddock', Lord Byron. 'Sir David Daw', Mr. C. Becher. 'Woodville', Captain Lightfoot. 'Sydenham', Mr. Pigot. 'Henry Woodville', Mr. H. Houson. 'Mrs. Woodville', Miss Bristoe. 'Emily Tempest', Miss J. Leacroft 'Dame Dunckley', Miss Leacroft. 'Weazel', Mr. G. Wylde. 'Jenkins', Mr. G. Heathcote. (2) 'Tristram Fickle', Lord Byron. 'Old Fickle', Mr. Pigot. 'Briefwit', Captain Lightfoot. 'Sneer', Mr. R. Leacroft. 'Variella', Miss Bristoe. 'Ready', Miss Leacroft. 'Gardener', Mr. C. Becher. 'Barber', Mr. G. Wylde. Between the two plays, a member of the Southwell choir sang "The Death of Abercrombie." The brave General, attended by two aides-de-camp, all three in the costume of the Southwell volunteers, appeared on the stage, and the General, sinking into the outstretched arms of his two friends, warbled out his dying words in a style which convulsed Byron with laughter. The play itself nearly came to an untimely conclusion. Captain Lightfoot screwed his failing courage to the sticking point by several glasses of wine, with the result that, being a very abstemious man, he became tipsy. But "restoratives were administered," and he went through his part with credit. Byron, who was the star of the company, repeatedly brought down the house by his acting. (For Byron's Prologue to 'The Wheel of Fortune', see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 45, 46.) Moore's account of the epilogue, written by the Rev. J. T. Becher, and spoken by Byron, is erroneous. Only one word gave any opportunity for mimicry. It occurs in the lines-- "Tempest becalmed forgets his blust'ring rage, He calls Dame Dunckley 'sister' off the stage." In pronouncing the word "sister," Byron "took off exactly the voice and manner of Mr. R. Leacroft."] 66.--To Mrs. Hanson. Southwell, Feb. 8, 1807. Dear Madam,--Having understood from Mrs. Byron that Mr. Hanson is in a very indifferent State of Health, I have taken the Liberty of addressing you on the Subject. Though the _Governor_ & _I_ have lately not been on the _best_ of _Terms_, yet I should be extremely sorry to learn he was in Danger, and I trust _he_ and _I_ will live to have many more _Squabbles_ in _this world_, before we _finally make peace_ in the next. If therefore you can favor me with any _salutary_ Intelligence of the _aforesaid_ Gentleman, believe me, nothing will be more acceptable to Yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--Remember me to all the family now in _Garrison_, particularly my old Friend Harriet. 67.--To William Bankes. [1] Southwell, March 6, 1807. Dear Bankes,--Your critique is valuable for many reasons: in the first place, it is the only one in which flattery has borne so slight a part; in the _next_, I am _cloyed_ with insipid compliments. I have a better opinion of your judgment and ability than your _feelings_. Accept my most sincere thanks for your kind decision, not less welcome, because totally unexpected. With regard to a more exact estimate, I need not remind you how few of the _best poems_, in our language, will stand the test of _minute_ or _verbal_ criticism: it can, therefore, hardly be expected the effusions of a boy (and most of these pieces have been produced at an early period) can derive much merit either from the subject or composition. Many of them were written under great depression of spirits, and during severe indisposition:--hence the gloomy turn of the ideas. We coincide in opinion that the "_poësies érotiques_" are the most exceptionable; they were, however, grateful to the _deities_, on whose altars they were offered--more I seek not. The portrait of Pomposus [2] was drawn at Harrow, after a _long sitting_; this accounts for the resemblance, or rather the _caricatura_. He is _your_ friend, he _never was mine_--for both our sakes I shall be silent on this head. The _collegiate_ rhymes [3] are not personal--one of the notes may appear so, but could not be omitted. I have little doubt they will be deservedly abused--a just punishment for my unfilial treatment of so excellent an Alma Mater. I sent you no copy, lest _we_ should be placed in the situation of _Gil Blas_ and the _Archbishop_ of Grenada; [4] though running some hazard from the experiment, I wished your _verdict_ to be unbiassed. Had my "_Libellus_" been presented previous to your letter, it would have appeared a species of bribe to purchase compliment. I feel no hesitation in saying, I was more anxious to hear your critique, however severe, than the praises of the _million_. On the same day I was honoured with the encomiums of _Mackenzie_, the celebrated author of the _Man of Feeling_ [5] Whether _his_ approbation or _yours_ elated me most, I cannot decide. You will receive my _Juvenilia_,--at least all yet published. I have a large volume in manuscript, which may in part appear hereafter; at present I have neither time nor inclination to prepare it for the press. In the spring I shall return to Trinity, to dismantle my rooms, and bid you a final adieu. The _Cam_ will not be much increased by my _tears_ on the occasion. Your further remarks, however _caustic_ or bitter, to a palate vitiated with the _sweets of adulation_, will be of service. Johnson has shown us _that no poetry_ is perfect; but to correct mine would be an Herculean labour. In fact I never looked beyond the moment of composition, and published merely at the request of my friends. Notwithstanding so much has been said concerning the "Genus irritabile vatum," we shall never quarrel on the subject--poetic fame is by no means the "acme" of my wishes.--Adieu. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: William John Bankes, of Kingston Lacy, Dorsetshire, was Byron's friend, possibly at Harrow, though his name does not occur in the school lists, certainly at Trinity College, Cambridge (B.A. 1808). He represented Truro from 1810 to 1812, when he left England on his Eastern travels. At Philæ he discovered an obelisk, the geometrical elevation and inscriptions of which he published in 1820. In Mesopotamia he encountered John Silk Buckingham, whom he afterwards charged with making use of his notes in his 'Travels', a statement, found to be libellous, which (October 19, 1826) cost Bankes £400 in damages. He also travelled with Giovanni Finati, a native of Ferrara, who, under the assumed name of Mahomet, made the campaigns against the Wahabees for the recovery of Mecca and Medina. Finati's Italian 'Narrative' was translated by Bankes, to whom it is dedicated by his "attached and faithful servant Hadjee Mahomet," and published in 1830. In 1822 Bankes was elected M.P. for Cambridge University, but lost his seat to Sir J. Copley in 1826. At a bye-election in 1827, he was again unsuccessful. His candidature gave occasion to Macaulay's squib, which appeared in the 'Times' for May 14, 1827, 'A Country Clergyman's Trip to Cambridge'. "A letter--and free--bring it here: I have no correspondent who franks. No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear, 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. 'Dear Sir as I know your desire That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election,'"etc., etc. Bankes subsequently represented Marlborough (1829-1832) and Dorsetshire (1833-1834). He was Byron's "collegiate pastor, and master and patron," "ruled the roast" at Trinity, "or, rather, the 'roasting', and was father of all mischief" (Byron to Murray, October 12, 1820). "William Bankes," Byron told Lady Blessington ('Conversations', p. 172), "is another of my early friends. He is very clever, very original, and has a fund of information: he is also very good-natured, but he is not much of a flatterer." Bankes died at Venice in 1855.] [Footnote 2: Dr. Butler, Head-master of Harrow. (See page 58 [Letter 22],[Foot]note 1.)] [Footnote 3: "Thoughts suggested by a College Examination" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 28-31); and "Granta, A Medley" ('Poems', vol. i. pp. 56-62).] [Footnote 4: Alluding to 'Gil Blas', bk. vii. chap, iv., where Gil Blas ventures to criticize the Archbishop's work, and is dismissed for his candour. "Adieu, monsieur Gil Blas; Je vous souhaite toutes sortes de prosperités, avec un peu plus de goût."] [Footnote 5: The praise was worth having. Henry Mackenzie (1745-1831) was not only the author of the lackadaisical 'Man of Feeling', but in real life a shrewd, hard-headed man. As a novelist, he wrote 'The Man of Feeling' (1771), 'The Man of Honour' (1773), and 'Julia de Roubigne' (1777). As a playwright, he produced four plays, none of which succeeded. As an essayist, he contributed to the 'Mirror' (1779-80) and the 'Lounger' (1785-86). As a political writer, he supported Pitt, and was rewarded by the comptrollership of taxes. An original member of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, many of his papers appear in its 'Transactions'. In Edinburgh society he was "the life of the company," a connecting link on the literary side between David Hume, Walter Scott, and Lord Cockburn, and in all matters of sport a fund of anecdotes and reminiscences.] 68.--To William Bankes. [1] For my own part, I have suffered severely in the decease of my two greatest friends, the only beings I ever loved (females excepted); I am therefore a solitary animal, miserable enough, and so perfectly a citizen of the world, that whether I pass my days in Great Britain or Kamschatka, is to me a matter of perfect indifference. I cannot evince greater respect for your alteration than by immediately adopting it--this shall be done in the next edition. I am sorry your remarks are not more frequent, as I am certain they would be equally beneficial. Since my last, I have received two critical opinions from Edinburgh, both too flattering for me to detail. One is from Lord Woodhouselee, [2] at the head of the Scotch literati, and a most _voluminous_ writer (his last work is a _Life_ of Lord Kaimes); the other from Mackenzie, who sent his decision a second time, more at length. I am not personally acquainted with either of these gentlemen, nor ever requested their sentiments on the subject: their praise is voluntary, and transmitted through the medium of a friend, at whose house they read the productions. Contrary to my former intention, I am now preparing a volume for the public at large: my amatory pieces will be exchanged, and others substituted in their place. The whole will be considerably enlarged, and appear the latter end of May. This is a hazardous experiment; but want of better employment, the encouragement I have met with, and my own vanity, induce me to stand the test, though not without _sundry palpitations_. The book will circulate fast enough in this country from mere curiosity; what I prin----... [letter incomplete] [Footnote 1: This fragment refers, like the previous letter, to Byron's volume of verse, 'Poems on Various Occasions'.] [Footnote 2: Alexander Fraser Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee, one of the Senators of the College of Justice in Scotland, and a friend of Robert Burns. Besides the 'Memoirs of the Life and Writings of the Hon. Henry Home of Kames' (1807), he published 'Elements of General History' (1801), 'Essay on the Principles of Translation', etc. He died in 1813. His 'Universal History', in six vols., appeared in 1834.] 69.--To----Falkner. [1] Sir,--The volume of little pieces which accompanies this, would have been presented before, had I not been apprehensive that Miss Falkner's indisposition might render some trifles unwelcome. There are some errors of the printer which I have not had time to correct in the collection: you have it thus, with "all its imperfections on its head," a heavy weight, when joined with the faults of its author. Such _Juvenilia_, as they can claim no great degree of approbation, I may venture to hope, will also escape the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps _not_ undeserved, criticism. They were written on many and various occasions, and are now published merely for the perusal of a friendly circle. Believe me, sir, if they afford the slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of my _social_ readers, I shall have gathered all the _bays_ I ever wish to adorn the head of yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--I hope Miss F. is in a state of recovery. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Byron's landlord at Burgage Manor.] 70.--To John Hanson. [Farleigh House, Basingstoke, Hants.] Southwell, April 2nd, 1807. Dear Sir,--Before I proceed in Reply to the other parts of your Epistle, allow me to congratulate you on the _Accession_ of _Dignity_ and _profit_, which will doubtless accrue, from your official appointment. You was fortunate in obtaining Possession at so critical a period; your Patrons "exeunt omnes." [1] I trust they will soon supersede the Cyphers, their successors. The Reestablishment of your Health is another happy event, and, though _secondary_ in my _Statement_, is by no means so in my _Wishes_. As to our Feuds, they are purely _official_, the natural consequence of our relative Situations, but as little connected with _personal animosity_, as the _Florid Declamations_ of _parliamentary_ Demagogues. I return you my thanks for your favorable opinion of my muse; I have lately been honoured with many very flattering literary critiques, from men of high Reputation in the Sciences, particularly Lord Woodhouselee and Henry Mackenzie, both _Scots_ and of great Eminence as Authors themselves. I have received also some most favorable Testimonies from _Cambridge_. This you will _marvel_ at, as indeed I did myself. Encouraged by these and several other Encomiums, I am about to publish a Volume at large; this will be very different from the present; the amatory effusions, not to be wondered at from the _dissipated_ Life I have led, will be cut out, and others substituted. I coincide with you in opinion that the _Poet_ yields to the _orator_; but as nothing can be done in the latter capacity till the Expiration of my _Minority_, the former occupies my present attention, and both _ancients_ and _moderns_ have declared that the two pursuits are so nearly similar as to require in a great measure the same Talents, and he who excels in the one, would on application succeed in the other. Lyttleton, Glover, and Young (who was a celebrated Preacher and a Bard) are instances of the kind. _Sheridan & Fox_ also; _these_ are _great Names_. I may imitate, I can never equal them. You speak of the _Charms_ of Southwell; the _Place_ I _abhor_. The Fact is I remain here because I can appear no where else, being _completely done_ up. _Wine_ and _Women_ have _dished_ your _humble Servant_, not a _Sou_ to be _had_; all _over_; condemned to exist (I cannot say live) at this _Crater_ of Dullness till my _Lease_ of _Infancy_ expires. To appear at Cambridge is impossible; no money even to pay my College expences. You will be surprized to hear I am grown _very thin_; however it is the _Fact_, so much so, that the people here think I am _going_. I have lost 18 LB in my weight, that is one Stone & 4 pounds since January, this was ascertained last Wednesday, on account of a _Bet_ with an acquaintance. However don't be alarmed; I have taken every means to accomplish the end, by violent exercise and Fasting, as I found myself too plump. I shall continue my Exertions, having no other amusement; I wear _seven_ Waistcoats and a great Coat, run, and play at cricket in this Dress, till quite exhausted by excessive perspiration, use the Hip Bath daily; eat only a quarter of a pound of Butcher's Meat in 24 hours, no Suppers or Breakfast, only one Meal a Day; drink no malt liquor, but a little Wine, and take Physic occasionally. By these means my _Ribs_ display Skin of no great Thickness, & my Clothes have been taken in nearly _half a yard_. Do you believe me now? Adieu. Remembrance to Spouse and the Acorns. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: In March, 1807, George III demanded from the Coalition Ministry a written pledge that they would propose no further concessions to the Roman Catholics. They refused to give it, and the Tories, with the Duke of Portland as their nominal head, were recalled to the Government.] 71.--To John M. B. Pigot. Southwell, April, 1807. My Dear Pigot,--Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your first examination--"_Courage_, mon ami." The title of Doctor will do wonders with the damsels. I shall most probably be in Essex or London when you arrive at this damned place, where I am detained by the publication of my _rhymes_. Adieu.--Believe me, Yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--Since we met, I have reduced myself by violent exercise, _much_ physic, and _hot_ bathing, from 14 stone 6 lb. to 12 stone 7 lb. In all I have lost 27 pounds. [1] Bravo!--what say you? [Footnote 1: The following extract is taken from a ledger in the possession of Messrs. Merry, of St. James's Street, S.W.:-- "1806--January 4. Lord Byron (boots, no hat) 13 stone 12 lbs 1807--July 8. Lord Byron (shoes) 10 stone 13 lbs 1807--July 23. Lord Byron (shoes) 11 stone 0 lbs 1807--August 13. Lord Byron (shoes) 10 stone 11-1/2 lbs 1808--May 27. Lord Byron (shoes) 11 stone 1 lbs 1809--June 10. Lord Byron (shoes) 11 stone 5-3/4 lbs 1811--July 15. Lord Byron (shoes) 9 stone 11-1/2 lbs"] 72.--To John Hanson. [6, Chancery Lane, Temple Bar, London.] Southwell, 19 April, 1807. Sir,--My last was an Epistle "_entre nous_;" _this_ is a _Letter_ of _Business_, Of course the _formalities_ of _official communication_ must be attended to. From lying under pecuniary difficulties, I shall draw for the Quarter due the 25th June, in a short Time. You will recollect I was to receive £100 for the Expence of Furniture, etc., at Cambridge. I placed in your possession accounts to amount and then I have received £70, for which I believe you have my Receipt. This extra £25 or £30 (though the Bills are long ago discharged from my own purse) I should not have troubled you for, had not my present Situation rendered even that Trifle of some Consequence. I have therefore to request that my Draft for £150, instead of £125 the simple Quarter, may be honoured, but think it necessary to apprize you previous to its appearance, and indeed to request an early Answer, as I had one Draft returned by Mistake from your _House_, some Months past. I have no Inclination to be placed in a similar Dilemma. I lent Mrs. B. _£60_ last year; of this I have never received a Sou and in all probability never shall. I do not mention the circumstance as any Reproach on that worthy and lamblike Dame, [1] but merely to show you how affairs stand. 'Tis true myself and two Servants lodge in the House, but my Horses, etc., and their expences are defrayed by your humble Sert. I quit Cambridge in July, and shall have considerable payments to make at that period; for this purpose I must sell my _Steeds_. I paid Jones in January £150, £38 to my Stable Keeper, £21 to my wine Merchant, £20 to a _Lawyer_ for the prosecution of a Scoundrel, a late Servant. In short I have done all I can, but am now completely _done_ up. Your answer will oblige Yours, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Byron, on the other hand, tells a different story. "Lord Byron," she writes to Hanson (March 19, 1807), "has now been with me seven months, with two Men Servants, for which I have never received one farthing, as he requires the five hundred a year for himself. Therefore it is impossible I can keep him and them out of my small income of four hundred a year,--two in Scotland [Mrs. Gordon of Gight (see Chapter I. p. 4) was dead], and the pension is now reduced to two hundred a year. But if the Court allows the additional two hundred, I shall be perfectly satisfied. "I do not know what to say about Byron's returning to Cambridge. When he was there, I believe he did nothing but drink, gamble, and spend money." A month later (April 29, 1807), she consults Hanson about raising £1000 by a loan from Mrs. Parkyns on her security. "Byron from their last letter gave up all hopes of getting the money, and behaved very well on the occasion, and proposed selling his Horses and plans of OEconomy that I much fear will be laid aside if the Money is procured. My only motive for wishing it was to keep him clear of the Jews; but at present he does not seem at all disposed to have anything to do with them, even if he is disappointed in this resource. I wish to act for the best: but God knows what is for the best." Eventually money was provided on Mrs. Byron's security (see Letters of March 6 [Letter 117] and April 26 [Letter 121], 1809), and he resided at Trinity for a few days at the end of the May term, 1807. 73.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. June 11, 1807. Dear Queen Bess,--_Savage_ ought to be _immortal_:--though not a _thorough-bred bull-dog_, he is the finest puppy I ever _saw_, and will answer much better; in his great and manifold kindness he has already bitten my fingers, and disturbed the _gravity_ of old Boatswain, who is _grievously discomposed_. I wish to be informed what he _costs_, his _expenses_, etc., etc., that I may indemnify Mr. G----. My thanks are _all_ I can give for the trouble he has taken, make a _long speech_, and conclude it with 1 2 3 4 5 6 7. [1] I am out of practice, so _deputize_ you as a legate,--_ambassador_ would not do in a matter concerning the _Pope_, which I presume this must, as the _whole_ turns upon a _Bull_. Yours, BYRON. P.S.--I write in bed. [Footnote 1: He here alludes to an odd fancy or trick of his own; --whenever he was at a loss for something to say, he used always to gabble over "1 2 3 4 5 6 7" (Moore).] 74.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. Cambridge, June 30, 1807. "Better late than never, Pal," [1] is a saying of which you know the origin, and as it is applicable on the present occasion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front of my epistle. I am almost superannuated here. My old friends (with the exception of a very few) all departed, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till Monday to be present at three _Oratorios_, two _Concerts_, a _Fair_, and a Ball. I find I am not only _thinner_ but _taller_ by an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell every body my _name_, nobody having the least recollection of my _visage_, or person. Even the hero of _my Cornelian_ [2] (who is now sitting _vis-à-vis_ reading a volume of my _Poetics_) passed me in Trinity walks without recognising me in the least, and was thunderstruck at the alteration which had taken place in my countenance, etc., etc. Some say I look _better_, others _worse_, but all agree I am _thinner_,--more I do not require. I have lost two pounds in my weight since I left your _cursed_, _detestable_, and _abhorred_ abode of _scandal_, where, excepting yourself and John Becher, [3] I care not if the whole race were consigned to the _Pit of Acheron_, which I would visit in person rather than contaminate my _sandals_ with the polluted dust of Southwell. _Seriously_, unless obliged by the _emptiness_ of my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more. On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge with little regret, because our _set_ are _vanished_, and my _musical protégé_ before mentioned has left the choir, and is stationed in a mercantile house of considerable eminence in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he is exactly to an hour two years younger than myself. I found him grown considerably, and as you will suppose, very glad to see his former _Patron_. He is nearly my height, very _thin_, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know;--I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every body here conceives me to be an _invalid_. The University at present is very gay from the fètes of divers kinds. I supped out last night, but eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a bottle of claret, went to bed at two, and rose at eight. I have commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. The Masters and the Fellows all very _polite_, but look a little _askance_--don't much admire _lampoons_ [4]--truth always disagreeable. Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of your _Menagerie_ go _on_, and if my publication goes _off_ well: do the quadrupeds _growl_? Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased--"Flesh both of cur and man is grass." Address your answer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be forwarded. Sad news just arrived--Russians beat [5]--a bad set, eat nothing but _oil_, consequently must melt before a _hard fire_. I get awkward in my academic habiliments for want of practice. Got up in a window to hear the oratorio at St. Mary's, popped down in the middle of the _Messiah_, tore a _woeful_ rent in the back of my best black silk gown, and damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem.--never tumble from a church window during service. Adieu, dear----! do not remember me to any body:--to _forget_ and be forgotten by the people of Southwell is all I aspire to. [Footnote 1: The allusion is to the farce _Better Late than Never_ (attributed to Miles Peter Andrews, but really, according to Reynolds (_Life_, vol. ii. pp. 79, 80), by himself, Topham, and Andrews), in which Pallet, an artist, is a prominent character. It was played at Drury Lane for the first time October 17, 1790, with Kemble as "Saville" and Mrs. Jordan as "Augusta."] [Footnote 2: "The hero of _my Cornelian_" was a Cambridge chorister named Edleston, whose life, as Harness has recorded in a MS. note, Byron saved from drowning. This began their acquaintance. (See Byron's lines on "The Cornelian," _Poems_, vol. i. 66-67.) Edleston died of consumption in May, 1811. Byron, writing to Mrs. Pigot, gives the following account of his death:-- "Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811. Dear Madam,--I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a _cornelian_, which some years ago I consigned to Miss Pigot, indeed _gave_ to her, and now I am going to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it to me, when I was very young, is _dead_, and though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me at No. 8, St. James's Street, London, and I will replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him that formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver of that cornelian died in May last of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives that I have lost between May and the end of August. "Believe me, dear Madam, yours very sincerely, "BYRON. "P.S.--I go to London to-morrow." The cornelian heart was, of course, returned, and Lord Byron, at the same time, reminded that he had left it with Miss Pigot as a deposit, _not_ a gift (Moore).] [Footnote 3: See page 182 [Letter 94], [Foot]note 1 [2].] [Footnote 4: See "Thoughts suggested by a College Examination" (_Poems_, vol. i. pp. 28-31), also "Granta: a Medley" (_Poems_, vol. i. pp. 56-62).] [Footnote 5: The Battle of Friedland, June 15, 1807. This is almost the first allusion that Byron makes to the war.] 75.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5, 1807. Since my last letter I have determined to reside _another year_ at Granta, as my rooms, etc., etc., are finished in great style, several old friends come up again, and many new acquaintances made; consequently my inclination leads me forward, and I shall return to college in October if still _alive_. My life here has been one continued routine of dissipation--out at different places every day, engaged to more dinners, etc., etc., than my _stay_ would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in my _head_ and _tears_ in my _eyes_; for I have just parted with my "_Cornelian_" who spent the evening with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my engagement to devote the hours of the _Sabbath_ to friendship:--Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for London: you will address your answer to "Gordon's Hotel, Albemarle Street," where I _sojourn_ during my visit to the metropolis. I rejoice to hear you are interested in my _protégé_; he has been my _almost constant_ associate since October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. His _voice_ first attracted my attention, his _countenance_ fixed it, and his _manners_ attached me to him for ever. He departs for a _mercantile house_ in _town_ in October, and we shall probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall leave to his decision either entering as a _partner_ through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the _latter_, but he may alter his opinion previous to that period;--however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time nor distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. In short, we shall, put _Lady E. Butler_ and _Miss Ponsonby_ [1] to the blush, _Pylades_ and _Orestes_ out of countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe like _Nisus_ and _Euryalus_, to give _Jonathan_ and _David_ the "go by." He certainly is perhaps more attached to _me_ than even I am in return. During the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and winter, without passing _one_ tiresome moment, and separated each time with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see us together. He is the only being I esteem, though I _like_ many. The Marquis of Tavistock [2] was down the other day; I supped with him at his tutor's--entirely a Whig party. The opposition muster strong here now, and Lord Hartington, the Duke of Leinster, etc., etc., are to join us in October, so every thing will be _splendid_. The _music_ is all over at present. Met with another "_accidency_"--upset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady--look'd very _blue_--_spectators_ grinned--"curse 'em!" Apropos, sorry to say, been _drunk_ every day, and not quite _sober_ yet--however, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegetables, consequently it does me no harm--sad dogs all the _Cantabs_. Mem.--_we mean_ to reform next January. This place is a _monotony of endless variety_--like it--hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold well? or do the ancients demur? What ladies have bought? Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne----, [3] thought it was her--all in the wrong--the lady stared, so did I--I _blushed_, so did _not_ the lady,--sad thing--wish women had _more modesty_. Talking of women, puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny--how is she? Got a headache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. My _protégé_ breakfasts with me; parting spoils my appetite--excepting from Southwell. Mem. _I hate Southwell_. Yours, etc. [Footnote 1: Lady Eleanor Butler (c. 1745-1829), sister of the seventeenth Earl of Ormonde, and Sarah Ponsonby (circ. 1755-1831), cousin of the Earl of Bessborough, were the two "Ladies of the Vale," or "Ladies of Llangollen." About the year 1779 they settled in a cottage at Plasnewydd, in the Vale of Llangollen, where they lived, with their maidservant, Mary Caryll, for upwards of half a century. They are buried, with their servant, in the churchyard of Plasnewydd, under a triangular pyramid. Though they had withdrawn from the world, they watched its proceedings with the keenest interest. "If," writes Mrs. Piozzi, from Brynbella, July 9, 1796, "Mr. Bunbury's 'Little Gray Man' is printed, do send it hither; the ladies at Llangollen are dying for it. They like those old Scandinavian tales and the imitations of them exceedingly; and tell me about the prince and princess of 'this' loyal country, one province of which alone had disgraced itself" ('Life and Writings of Mrs. Piozzi', vol. ii. p. 234). Nor did they despise the theatre. Charles Mathews ('Memoirs', vol. iii. pp. 150, 151), writing from Oswestry, September 4, 1820, says, "The dear inseparable inimitables, Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby, were in the boxes here on Friday. They came twelve miles from Llangollen, and returned, as they never sleep from home. Oh, such curiosities! I was nearly convulsed.... As they are seated, there is not one point to distinguish them from men; the dressing and powdering of the hair; their well-starched neckcloths; the upper part of their habits, which they always wear, even at a dinner-party, made precisely like men's coats; and regular black beaver men's hats. They looked exactly like two respectable superannuated old clergymen.... I was highly flattered, as they never were in the theatre before." Among the many people who visited them in their retreat, and have left descriptions of them, are Madame de Genlis, De Quincey, Prince Pückler-Muskau. Their friendships were sung by Sotheby and Anne Seward, and their cottage was depicted by Pennant. "It is very singular," writes John Murray, August 24, 1829, to his son ('Memoir of John Murray', vol. ii. p. 304), "that the ladies, intending to 'retire' from the world, absolutely brought all the world to visit them, for after a few years of seclusion their strange story was the universal subject of conversation, and there has been no person of rank, talent, and importance in any way who did not procure introductions to them." [Footnote 2: Lord Tavistock's experience at Cambridge resembled that of Byron. He had received only a "pretended education," and the Duke of Bedford had come to the conclusion that "nothing was learned at English Universities." "Tavistock left Cambridge in May," Lord J. Russell notes in his Diary for 1808, "having been there in supposition two years" (Walpole's 'Life of Lord John Russell', vol. i. pp. 44 and 35).] [Footnote 3: Probably Miss Anne Houson, daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell. She married the Rev. Luke Jackson, died December 25, 1821, and is buried at Hucknall Torkard. (For verses addressed to her, see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 70-2, 244-45, 246-47, 251-52, 253.)] 76.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. Gordon's Hotel, July 13, 1807. You write most excellent epistles--a fig for other correspondents, with their nonsensical apologies for "_knowing nought about it_"--you send me a delightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of dissipation (very pleasant for all that), and, strange to tell, I get thinner, being now below eleven stone considerably. Stay in town a _month_, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a favour, _irradiate_ Southwell for three days with the light of my countenance; but nothing shall ever make me _reside_ there again. I positively return to Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, or in truth I should _cut_ the University. An extraordinary circumstance occurred to me at Cambridge; a girl so very like----made her appearance, that nothing but the most _minute inspection_ could have undeceived me. I wish I had asked if _she_ had ever been at H---- What the devil would Ridge have? is not fifty in a fortnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient sale? [1] I hear many of the London booksellers have them, and Crosby [2] has sent copies to the principal watering places. Are they liked or not in Southwell? ... I wish Boatswain had _swallowed_ Damon! How is Bran? by the immortal gods, Bran ought to be a _Count_ of the _Holy Roman Empire_. The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to you, who have rusticated all your life--the annals of routs riots, balls and boxing-matches, cards and crim. cons., parliamentary discussion, political details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle Street Institution and aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brookes's and Buonaparte, opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax-work, and weathercocks, can't accord with your _insulated_ ideas of decorum and other _silly expressions_ not inserted in _our vocabulary_. Oh! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left thee, and how I curse the heavy hours I dragged along, for so many months, among the Mohawks who inhabit your kraals!--However, one thing I do not regret, which is having _pared off_ a sufficient quantity of flesh to enable me to slip into "an eel-skin," and vie with the _slim_ beaux of modern times; though I am sorry to say, it seems to be the mode amongst _gentlemen_ to grow _fat_, and I am told I am at least fourteen pound below the fashion. However, I _decrease_ instead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, as _violent_ exercise in London is impracticable; but I attribute the _phenomenon_ to our _evening squeezes_ at public and private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning (the 14th, my letter was begun yesterday): he says the poems go on as well as can be wished; the seventy-five sent to town are circulated, and a demand for fifty more complied with, the day he dated his epistle, though the advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu. P.S.--Lord Carlisle, on receiving my poems, sent, before he opened the book, a tolerably handsome letter:[1]--I have not heard from him since. His opinions I neither know nor care about: if he is the least insolent, I shall enrol him with _Butler_ and the other worthies. He is in Yorkshire, poor man! and very ill! He said he had not had time to read the contents, but thought it necessary to acknowledge the receipt of the volume immediately. Perhaps the Earl "_bears no brother near the throne"--if so_, I will make his _sceptre_ totter _in his hands_.--Adieu! [Footnote 1: This is probably the third collection of early verse, 'Hours of Idleness', the first collection published with Byron's name (see page 104 [Letter 53], [Foot]note 1).] [Footnote 2: B. Crosby & Co., of Stationers' Court, were the London agents of Ridge, the Newark bookseller. Crosby was also the publisher of a magazine called 'Monthly Literary Recreations', in which (July, 1807) appeared a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of Idleness', and Byron's review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' (2 vols. 1807. See Appendix I.), and his "Stanzas to Jessy" (see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 234-236). These lines were enclosed with the following letter, addressed to "Mr. Crosby, Stationers' Court:"-- "July 21, 1807. Sir,--I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas for 'Literary Recreations'. The insertion I leave to the option of the Editors. They have never appeared before. I should wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy. Etc., etc., BYRON. P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."] [Footnote 3: "My Dear Lord,--Your letter of yesterday found me an invalid, and unable to do justice to your poems by a dilligent ['sic'] perusal of them. In the meantime I take the first occasion to thank you for sending them to me, and to express a sincere satisfaction in finding you employ your leisure in such occupations. Be not disconcerted if the reception of your works should not be that you may have a right to look for from the public. Persevere, whatever that reception may be, and tho' the Public maybe found very fastidious, ... you will stand better with the world than others who only pursue their studies in Bond St. or at Tatershall's. Believe me to be, yours most sincerely, CARLISLE. July 8th, 1807."] 77.--To John Hanson. July 20th, 1807. Sir,--Your proposal to make Mrs. Byron my _Treasurer_ is very kind, but does not meet with my approbation. Mrs. Byron has already made more _free_ with my _funds_ than suits my convenience & I do not chuse to expose her to the Danger of Temptation. Things will therefore stand as they are; the remedy would be worse than the Disease. I wish you would order your Drafts payable to me and not Mrs. B. This is worse than Hannibal Higgins; [1] who the Devil could suppose that any Body would have mistaken him for a _real personage?_ & what earthly consequence could it be whether the Blank in the Draft was filled up with _Wilkins, Tomkyns, Simkins, Wiggins, Spriggins, Jiggins_, or _Higgins?_ If I had put in _James Johnson_ you would not have demurred, & why object to Hannibal Higgins? particularly after his _respectable Endorsements_. As to Business, I make no pretensions to a Knowledge of any thing but a Greek Grammer or a Racing Calendar; but if the _Quintessence_ of information on that head consists in unnecessary & unpleasant delays, explanations, rebuffs, retorts, repartees, & recriminations, the House of H.& B. stands pre-eminent in the profession, as from the Bottom of his Soul testifies Yours, etc., etc., BYRON. P.S--Will you dine with me on Sunday Tête a Tête at six o'clock? I should be happy to see you before, but my Engagements will not permit me, as on Wednesday I go to the House. I shall have Hargreaves & his Brother on some day after you; I don't like to annoy Children with the _formal_ Faces of _legal_ papas. [Footnote 1: The point of the allusion is that Byron had endorsed one of Hanson's drafts with the name of "Hannibal Higgins," and had been solemnly warned of the consequences of so tampering with the dignity of the law.] 78.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. August 2, 1807. London begins to disgorge its contents--town is empty--consequently I can scribble at leisure, as occupations are less numerous. In a fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but expect two epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does not proceed rapidly in Notts--very possible. In town things wear a more promising aspect, and a man whose works are praised by _reviewers_, admired by _duchesses_, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not dedicate much consideration to _rustic readers_. I have now a review before me, entitled _Literary Recreations_ [1] where my _hardship_ is applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but think _him_ a very discerning gentleman, and _myself_ a devilish _clever_ fellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just to give an agreeable _relish_ to the praise. You know I hate insipid, unqualified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the 13th Number of _Literary Recreations_ for the last month. I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the article--it is printed in a periodical publication--and though I have written a paper (a review of Wordsworth), which appears in the same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it--even the editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, [2] requested he would introduce my _Poetical_ Lordship to her _Highness_, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly, in common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim her relationship with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an excursion for some days afterwards; and, as the Duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction till the winter, when I shall favour the lady, _whose taste I shall not dispute_, with my most sublime and edifying conversation. She is now in the Highlands, and Alexander took his departure, a few days ago, for the same _blessed_ seat of "_dark rolling winds_." Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a _third_--at least so he says. In every bookseller's window I see my _own name_, and _say nothing_, but enjoy my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more: and "A Friend to the Cause of Literature" begs I will _gratify_ the _public_ with some new work "at no very distant period." Who would not be a bard?--that is to say, if all critics would be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I doubt not, for this _gentle_ encouragement. If so, have at 'em? By the by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after two in the morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily got Hutton's account. [3] I shall extend the poem to eight or ten books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be published or not must depend on circumstances. So much for _egotism!_ My _laurels_ have turned my brain, but the _cooling acids_ of forthcoming criticism will probably restore me to _modesty_. Southwell is a damned place--I have done with it--at least in all probability; excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts. You were my only _rational_ companion; and in plain truth, I had more respect for you than the whole _bevy_, with whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousand _dolls_ would have done. Believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature in _this circle_ of _sin_, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince my gratitude. Adieu. Yours, etc. P.S.--Remember me to Dr. P. [Footnote 1: See page 137 [Letter 76], [Foot]note 2.] [Footnote 2: The Duchess of Gordon (1748-1812), 'née' Jean Maxwell of Monreith, daughter of Sir W. Maxwell, Bart., married in 1767 the Duke of Gordon. The most successful matchmaker of the age, she married three of her daughters to three dukes--Manchester, Richmond, and Bedford. A fourth daughter was Lady Mandalina Sinclair, afterwards, by a second marriage, Lady Mandalina Palmer. A fifth was married to Lord Cornwallis (see the extraordinary story told in the 'Recollections of Samuel Rogers', pp. 145-146). According to Wraxall ('Posthumous Memoirs', vol. ii. p. 319), she schemed to secure Pitt for her daughter Lady Charlotte, and Eugène Beauharnais for Lady Georgiana, afterwards Duchess of Bedford. Cyrus Redding ('Memoirs of William Beckford', vol. ii. pp. 337-339) describes her attack upon the owner of Fonthill, where she stayed upwards of a week, magnificently entertained, without once seeing the wary master of the house. She was also the social leader of the Tories, and her house in Pall Mall, rented from the Duke of Buckingham, was the meeting-place of the party. Malcontents accused her of using her power tyrannically:-- "Not Gordon's broad and brawny Grace, The last new Woman in the Place With more contempt could blast." 'Pandolfo Attonito' (1800). Lord Alexander Gordon died in 1808.] [Footnote 3: William Hutton (1723-1815), a Birmingham bookseller, who took to literature and became a voluminous writer of poems, and of topographical works which still have their value. In his 'Trip to Redcar and Coatham' (Preface, p. vi.) he says, "I took up my pen at the advanced age of fifty-six ... I drove the quill thirty years, during which time I wrote and published thirty books." 'The Battle of Bosworth Field' was published in 1788. A new edition, with additions by John Nichols, appeared in 1813. Byron's poem was never published.] 79.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. London, August 11, 1807. On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands. [1] A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a _tandem_ (a species of open carriage) though the western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase _shelties_, to enable us to view places inaccessible to _vehicular conveyances_. On the coast we shall hire a vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides; and, if we have time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Iceland, only 300 miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to peep at _Hecla_. This last intention you will keep a secret, as my nice _mamma_ would imagine I was on a Voyage of _Discovery_, and raised the accustomed _maternal warwhoop_. Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth through the two bridges, Westminster and Blackfriars, a distance, including the different turns and tracks made on the way, of three miles! [2] You see I am in excellent training in case of a _squall_ at sea. I mean to collect all the Erse traditions, poems, etc., etc., and translate, or expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring under the denomination of _"The Highland "Harp"_ or some title equally _picturesque_. Of Bosworth Field, one book is finished, another just began. It will be a work of three or four years, and most probably never _conclude_. What would you say to some stanzas on Mount Hecla? they would be written at least with _fire_. How is the immortal Bran? and the Phoenix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain? I have lately purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the coadjutor of the aforesaid celestials--his name is _Smut!_ "Bear it, ye breezes, on your _balmy_ wings." Write to me before I set off, I conjure you, by the fifth rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with the books--I thought that worthy had not done much in the country. In town they have been very successful; Carpenter (Moore's publisher) told me a few days ago they sold all their's immediately, and had several enquiries made since, which, from the books being gone, they could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness of Headfort, the Duchess of Gordon, etc., etc., were among the purchasers; and Crosby says the circulation will be still more extensive in the winter, the summer season being very bad for a sale, as most people are absent from London. However, they have gone off extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on my journey through Newark, but cannot approach. Don't tell this to Mrs. B, who supposes I travel a different road. If you have a letter, order it to be left at Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, Newark, about six or eight in the evening. If your brother would ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him--he can return the same night, or sup with us and go home the next morning--the Kingston Arms is my inn. Adieu. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: This projected trip to the Highlands, mentioned in his letter to Augusta Byron of August 30, 1805, seems to have become a joke among Byron's friends. Moore quotes ('Life', p. 56) a letter written by Miss Pigot to her brother: "How can you ask if Lord B. is going to visit the Highlands in the summer? Why, don't _you_ know that he never knows his own mind for ten minutes together? I tell him he is as fickle as the winds, and as uncertain as the waves."] [Footnote 2: "The first time I saw Lord Byron," says Leigh Hunt ('Lord Byron and his Contemporaries', p. 1), "he was rehearsing the part of Leander, under the auspices of Mr. Jackson the prize-fighter. It was in the river Thames, before he went to Greece. I had been bathing, and was standing on the floating machine adjusting my clothes, when I noticed a respectable-looking manly person who was eyeing something at a distance. This was Mr. Jackson waiting for his pupil. The latter was swimming with somebody for a wager." On this occasion, however, Hunt only saw "his Lordship's head bob up and down in the water, like a "buoy."] 80.--To John Hanson. Dorant's Hotel, October 19th, 1807. Dear Hanson,--I will thank you to disburse the quarter due as soon as possible, for I am at this moment contemplating with woeful visage, one _solitary Guinea, two bad sixpences_ and a shilling, being _all_ the _cash_ at present in possession of Yours very truly, BYRON. 81.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot. Trinity College, Cambridge, October 26, 1807. My Dear Elizabeth,--Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning for the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen to inquire how your highness and the rest of my female acquaintance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I know I deserve a scolding for my negligence in not writing more frequently; but racing up and down the country for these last three months, how was it possible to fulfil the duties of a correspondent? Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, as _thin_ as ever (not having gained an ounce since my reduction), and rather in better humour;--but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence. Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it: I have been twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on myself to _suffocate_ in its heavy atmosphere. This place is wretched enough--a villainous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothing but hazard and burgundy, hunting, mathematics, and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of Southwell. Oh! the misery of doing nothing but make _love, enemies_, and _verses_. Next January (but this is _entre nous only_, and pray let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be throwing her tomahawk at any of my curious projects,) I am going to _sea_ for four or five months, with my cousin Captain Bettesworth, [1] who commands the _Tartar_, the finest frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish to look at a naval life. We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or--to the devil; and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four and twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself. I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a _tame bear_. [2] When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, "he should _sit for a fellowship._" Sherard will explain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This answer delighted them not. We have several parties here, and this evening a large assortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with me,--a precious mixture, but they go on well together; and for me, I am a _spice_ of every thing except a jockey; by the bye, I was dismounted again the other day. Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I have written 214 pages of a novel--one poem of 380 lines, [3] to be published (without my name) in a few weeks, with notes,--560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. _Apropos_, I have been praised to the skies in the _Critical Review_, [4] and abused greatly in another publication. [5] So much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book: it keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, nor do the humblest escape;--so I bear it like a philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse, my censor only quotes _two lines_ from different poems, in support of his opinion. Now, the proper way to _cut up_, is to quote long passages, and make them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of praise, and more than _my modesty_ will allow said on the subject. Adieu. P.S.--Write, write, write!!! [Footnote 1: George Edmund Byron Bettesworth (1780-1808), as lieutenant of the 'Centaur', was wounded (1804) in the capture of the 'Curieux'. In command of the latter vessel he captured the 'Dame Ernouf' (1805), and was again wounded. He was made a post-captain in the latter year, when he brought home despatches from Nelson at Antigua, announcing Villeneuve's return to Europe. He was killed off Bergen in 1808, while in command of the 'Tartar'. Captain Bettesworth, whose father assumed the name of Bettesworth in addition to that of Trevanion, married, in 1807, Lady Alethea Grey, daughter of Earl Grey. Through his grandmother, Sophia Trevanion, Byron was Captain Bettesworth's cousin.] [Footnote 2: See 'Poems', vol. i. p. 406. ] [Footnote 3: This poem, printed in book form, but not published, under the title of 'British Bards', is the foundation of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The MS. is in the possession of Mr. Murray.] [Footnote 4: For September, 1807. In noticing the Elegy on Newstead Abbey, the writer says, "We could not but hail, with something of prophetic rapture, the hope conveyed in the closing stanza:-- "'Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray.'"] [Footnote 5: The first number of 'The Satirist: A Monthly Meteor' (October, 1807).] 82.--To J. Ridge. Trinity College, Cambridge, November 20, 1807. Sir,--I am happy to hear every thing goes on so well, and I presume you will soon commence, though I am still of opinion the first Edition had better be entirely sold, before you risk the printing of a second. As Curly recommends fine wove Foolscap, let it be used, and I will order a design in London for a plate, my own portrait would perhaps be best, but as that would take up so long a time in completing we will substitute probably a view of Harrow, [1] or Newstead in its stead. You will omit the poems mentioned below: Stanzas on a view of Harrow. To a Quaker. The First Kiss of Love. College Examinations. Lines to the Rev. J. T. Becher. To be inserted, not exactly in the place, but in different parts of the volume, I will send you five poems never yet published. Two of tolerable length, at least much longer than any of the above, which are ordered to be omitted. Mention in your answer when you would like to receive the manuscripts that they may be sent. By the bye, I must have the proofs of the Manuscripts sent to Cambridge as they occur; the proofs from the printed copy you can manage with care, if Mr. Becher will assist you. Attend to the list of _Errata_, that we may not have a _Second Edition_ of them also. The Preface we have done with, perhaps I may send an Advertisement, a dedication shall be forthcoming in due Season. You will send a proof of the first Sheet for Inspection, and soon too, for I am about to set out for London next week. If I remain there any time, I shall apprize you where to send the Manuscript Proofs. Do you think the others will be sold before the next are ready, what says Curly? remember I have advised you not to risk it a second time, and it is not too late to retract. However, you must abide by your own discretion: Etc., etc., BYRON. P.S.--You will print from the Copy I sent you with the alterations, pray attend to these, and be careful of mistakes. In my last I gave you directions concerning the Title page and Mottoes. [Footnote 1: A view of Harrow was given.] 83.--To John Hanson. Trin. Coll., Cambridge, Dec. 2nd, 1807. My Dear Sir,--I hope to take my New Years Day dinner with you _en famille_. Tell Hargreaves I will bring his Blackstones, and shall have no objection to see my Daniel's _Field Sports_, if they have not escaped his recollection.--I certainly wish the expiration of my minority as much as you do, though for a reason more nearly affecting my magisterial person at this moment, namely, the want of twenty pounds, for no spendthrift peer, or unlucky poet, was ever less indebted to _Cash_ than George Gordon is at present, or is more likely to continue in the same predicament.--My present quarter due on the 25th was drawn long ago, and I must be obliged to you for the loan of twenty on my next, to be deducted when the whole becomes tangible, that is, probably, some months after it is exhausted. Reserve Murray's quarter, [1] of course, and I shall have just 100 _!_. to receive at Easter, but if the risk of my demand is too great, inform me, that I may if possible convert my Title into cash, though I am afraid twenty pounds will be too much to ask as Times go, if I were an Earl ... but a Barony must fetch ten, perhaps fifteen, and that is something when we have not as many pence. Your answer will oblige Yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--Remember me to Mrs. H. in particular, and the family in general. [Footnote 1: Joe Murray. (See page 21 [Letter 7], [Foot]note 3 [4].)] 84.--To John Murray. [1] Ravenna, 9bre 19, 1820. What you said of the late Charles Skinner Matthews [2] has set me to my recollections; but I have not been able to turn up any thing which would do for the purposed Memoir of his brother,--even if he had previously done enough during his life to sanction the introduction of anecdotes so merely personal. He was, however, a very extraordinary man, and would have been a great one. No one ever succeeded in a more surpassing degree than he did as far as he went. He was indolent, too; but whenever he stripped, he overthrew all antagonists. His conquests will be found registered at Cambridge, particularly his _Downing_ one, which was hotly and highly contested, and yet easily _won_. Hobhouse was his most intimate friend, and can tell you more of him than any man. William Bankes [3] also a great deal. I myself recollect more of his oddities than of his academical qualities, for we lived most together at a very idle period of _my_ life. When I went up to Trinity, in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had become attached during the two last years of my stay there; wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford (there were no rooms vacant at Christchurch); wretched from some private domestic circumstances of different kinds, and consequently about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop. So that, although I knew Matthews, and met him often _then_ at Bankes's, (who was my collegiate pastor, and master, and patron,) and at Rhode's, Milnes's, Price's, Dick's, Macnamara's, Farrell's, Gally Knight's, and others of that _set_ of contemporaries, yet I was neither intimate with him nor with any one else, except my old schoolfellow Edward Long [4] (with whom I used to pass the day in riding and swimming), and William Bankes, who was good-naturedly tolerant of my ferocities. It was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of a year away from Cambridge, to which I had returned again to _reside_ for my degree, that I became one of Matthews's familiars, by means of Hobhouse, [5] who, after hating me for two years, because I wore a _white hat_, and a _grey_ coat, and rode a _grey_ horse (as he says himself), took me into his good graces because I had written some poetry. I had always lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, in their company--but now we became really friends in a morning. Matthews, however, was not at this period resident in College. I met _him_ chiefly in London, and at uncertain periods at Cambridge. Hobhouse, in the mean time, did great things: he founded the Cambridge "Whig Club" (which he seems to have forgotten), and the "Amicable Society," which was dissolved in consequence of the members constantly quarrelling, and made himself very popular with "us youth," and no less formidable to all tutors, professors, and heads of Colleges. William Bankes was gone; while he stayed, he ruled the roast--or rather the _roasting_--and was father of all mischiefs. Matthews and I, meeting in London, and elsewhere, became great cronies. He was not good tempered--nor am I--but with a little tact his temper was manageable, and I thought him so superior a man, that I was willing to sacrifice something to his humours, which were often, at the same time, amusing and provoking. What became of his _papers_ (and he certainly had many), at the time of his death, was never known. I mention this by the way, fearing to skip it over, and _as_ he _wrote_ remarkably well, both in Latin and English. We went down to Newstead together, [6] where I had got a famous cellar, and _Monks'_ dresses from a masquerade warehouse. We were a company of some seven or eight, with an occasional neighbour or so for visiters, and used to sit up late in our friars' dresses, drinking burgundy, claret, champagne, and what not, out of the _skull-cup_, and all sorts of glasses, and buffooning all round the house, in our conventual garments. [7] Matthews always denominated me "the Abbot," and never called me by any other name in his good humours, to the day of his death. The harmony of these our symposia was somewhat interrupted, a few days after our assembling, by Matthews's threatening to throw Hobhouse out of a _window_, in consequence of I know not what commerce of jokes ending in this epigram. Hobhouse came to me and said, that "his respect and regard for me as host would not permit him to call out any of my guests, and that he should go to town next morning." He did. It was in vain that I represented to him that the window was not high, and that the turf under it was particularly soft. Away he went. Matthews and myself had travelled down from London together, talking all the way incessantly upon one single topic. When we got to Loughborough, I know not what chasm had made us diverge for a moment to some other subject, at which he was indignant. "Come," said he, "don't let us break through--let us go on as we began, to our journey's end;" and so he continued, and was as entertaining as ever to the very end. He had previously occupied, during my year's absence from Cambridge, my rooms in Trinity, with the furniture; and Jones, [8] the tutor, in his odd way, had said, on putting him in, "Mr. Matthews, I recommend to your attention not to damage any of the moveables, for Lord Byron, Sir, is a young man of _tumultuous passions_." Matthews was delighted with this; and whenever anybody came to visit him, begged them to handle the very door with caution; and used to repeat Jones's admonition in his tone and manner. There was a large mirror in the room, on which he remarked, "that he thought his friends were grown uncommonly assiduous in coming to _see him_, but he soon discovered that they only came to _see themselves_." Jones's phrase of "_tumultuous passions_" and the whole scene, had put him into such good humour, that I verily believe that I owed to it a portion of his good graces. When at Newstead, somebody by accident rubbed against one of his white silk stockings, one day before dinner; of course the gentleman apologised. "Sir," answered Matthews, "it may be all very well for you, who have a great many silk stockings, to dirty other people's; but to me, who have only this _one pair_, which I have put on in honour of the Abbot here, no apology can compensate for such carelessness; besides, the expense of washing." He had the same sort of droll sardonic way about every thing. A wild Irishman, named Farrell, one evening began to say something at a large supper at Cambridge, Matthews roared out "Silence!" and then, pointing to Farrell, cried out, in the words of the oracle, "Orson is endowed with reason." You may easily suppose that Orson lost what reason he had acquired, on hearing this compliment. When Hobhouse published his volume of poems, the _Miscellany_ (which Matthews would call the "_Miss-sell-any_"), all that could be drawn from him was, that the preface was "extremely like _Walsh_." Hobhouse thought this at first a compliment; but we never could make out what it was, [9] for all we know of _Walsh_ is his Ode to King William, [10] and Pope's epithet of "_knowing Walsh_." [11] When the Newstead party broke up for London, Hobhouse and Matthews, who were the greatest friends possible, agreed, for a whim, to _walk together_ to town. They quarrelled by the way, and actually walked the latter half of the journey, occasionally passing and repassing, without speaking. When Matthews had got to Highgate, he had spent all his money but three-pence halfpenny, and determined to spend that also in a pint of beer, which I believe he was drinking before a public-house, as Hobhouse passed him (still without speaking) for the last time on their route. They were reconciled in London again. One of Matthews's passions was "the fancy;" and he sparred uncommonly well. But he always got beaten in rows, or combats with the bare fist. In swimming, too, he swam well; but with _effort_ and _labour_, and _too high_ out of the water; so that Scrope Davies [1] and myself, of whom he was therein somewhat emulous, always told him that he would be drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass in the water. He was so; but surely Scrope and myself would have been most heartily glad that "the Dean had lived, And our prediction proved a lie." His head was uncommonly handsome, very like what _Pope's_ was in his youth. His voice, and laugh, and features, are strongly resembled by his brother Henry's, if Henry be _he_ of _King's College_. His passion for boxing was so great, that he actually wanted me to match him with Dogherty [13] (whom I had backed and made the match for against Tom Belcher [14]), and I saw them spar together at my own lodgings with the gloves on. As he was bent upon it, I would have backed Dogherty to please him, but the match went off. It was of course to have been a private fight, in a private room. On one occasion, being too late to go home and dress, he was equipped by a friend (Mr. Baillie, I believe,) in a magnificently fashionable and somewhat exaggerated shirt and neckcloth. He proceeded to the Opera, and took his station in Fop's Alley. During the interval between the opera and the ballet, an acquaintance took his station by him and saluted him: "Come round," said Matthews, "come round." "Why should I come round?" said the other; "you have only to turn your head--I am close by you." "That is exactly what I cannot do," said Matthews; "don't you see the state I am in?" pointing to his buckram shirt collar and inflexible cravat,--and there he stood with his head always in the same perpendicular position during the whole spectacle. One evening, after dining together, as we were going to the Opera, I happened to have a spare Opera ticket (as subscriber to a box), and presented it to Matthews. "Now, sir," said he to Hobhouse afterwards, "this I call _courteous_ in the Abbot--another man would never have thought that I might do better with half a guinea than throw it to a door-keeper;--but here is a man not only asks me to dinner, but gives me a ticket for the theatre." These were only his oddities, for no man was more liberal, or more honourable in all his doings and dealings, than Matthews. He gave Hobhouse and me, before we set out for Constantinople, a most splendid entertainment, to which we did ample justice. One of his fancies was dining at all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Somebody popped upon him in I know not what coffee-house in the Strand--and what do you think was the attraction? Why, that he paid a shilling (I think) to _dine with his hat on_. This he called his "_hat_ house," and used to boast of the comfort of being covered at meal times. When Sir Henry Smith [15] was expelled from Cambridge for a row with a tradesman named "Hiron," Matthews solaced himself with shouting under Hiron's windows every evening, "Ah me! what perils do environ The man who meddles with _hot Hiron_." He was also of that band of profane scoffers who, under the auspices of----, used to rouse Lort Mansel (late Bishop of Bristol) from his slumbers in the lodge of Trinity; and when he appeared at the window foaming with wrath, and crying out, "I know you, gentlemen, I know you!" were wont to reply, "We beseech thee to hear us, good Lort!"--"Good Lort deliver us!" (Lort was his Christian name.) As he was very free in his speculations upon all kinds of subjects, although by no means either dissolute or intemperate in his conduct, and as I was no less independent, our conversation and correspondence used to alarm our friend Hobhouse to a considerable degree. You must be almost tired of my packets, which will have cost a mint of postage. Salute Gifford and all my friends. Yours, etc. [Footnote 1: This letter, though written twelve years later, belongs to the Cambridge period of Byron's life. It is therefore introduced here. (For John Murray, see [Foot]note [1] to letter to R. C. Dallas [Letter 167] of August 21, 1811.)] [Footnote 2: Charles Skinner Matthews was known at Eton as Matthews 'major', his 'minor' being his brother Henry, the author of 'The Diary of an Invalid', afterwards a Judge in the Supreme Court of Ceylon, who died in 1828. They were the sons of John Matthews of Belmont, Herefordshire, M.P. for that county (1802-6). C. S. Matthews became a Scholar of Trinity, Cambridge; Ninth Wrangler in 1805; First Members' Prizeman in 1807; Fellow of Downing in 1808. He was drowned in the Cam in August, 1811. He at the time contemplated standing as Member for the University of Cambridge. For a description of the accident, see letter from Henry Drury to Francis Hodgson ('Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 182-185). In the note to 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanza xci., Byron speaks of Matthews: "I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honours, against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired; while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority."] [Footnote 3: See page 120 [Letter 67], [Foot]note 1.] [Footnote 4: See page 73 [Letter 31], [Foot]note 2.] [Footnote 5: See page 163 [Letter 83], note 1 [5].] [Footnote 6: Of this visit to Newstead, Matthews wrote the following account to his sister:-- "London, May 22, 1809. "My Dear----,--I must begin with giving you a few particulars of the singular place which I have lately quitted. Newstead Abbey is situate 136 miles from London,--four on this side Mansfield. It is so fine a piece of antiquity, that I should think there must be a description, and, perhaps, a picture of it in Grose. The ancestors of its present owner came into possession of it at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries,--but the building itself is of a much earlier date. Though sadly fallen to decay, it is still completely an _abbey_, and most part of it is still standing in the same state as when it was first built. There are two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of cells and rooms about them, which, though not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, might easily be made so; and many of the original rooms, amongst which is a fine stone hall, are still in use. Of the abbey church only one end remains; and the old kitchen, with a long range of apartments, is reduced to a heap of rubbish. Leading from the abbey to the modern part of the habitation is a noble room, seventy feet in length, and twenty-three in breadth; but every part of the house displays neglect and decay, save those which the present Lord has lately fitted up. The house and gardens are entirely surrounded by a wall with battlements. In front is a large lake, bordered here and there with castellated buildings, the chief of which stands on an eminence at the further extremity of it. Fancy all this surrounded with bleak and barren hills, with scarce a tree to be seen for miles, except a solitary clump or two, and you will have some idea of Newstead. For the late Lord, being at enmity with his son, to whom the estate was secured by entail, resolved, out of spite to the same, that the estate should descend to him in as miserable a plight as he could possibly reduce it to; for which cause, he took no care of the mansion, and fell to lopping of every tree he could lay his hands on, so furiously, that he reduced immense tracts of woodland country to the desolate state I have just described. However, his son died before him, so that all his rage was thrown away. So much for the place, concerning which I have thrown together these few particulars, meaning my account to be, like the place itself, without any order or connection. But if the place itself appear rather strange to you, the ways of the inhabitants will not appear much less so. Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that I may introduce you to my Lord and his visitants. But have a care how you proceed; be mindful to go there in broad daylight, and with your eyes about you. For, should you make any blunder,--should you go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid hold of by a bear; and should you go to the left, your case is still worse, for you run full against a wolf!--Nor, when you have attained the door, is your danger over; for the hall being decayed, and therefore standing in need of repair, a bevy of inmates are very probably banging at one end of it with their pistols; so that if you enter without giving loud notice of your approach, you have only escaped the wolf and the bear to expire by the pistol-shots of the merry monks of Newstead. Our party consisted of Lord Byron and four others, and was, now and then, increased by the presence of a neighbouring parson. As for our way of living, the order of the day was generally this:--for breakfast we had no set hour, but each suited his own convenience, --everything remaining on the table till the whole party had done; though had one wished to breakfast at the early hour of ten, one would have been rather lucky to find any of the servants up. Our average hour of rising was one. I, who generally got up between eleven and twelve, was always,--even when an invalid,--the first of the party, and was esteemed a prodigy of early rising. It was frequently past two before the breakfast party broke up. Then, for the amusements of the morning, there was reading, fencing, single-stick, or shuttle-cock, in the great room; practising with pistols in the hall; walking--riding--cricket--sailing on the lake, playing with the bear, or teasing the wolf. Between seven and eight we dined; and our evening lasted from that time till one, two, or three in the morning. The evening diversions may be easily conceived. I must not omit the custom of handing round, after dinner, on the removal of the cloth, a human skull filled with burgundy. After revelling on choice viands, and the finest wines of France, we adjourned to tea, where we amused ourselves with reading, or improving conversation,--each, according to his fancy,--and, after sandwiches, etc., retired to rest. A set of monkish dresses, which had been provided, with all the proper apparatus of crosses, beads, tonsures, etc., often gave a variety to our appearance, and to our pursuits. You may easily imagine how chagrined I was at being ill nearly the first half of the time I was there. But I was led into a very different reflection from that of Dr. Swift, who left Pope's house without ceremony, and afterwards informed him, by letter, that it was impossible for two sick friends to live together; for I found my shivering and invalid frame so perpetually annoyed by the thoughtless and tumultuous health of every one about me, that I heartily wished every soul in the house to be as ill as myself. "The journey back I performed on foot, together with another of the guests. We walked about twenty-five miles a day; but were a week on the road, from being detained by the rain. So here I close my account of an expedition which has somewhat extended my knowledge of this country. And where do you think I am going next? To Constantinople!--at least, such an excursion has been proposed to me. Lord B. and another friend of mine are going thither next month, and have asked me to join the party; but it seems to be but a wild scheme, and requires twice thinking upon. "Addio, my dear I., yours very affectionately, C. S. MATTHEWS."] [Footnote 7: A joke, related by Hobhouse, reminds us of the youth of the party. In the Long Gallery at Newstead was placed a stone coffin, from which, as he passed down the Gallery at night, he heard a groan proceeding. On going nearer, a cowled figure rose from the coffin and blew out the candle. It was Matthews.] [Footnote 8: The Rev. Thomas Jones. (See page 79 [Letter 36], [Foot]note 1.)] [Footnote 9: The only thing remarkable about Walsh's preface is that Dr. Johnson praises it as "very judicious," but is, at the same time, silent respecting the poems to which it is prefixed (Moore).] [Footnote 10: No "Ode" under this title is to be found in Walsh's Poems. Byron had, no doubt, in mind _The Golden Age Restored_--a composition in which, says Dr. Johnson, "there was something of humour, while the facts were recent; but it now strikes no longer."] [Footnote 11: "----Granville the polite, And _knowing Walsh_, would tell me I could write." "About fifteen," says Pope, "I got acquainted with Mr. Walsh. He used to encourage me much, and tell me, that there was one way left of excelling: for though we had several great poets, we never had any one great poet that was correct; and he desired me to make that my study and aim" (Spence's _Anecdotes_, edit. 1820, p. 280).] [Footnote 12: See page 165 [Letter 86], [Foot]note 2.] [Footnote 13: Dan Dogherty, Irish champion (1806-11), came into notice as a pugilist in 1806. He was beaten by Belcher in April, 1808, near the Rubbing House on Epsom Downs, and again on the Curragh of Kildare, in 1813, in thirty-five minutes, after twenty-six rounds.] [Footnote 14: Tom Belcher (1783-1854), younger brother of Jem Belcher the champion, fought and won his first fight in London, in 1804, against Warr. The fight took place in Tothill Fields, Westminster. Twice beaten by Dutch Sam (Elias Samuel), in 1806 and 1807, he never held the championship, which a man of his height (5 ft. 9 ins.) and weight (10 st. 12 lbs.) could scarcely hope to win. But he repeatedly established the superiority of art over strength, and was one of the most popular and respectable pugilists of the day. Under his management the Castle Tavern at Holborn, in which he succeeded Gregson (page 207 [Letter 108], [Foot]note 1 [2]), was the head-quarters of pugilism.] [Footnote 15: Sir Henry Smyth, Baronet, of Trinity Hall, A.M. 1805, was found between eleven and twelve at night, on May 11, 1805, "inciting to a disturbance" at the shop of a Mrs. Thrower on Market Hill. Other members of the University seem to have been equally guilty. The sentence of the Vice-Chancellor and Heads was "that he be suspended from his degree and banished from the University." The others were admonished only; so it was clearly considered that Smyth was the ring-leader.] 85.--To Henry Drury. [1] Dorant's Hotel, Jan. 13, 1808. My Dear Sir,--Though the stupidity of my servants, or the porter of the house, in not showing you up stairs (where I should have joined you directly), prevented me the pleasure of seeing you yesterday, I hoped to meet you at some public place in the evening. However, my stars decreed otherwise, as they generally do, when I have any favour to request of them. I think you would have been surprised at my figure, for, since our last meeting, I am reduced four stone in weight. I then weighed fourteen stone seven pound, and now only _ten stone and a half_. I have disposed of my _superfluities_ by means of hard exercise and abstinence. Should your Harrow engagements allow you to visit town between this and February, I shall be most happy to see you in Albemarle Street. If I am not so fortunate, I shall endeavour to join you for an afternoon at Harrow, though, I fear, your cellar will by no means contribute to my cure. As for my worthy preceptor, Dr. B., [2] our encounter would by no means prevent the _mutual endearments_ he and I were wont to lavish on each other. We have only spoken once since my departure from Harrow in 1805, and then he politely told Tatersall [3] I was not a proper associate for his pupils. This was long before my strictures in verse; but, in plain _prose_, had I been some years older, I should have held my tongue on his perfections. But, being laid on my back, when that schoolboy thing was written--or rather dictated--expecting to rise no more, my physician having taken his sixteenth fee, and I his prescription, I could not quit this earth without leaving a memento of my constant attachment to Butler in gratitude for his manifold good offices. I meant to have been down in July; but thinking my appearance, immediately after the publication, would be construed into an insult, I directed my steps elsewhere. Besides, I heard that some of the boys had got hold of my _Libellus_, contrary to my wishes certainly, for I never transmitted a single copy till October, when I gave one to a boy, since gone, after repeated importunities. You will, I trust, pardon this egotism. As you had touched on the subject I thought some explanation necessary. Defence I shall not attempt, _Hic murus aheneus esto, nil conscire sibi_--and "so on" (as Lord Baltimore [4] said on his trial for a rape)--I have been so long at Trinity as to forget the conclusion of the line; but though I cannot finish my quotation, I will my letter, and entreat you to believe me, gratefully and affectionately, etc. P.S.--I will not lay a tax on your time by requiring an answer, lest you say, as Butler said to Tatersall (when I had written his reverence an impudent epistle on the expression before mentioned), viz. "that I wanted to draw him into a correspondence." [Footnote 1: See page 12 [Letter 4], [Foot]note 1 [2]; and page 41 [Letter 14], [Foot] note 2 [1].] [Footnote 2: Dr. Butler, Head-master of Harrow (see page 58 [Letter 22], [Foot]note 1).] [Footnote 3: See page 59 [Letter 22], [Foot]note 1 [2].] [Footnote 4: Francis Calvert, seventh Lord Baltimore (1731-1771), was charged with decoying a young milliner, named Sarah Woodcock, to his house, and with rape. On February 12, 1768, he was committed for trial at the Spring assizes, was tried at Kingston, March 26, 1768, and acquitted. The story is the subject of a romance, 'Injured Innocence; or the Rape of Sarah Woodcock;' A Tale, by S. J., Esq., of Magdalen College, Oxford. New York (no date). "I thank God," Lord Baltimore is reported to have said, "that I have had firmness and resolution to meet my accusers face to face, and provoke an enquiry into my conduct, 'Hic murus aheneus esto, nil conscire sibi'" ('Ann. Register' for 1768, p. 234). His body lay in state at Exeter Change, previous to its interment at Epsom (Leigh Hunt's 'The Town', edit. 1893, p. 191).] 86.--To John Cam Hobhouse. [1] Newstead Abbey, Notts, January 16, 1808. My Dear Hobhouse,--I do not know how the _dens_-descended Davies [2] came to mention his having received a copy of my epistle to you, but I addressed him and you on the same evening, and being much incensed at the account I had received from Wallace, I communicated the contents to the Birdmore, though without any of that malice wherewith you charge me. I shall leave my card at Batts, and hope to see you in your progress to the North. I have lately discovered Scrope's genealogy to be ennobled by a collateral tie with the Beardmore, Chirurgeon and Dentist to Royalty, and that the town of Southwell contains cousins of Scrope's, who disowned them (I grieve to speak it) on visiting that city in my society. How I found this out I will disclose, the first time "we three meet again." But why did he conceal his lineage? "Ah, my dear H., it was _cruel_, it was _insulting_, it was _unnecessary_." I have (notwithstanding your kind invitation to Wallace) been alone since the 8th of December; nothing of moment has occurred since our anniversary row. I shall be in London on the 19th; there are to be oxen roasted and sheep boiled on the 22nd, with ale and uproar for the mobility; a feast is also providing for the tenantry. For my own part, I shall know as little of the matter as a corpse of the funeral solemnized in its honour. A letter addressed to Reddish's will find me. I still intend publishing the _Bards_, but I have altered a good deal of the "Body of the Book," added and interpolated, with some excisions; your lines still stand, [3] and in all there will appear 624 lines. I should like much to see your Essay upon Entrails: is there any honorary token of silver gilt? any cups, or pounds sterling attached to the prize, besides glory? I expect to see you with a medal suspended from your button-hole, like a Croix de St. Louis. Fletcher's father is deceased, and has left his son tway cottages, value ten pounds per annum. I know not how it is, but Fletch., though only the third brother, conceives himself entitled to all the estates of the defunct, and I have recommended him to a lawyer, who, I fear, will triumph in the spoils of this ancient family. A Birthday Ode has been addressed to me by a country schoolmaster, in which I am likened to the Sun, or Sol, as he classically saith; the people of Newstead are compared to Laplanders. I am said to be a Baron, and a Byron, the truth of which is indisputable. Feronia is again to reign (she must have some woods to govern first), but it is altogether a very pleasant performance, and the author is as superior to Pye, as George Gordon to George Guelph. To be sure some of the lines are too short, but then, to make amends, the Alexandrines have from fifteen to seventeen syllables, so we may call them Alexandrines the great. I shall be glad to hear from you, and beg you to believe me, Yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: John Cam Hobhouse (1786-1869), created in 1851 Baron Broughton de Gyfford, was the eldest son of Mr. Benjamin Hobhouse, created a baronet in 1812, and M.P. (from 1797 to 1818) successively for Bletchingley, Grampound, and Hindon. From a school at Bristol, John Cam Hobhouse was sent to Westminster, and thence to Trinity, Cambridge, where he won (1808) the Hulsean Prize for an essay on "Sacrifices," and made acquaintance with Byron, as related in Letter 84. In 1809 he published a poetical miscellany, consisting of sixty-five pieces, under the title of 'Imitations and Translations from the Ancient and Modern Classics, together with original Poems never before published' (London, 1809, 8vo). (For Byron's nine contributions, see 'Poems', vol. i., Bibliographical Note.) In 1809-10 he was Byron's travelling companion abroad (see 'A Journey through Albania, etc.' London, 1813, 4to). In 1813 he travelled with Douglas Kinnaird in Sweden, Germany, Austria, and Italy; in 1814 he was at Paris with the allied armies; and in April, 1815, was there again till the second Napoleonic war broke out, returning to witness the second restoration of the Bourbons (see his 'Letters--written by an Englishman resident in Paris, etc.' Anon., London, 1816, 2 vols., 8vo). During 1814 he was much with Byron in London. He notes going with him to Drury Lane, and being introduced with him to Kean (May 19); dining with him at Lord Tavistock's (June 4); dining with him at Douglas Kinnaird's, to meet Kean (December 14). He was Byron's best man at his marriage at Seaham (January 2, 1815), and it was to him that the bride said, "If I am not happy, it will be my own fault." He was the last person who shook hands with Byron on Dover pier, when the latter left England in 1816. Later in the same year he was with him at the Villa Diodati, on the Lake of Geneva, and travelled with him to Venice. To him Byron dedicated 'The Siege of Corinth', In the next year he was again with Byron in the Villa La Mira on the banks of the Brenta, and at Venice, where he prepared the commentary on the fourth canto of 'Childe Harold', which Byron dedicated to him. Part of the notes were published separately ('Historical Illustrations, etc.' London, 1818, 8vo). In 1818 Hobhouse stood for Westminster, but was defeated by George Lamb, the representative of the official Whigs. He was an original member of "The Rota Club," afterwards known as "Harrington's," to which Michael Bruce, Douglas Kinnaird, Scrope Davies, and others belonged, and which Byron, writing from Italy, expressed a wish to join. He had now embarked on political life. His pamphlet, 'A Defence of the People' (1819), was followed in the same year by 'A Trifling Mistake', which was declared by the House of Commons to be a breach of privilege. In consequence, he was committed to Newgate. The death of George III., and the dissolution of Parliament, set him free. He contested Westminster, won the seat with Sir Francis Burdett as his colleague, and represented it for thirteen years. He took the part of Queen Caroline against the Government. At the Queen's funeral (August 7, 1821) he attended the procession which escorted her body (August 13) from Brandenburg House to Harwich, and saw the coffin placed upon the vessel. His political career was long, independent, useful, and distinguished, and he specially associated himself with such questions as the shortening of the hours for infant labour, the opening up of metropolitan vestries, and the subject of parliamentary reform. In 1832 he was made a Privy Councillor, and became Secretary at War in Lord Grey's Ministry. This post, finding himself unable to effect essential reforms at the War Office, he exchanged for that of Secretary for Ireland (1833); but he resigned both his office and his seat a few weeks later, being opposed to the Government on a question of taxation. In 1834 he joined Lord Melbourne's Government as First Commissioner of Woods and Forests, with a seat in the Cabinet. In Lord Melbourne's second administration, and again in Lord J. Russell's Government of 1846, he was President of the Board of Control. On his retirement from public life, in 1852, he received high recognition of his official services from the Queen, who conferred on him the Grand Cross of the Bath and a peerage. Hobhouse was present at Her Majesty's first Council, and is said to have originated the phrase, "Her Majesty's Opposition." In 1822 he travelled in Italy (see 'Italy: Remarks made in Several Visits from the Year 1816 to 1834', London, 1859, 2 vols., 8vo). There, on September 20, at Pisa, he for the last time saw Byron, whose parting words were, "Hobhouse, you should never have come, or you should never go." In July, 1824, when Byron's body was brought home, he boarded the 'Florida' in Sandgate Creek, and took charge of the funeral ceremonies from Westminster Stairs to the interment at Hucknall Torkard. He prepared an article for the 'Quarterly Review', exposing the absurdities of Medwin's 'Conversations' and of Dallas's 'Recollections'; but, owing to difficulties with Southey, it was not published. It was the substance of this article which afterwards appeared in the 'Westminster Review' in 1825. In 1830 he wrote, but, by Lord Holland's advice, withheld, a refutation of the charges made against the dead poet as to his separation from Lady Byron. He has, however, left on record that it was not fear which induced Byron to agree to the separation, but that, on the contrary, he was ready to "go into court." The staunchest of Byron's friends, Hobhouse was also the most sensible and candid. As such Byron valued him. Talking to Lady Blessington at Genoa, in 1823, he said ('Conversations', p. 93) that Hobhouse was "the most impartial, or perhaps," added he, "'unpartial', of my friends; he always told me my faults, but I must do him the justice to add, that he told them to 'me', and not to others." On another occasion he said (p. 172), "If friendship, as most people imagine, consists in telling one truth--unvarnished, unadorned truth--he is indeed a friend: yet, hang it, I must be candid, and say I have had many other, and more agreeable, proofs of Hobhouse's friendship than the truths he always told me; but the fact is, I wanted him to sugar them over a little with flattery, as nurses do the physic given to children; and he never would, and therefore I have never felt quite content with him, though, 'au fond', I respect him the more for his candour, while I respect myself very much less for my weakness in disliking it."] [Footnote 2: Scrope Berdmore Davies (1783-1852), born at Horsley, in Gloucestershire, was educated at Eton, and King's College, Cambridge, where he was admitted a Scholar in July, 1802, and a Fellow in July, 1805. In 1803 he was awarded by the Provost of Eton the Belham Scholarship, given to those Scholars of King's who had behaved well at Eton, and held it till 1816. A witty companion, with "a dry caustic manner, and an irresistible stammer" ('Life of Rev, F. Hodgson', vol. i. p. 204), Davies was, during the Regency and afterwards, a popular member of fashionable society. A daring gambler and shrewd calculator, he at one time won heavily at the gaming-tables. On June 10, 1814, as he told Hobhouse, he won £6065 at Watier's Club at Macao. Captain Cronow, in his 'Reminiscences' (ed. 1860, vol. i. pp. 93-96), sketches him among "Golden Ball" Hughes, "King" Allen, and other dandies. But luck turned against him, and he retired, poverty-stricken and almost dependent upon his Fellowship, to Paris, where he died, May 23, 1852. It was supposed he had for many years occupied himself with writing his recollections of his friends. But the notes, if they were ever written, have disappeared. Byron, who hated obligations, as he himself says, counted Davies as a friend, though not on the same plane as Hobhouse. He borrowed from Davies £4800 before he left England in 1809, repaid him in 1814, and dedicated to him his 'Parisina'. In his 'MS. Journal' ('Life', pp. 129, 130) he says, "One of the cleverest men I ever knew, in conversation, was Scrope Berdmore Davies. Hobhouse is also very good in that line, though it is of less consequence to a man who has other ways of showing his talents than in company. Scrope was always ready, and often witty--Hobhouse was witty, but not always so ready, being more diffident." Byron appointed him one of the executors of his will of 1811. In his 'Journal' for March 28, 1814 ('Life', p. 234), occurs this entry: "Yesterday, dined tête à tête at the Cocoa with Scrope Davies--sat from six till midnight--drank between us one bottle of champagne and six of claret, neither of which wines ever affect me. Offered to take Scrope home in my carriage; but he was tipsy and pious, and I was obliged to leave him on his knees praying to I know not what purpose or pagod. No headach, nor sickness, that night, nor to-day. Got up, if anything, earlier than usual--sparred with Jackson 'ad sudorem', and have been much better in health than for many days. I have heard nothing more from Scrope." Scrope Davies visited Byron at the Villa Diodati, in 1816, and brought back with him 'Childe Harold', canto iii. On his return he gave evidence in the case of 'Byron v. Johnson', before the Lord Chancellor, November 28, 1816, when an injunction was obtained to restrain Johnson from publishing a volume containing 'Lord Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage to the Holy Land', and other works, which he professed to have bought from Byron for £500. According to Gronow ('Reminiscences', vol. i. p. 153, 154), Scrope Davies, asked to give his private opinion of Byron, said that he considered him "very agreeable and clever, but vain, overbearing, suspicious, and jealous. Byron hated Palmerston, but liked Peel, and thought that the whole world ought to be constantly employed in admiring his poetry and himself."] [Footnote 3: For Hobhouse's lines on Bowles, see 'English Bards, etc.', line 384, and note.] 87.--To Robert Charles Dallas. [1] Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle Street, Jan. 20, 1808. Sir,--Your letter was not received till this morning, I presume from being addressed to me in Notts., where I have not resided since last June; and as the date is the 6th, you will excuse the delay of my answer. If the little volume you mention has given pleasure to the author of _Percival_ and _Aubrey_, I am sufficiently repaid by his praise. Though our periodical censors have been uncommonly lenient, I confess a tribute from a man of acknowledged genius is still more flattering. But I am afraid I should forfeit all claim to candour, if I did not decline such praise as I do not deserve; and this is, I am sorry to say, the case in the present instance. My compositions speak for themselves, and must stand or fall by their own worth or demerit: _thus far_ I feel highly gratified by your favourable opinion. But my pretensions to virtue are unluckily so few, that though I should be happy to merit, I cannot accept, your applause in that respect. One passage in your letter struck me forcibly: you mention the two Lords Lyttleton [2] in the manner they respectively deserve, and will be surprised to hear the person who is now addressing you has been frequently compared to the _latter_. I know I am injuring myself in your esteem by this avowal, but the circumstance was so remarkable from your observation, that I cannot help relating the fact. The events of my short life have been of so singular a nature, that, though the pride commonly called honour has, and I trust ever will, prevent me from disgracing my name by a mean or cowardly action, I have been already held up as the votary of licentiousness, and the disciple of infidelity. How far justice may have dictated this accusation, I cannot pretend to say; but, like the _gentleman_ to whom my religious friends, in the warmth of their charity, have already devoted me, I am made worse than I really am. However, to quit myself (the worst theme I could pitch upon), and return to my poems, I cannot sufficiently express my thanks, and I hope I shall some day have an opportunity of rendering them in person. A second edition is now in the press, with some additions and considerable omissions; you will allow me to present you with a copy. The 'Critical', [3] 'Monthly', [4] and 'Anti-Jacobin [5] Reviews' have been very indulgent; but the 'Eclectic' [6] has pronounced a furious Philippic, not against the _book_ but the _author_, where you will find all I have mentioned asserted by a reverend divine who wrote the critique. Your name and connection with our family have been long known to me, and I hope your person will be not less so: you will find me an excellent compound of a "Brainless" and a "Stanhope." [7] I am afraid you will hardly be able to read this, for my hand is almost as bad as my character; but you will find me, as legibly as possible, Your obliged and obedient servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Robert Charles Dallas (1754-1842), born in Jamaica and educated in Scotland, read law at the Inner Temple. About 1775 he returned to Jamaica to look after his property and take up a lucrative appointment. Three years later he returned to England, married, and took his wife back with him to the West Indies. His wife's health compelled him to return to Europe, and he lived for some time in France. At the outbreak of the Revolution he emigrated to America; but finally settled down to literary work in England. His first publication (1797) was _Miscellaneous Writings consisting of Poems; Lucretia, a Tragedy; and Moral Essays, with a Vocabulary of the Passions_. He translated a number of French books bearing on the French Revolution, by Bertrand de Moleville, Mallet du Pan, Hue, and Joseph Weber; also a work on Volcanoes by the Abbé Ordinaire, and an historical novel by Madame de Genlis, _The Siege of Rochelle_. He wrote a number of novels, among them _Percival, or Nature Vindicated_ (1801); _Aubrey: a Novel_ (1804); _The Morlands; Tales illustrative of the Simple and Surprising_ (1805); _The Knights; Tales illustrative of the Marvellous_ (1808). Later (1819 and 1823) he published two volumes of poems. He says (preface to _Percival_, p. ix.) that his object is "to improve the heart, as well as to please the fancy, and to be the auxiliary of the Divine and the Moralist." He is one of the writers, others being "Gleaner" Pratt and Lord Carlisle, "whose writings" (_Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Percival Stockdale_, 1809, vol. i. Preface, p. xvi.) "dart through the general fog of our literary dulness." Stockdale further says of him that he was "a man of a most affectionate and virtuous mind. He has had the moral honour, in several novels, to exert his talents, which were worthy of their glorious cause, in the service of good conduct and religion." Dallas's sister, Henrietta Charlotte, married George Anson Byron, the son of Admiral the Hon. John Byron, and was therefore Byron's aunt by marriage. On the score of this connection, Dallas introduced himself to Byron by complimenting him, in a letter dated January 6, 1808, on his _Hours of Idleness_. A well-meaning, self-satisfied, dull, industrious man, he gave Byron excellent moral advice, to which the latter responded as the _fanfaron de ses vices_, evidently with great amusement to himself. _English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers_ was brought out under Dallas's auspices, as well as _Childe Harold_ and _The Corsair_, the profits of which Byron made over to him. Dallas distrusted his own literary judgment in the matter of Byron's verse, and consulted Walter Wright, the author of Horæ Ioniæ, about the prospects of 'Childe Harold'. "I have told him," said Wright, "that I have no doubt this will succeed. Lord Byron had offered him before some translations from Horace, which I told him would never sell, and he did not take them" ('Diary of H. Crabb Robinson', vol. i. pp. 29, 30). The connection between Dallas and Byron practically ended in 1814. The publication of Dallas's 'Recollections of the Life of Lord Byron from the Year 1808 to the end of 1814' was stopped by a decree obtained by Byron's executors, in the Court of Chancery, August 23, 1824. But the book was published by the writer's son, the Rev. A. R. C. Dallas.] [Footnote 2: Byron refers to the following passage in Dallas's letter of January 6, 1808: "A spirit that brings to my mind another noble author, who was not only a fine poet, orator, and historian, but one of the closest reasoners we have on the truth of that religion, of which forgiveness is a prominent principle: the great and the good Lord Lyttelton, whose fame will never die. His son, to whom he had transmitted genius but not virtue, sparkled for a moment, and went out like a falling star, and with him the title became extinct. He was the victim of inordinate passions, and he will be heard of in this world only by those who read the English Peerage" ('Correspondence of Lord Byron', p. 20, the suppressed edition). Dallas was, of course, aware that Byron's predecessor in the title, William, fifth Lord Byron, was known as the "wicked Lord Byron." George, first Lord Lyttelton (1709-1773), to whom Pope refers ('Imitations of Horace', bk. i. Ep. i. 1. 30) as "Still true to virtue, and as warm as true," was a voluminous writer in prose and verse, but owed his political importance to his family connection with Chatham, Temple, and George Grenville. Horace Walpole calls him a "wise moppet" ('Letters', vol. ii. p. 28, ed. Cunningham), and repeatedly sneers at his dulness. His son Thomas, second Lord Lyttelton (1744-1779), the "wicked Lord Lyttelton," appears in W. Combe's 'Diaboliad' as the "Peer of words, Well known,--and honour'd in the House of Lords,-- Whose Eloquence all Parallel defies!" who claims the throne of Hell as the worst of living men. His 'Poems by a Young Nobleman lately deceased' (published in 1780, after his death) may have helped Dallas in his allusion. He was the hero and the victim of the famous ghost story which Dr. Johnson was "willing to believe."] [Footnote 3: 'The Critical Review' (3rd series, vol. xii. pp. 47-53) specially praises lines "On Leaving Newstead Abbey" and "Childish Recollections."] [Footnote 4: In 'Monthly Literary Recreations' (July, 1807, pp. 67-71), "Childish Recollections" and "The Tear" are particularly commended. "As friends to the cause of literature, we have thought proper not to disguise our opinion of his powers, that we might alter his determination, and lead him once more to the Castalian fount."] [Footnote 5: 'The Anti-Jacobin Review' (December, 1807, pp. 407, 408) says that the poems "exhibit strong proofs of genius, accompanied by a lively but chastened imagination, a classical taste, and a benevolent heart."] [Footnote 6: _The Eclectic Review_ (vol. iii. part ii. pp. 989-993) begins its review thus: "The notice we take of this publication regards the author rather than the book; the book is a collection of juvenile pieces, some of very moderate merit, and others of very questionable morality; but the author is a _nobleman_!"] [Footnote 7: Characters in the novel called _Percival_.] 88.--To Robert Charles Dallas. Dorant's, January 21, 1808. Sir,--Whenever leisure and inclination permit me the pleasure of a visit, I shall feel truly gratified in a personal acquaintance with one whose mind has been long known to me in his writings. You are so far correct in your conjecture, that I am a member of the University of Cambridge, where I shall take my degree of A.M. this term; but were reasoning, eloquence, or virtue, the objects of my search, Granta is not their metropolis, nor is the place of her situation an "El Dorado," far less an Utopia. The intellects of her children are as stagnant as her Cam, and their pursuits limited to the church--not of Christ, but of the nearest benefice. As to my reading, I believe I may aver, without hyperbole, it has been tolerably extensive in the historical department; so that few nations exist, or have existed, with whose records I am not in some degree acquainted, from Herodotus down to Gibbon. Of the classics, I know about as much as most school-boys after a discipline of thirteen years; of the law of the land as much as enables me to keep "within the statute"--to use the poacher's vocabulary. I did study the "Spirit of Laws" [1] and the Law of Nations; but when I saw the latter violated every month, I gave up my attempts at so useless an accomplishment:--of geography, I have seen more land on maps than I should wish to traverse on foot;--of mathematics, enough to give me the headach without clearing the part affected;--of philosophy, astronomy, and metaphysics, more than I can comprehend; and of common sense so little, that I mean to leave a Byronian prize at each of our "Almæ Matres" for the first discovery,--though I rather fear that of the longitude will precede it. I once thought myself a philosopher, and talked nonsense with great decorum: I defied pain, and preached up equanimity. For some time this did very well, for no one was in _pain_ for me but my friends, and none lost their patience but my hearers. At last, a fall from my horse convinced me bodily suffering was an evil; and the worst of an argument overset my maxims and my temper at the same moment: so I quitted Zeno for Aristippus, and conceive that pleasure constitutes the [Greek (transliterated): to kalon]. In morality, I prefer Confucius to the Ten Commandments, and Socrates to St. Paul (though the two latter agree in their opinion of marriage). In religion, I favour the Catholic emancipation, but do not acknowledge the Pope; and I have refused to take the sacrament, because I do not think eating bread or drinking wine from the hand of an earthly vicar will make me an inheritor of heaven. I hold virtue, in general, or the virtues severally, to be only in the disposition, each a _feeling_, not a principle. I believe truth the prime attribute of the Deity, and death an eternal sleep, at least of the body. You have here a brief compendium of the sentiments of the _wicked_ George, Lord Byron; and, till I get a new suit, you will perceive I am badly cloathed. I remain yours, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: In Byron's "List of historical writers whose works I have perused in different languages" ('Life', pp. 46, 47), occurs the name of Montesquieu. It is to his 'Esprit des Lois' that Byron refers.] 89.--To John Hanson. Dorant's, January 25th, 1808. Sir,--The picture I have drawn of my finances is unfortunately a true one, and I find the colours may be heightened but not improved by time.--I have inclosed the receipt, and return my thanks for the loan, which shall be repaid the first opportunity. In the concluding part of my last I gave my reasons for not troubling you with my society at present, but when I can either communicate or receive pleasure, I shall not be long absent. Yrs., etc., BYRON. P.S.--I have received a letter from Whitehead, of course you know the contents, and must act as you think proper. 90.--To John Hanson. Dorant's, January 25th, 1808. Dear Sir,--Some time ago I gave Mitchell the sadler [_sic_] a letter for you, requesting his bill might be paid from the Balance of the Quarter you obliged me by advancing. If he has received this you will further oblige me by paying what remains, I believe somewhere about five pounds, if so much. You will confer a favour upon me by the loan of twenty. I will endeavour to repay it next week, as I have immediate occasion for that sum, and I should not require it of you could I obtain it elsewhere. I am now in my one and twentieth year, and cannot command as many pounds. To Cambridge I cannot go without paying my bills, and at present I could as soon compass the National Debt; in London I must not remain, nor shall I, when I can procure a trifle to take me out of it. Home I have none; and if there was a possibility of getting out of the Country, I would gladly avail myself of it. But even that is denied me, my Debts amount to three thousand, three hundred to Jews, eight hundred to Mrs. B. of Nottingham, to coachmaker and other tradesmen a thousand more, and these must be much increased, before they are lessened. Such is the prospect before me, which is by no means brightened by ill-health. I would have called on you, but I have neither spirits to enliven myself or others, or inclination to bring a gloomy face to spoil a group of happy ones. I remain, Your obliged and obedt. sert., BYRON. P.S.--Your answer to the former part will oblige, as I shall be reduced to a most unpleasant dilemma if it does not arrive. 91.--To James De Bathe. [1] Dorant's Hotel, February 2d, 1808. My Dear De Bathe,--Last Night I saw your Father and Brother, the former I have not the pleasure of knowing, but the latter informed me _you_ came to Town on _Saturday_ and returned _yesterday_. I have received a pressing Invitation from Henry Drury to pay him a visit; in his Letter he mentions a very old _Friend_ of yours, who told him he would join my party, if I could inform him on what day I meant to go over. This Friend you will readily conclude to be a Lord _B_.; but not the one who now addresses you. Shall I bring him to you? and insure a welcome for myself which perhaps might not otherwise be the case. This will not be for a Fortnight to come. I am waiting for Long, who is now at Chatham, when he arrives we shall probably drive down and dine with Drury. I confess Harrow has lost most of its charms for me. I do not know if Delawarr is still there; but, with the exception of yourself and the Earl, I shall find myself among Strangers. Long has a Brother at Butler's, and all his predilections remain in full force; mine are weakened, if not destroyed, and though I can safely say, I never knew a Friend out of Harrow, I question whether I have one left in it. You leave Harrow in July; may I ask what is your future Destination? In January _1809_ I shall be twenty one & in the Spring of the same year proceed abroad, not on the usual Tour, but a route of a more extensive Description. What say you? are you disposed for a view of the Peloponnesus and a voyage through the Archipelago? I am merely in jest with regard to you, but very serious with regard to my own Intention which is fixed on the _Pilgrimage_, unless some political view or accident induce me to postpone it. Adieu! if you have Leisure, I shall be as happy to hear from you, as I would have been to have _seen_ you. Believe me, Yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Sir James Wynne De Bathe (1792-1828) succeeded his father as second baronet, February 22, 1808. "Clare, Dorset, Charles Gordon, De Bathe, Claridge, and John Wingfield, were my juniors and favourites, whom I spoilt by indulgence" ('Life', p. 21). De Bathe's name does not appear in the Harrow School lists. A Captain De Bathe interested himself in the case of Medora Leigh in 1843 (see Charles Mackay's 'Medora Leigh', pp. 92, 93, and elsewhere in the volume).] 92.--To William Harness. [1] Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle Street, Feb. II, 1808. My Dear Harness,--As I had no opportunity of returning my verbal thanks, I trust you will accept my written acknowledgments for the compliment you were pleased to pay some production of my unlucky muse last November,--I am induced to do this not less from the pleasure I feel in the praise of an old schoolfellow, than from justice to you, for I had heard the story with some slight variations. Indeed, when we met this morning, Wingfield [2] had not undeceived me; but he will tell you that I displayed no resentment in mentioning what I had heard, though I was not sorry to discover the truth. Perhaps you hardly recollect, some years ago, a short, though, for the time, a warm friendship between us. Why it was not of longer duration I know not. I have still a gift of yours in my possession, that must always prevent me from forgetting it. I also remember being favoured with the perusal of many of your compositions, and several other circumstances very pleasant in their day, which I will not force upon your memory, but entreat you to believe me, with much regret at their short continuance, and a hope they are not irrevocable, Yours very sincerely, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: William Harness (1790-1869), son of Dr. J. Harness, Commissioner of the Transport Board, was educated at Harrow and Christ's College, Cambridge. Ordained in 1812, he was, from 1823 to 1826, Curate at Hampstead. "I could quiz you heartily," writes Mrs. Franklin to Miss Mitford (September 6, 1824), "for having told me in three successive letters of Mr. Harness's chapel at Hampstead. I understand he now lives a very retired life" ('The Friendships of Mary Russell Mitford', vol. i. p. 61). From 1826 to 1844 he was Incumbent of Regent Square Chapel; Minister of Brompton Chapel (1844-47); Perpetual Curate (1849-69) of All Saints', Knightsbridge, which he built from subscriptions raised by himself. He is described by Crabb Robinson ('Diary', vol. iii. p. 212) as "a clergyman with Oxford propensities, and a worshipper of the heathen Muses as well as of the Christian Graces;" and again (iii. 326), as "a man of taste, of High Church principles and liberal in spirit." Miss Mitford ('The Friendships of Mary Russell Mitford', vol. ii. p. 289) writes that "he has neither Catholic nor Puseyite tendencies,--only it is a large and liberal mind like Bishop Stanley's, believing good men and good Christians may exist among Papists, and will be as safe there as if they were Protestants." Again (vol. ii. p. 295) she says of him: "Besides his varied accomplishments, and his admirable goodness and kindness, he has all sorts of amusing peculiarities. With a temper never known to fail, an indulgence the largest, a tenderness as of a woman, he has the habit of talking like a cynic! and with more learning, ancient and modern, and a wider grasp of literature than almost any one I know, professes to read nothing and care for nothing but 'Shakespeare and the Bible.' He is the finest reader of both that I ever heard. His preaching, which has been so much admired, is too rapid, but his reading the prayers is perfection. The best parish priest in London, and the truest Christian." Miss Mitford's praise may be exaggerated; but she had known Harness for a lifetime. Harness edited 'Shakespeare' (1825, 8 vols.), as well as 'Massinger' (1830) and 'Ford' (1831); wrote for the 'Quarterly' and 'Blackwood'; and published a number of sermons, including 'The Wrath of Cain', 'A Boyle Lecture' (1822). He wrote 'The Life of Mary Russell Mitford' (1870), in collaboration with the Rev. A. G. L'Estrange, whose 'Life of the Rev. W. Harness' is the chief authority for his career. His friendship with Byron began at Harrow ('Life', pp. 23, 24), where Byron, who was older than Harness, took pity upon his lameness and weakness, and protected him from the bullies of the school. At a later period they became estranged, as is shown by the following letter from Byron to Harness ('Life', pp. 24, 25):-- "We both seem perfectly to recollect, with a mixture of pleasure and regret, the hours we once passed together, and I assure you, most sincerely, they are numbered among the happiest of my brief chronicle of enjoyment. I am now 'getting into years', that is to say, I was 'twenty' a month ago, and another year will send me into the world to run my career of folly with the rest. I was then just fourteen,--you were almost the first of my Harrow friends, certainly the 'first' in my esteem, if not in date; but an absence from Harrow for some time, shortly after, and new connections on your side, and the difference in our conduct (an advantage decidedly in your favour) from that turbulent and riotous disposition of mine, which impelled me into every species of mischief,--all these circumstances combined to destroy an intimacy, which affection urged me to continue, and memory compels me to regret. But there is not a circumstance attending that period, hardly a sentence we exchanged, which is not impressed on my mind at this moment. I need not say more,--this assurance alone must convince you, had I considered them as trivial, they would have been less indelible. How well I recollect the perusal of your 'first flights'! There is another circumstance you do not know;--the 'first lines' I ever attempted at Harrow were addressed to 'you'. You were to have seen them; but Sinclair had the copy in his possession when we went home;--and, on our return, we were 'strangers'. They were destroyed, and certainly no great loss; but you will perceive from this circumstance my opinions at an age when we cannot be hypocrites. I have dwelt longer on this theme than I intended, and I shall now conclude with what I ought to have begun. We were once friends,--nay, we have always been so, for our separation was the effect of chance, not of dissension. I do not know how far our destinations in life may throw us together, but if opportunity and inclination allow you to waste a thought on such a hare-brained being as myself, you will find me at least sincere, and not so bigoted to my faults as to involve others in the consequences. Will you sometimes write to me? I do not ask it often; and, if we meet, let us be what we 'should' be, and what we 'were'." The following is Harness's own account of the circumstances in which Letter 92 was written:-- "A coolness afterwards arose, which Byron alludes to in the first of the accompanying letters, and we never spoke during the last year of his remaining at school, nor till after the publication of his 'Hours of Idleness'. Lord Byron was then at Cambridge; I, in one of the upper forms, at Harrow. In an English theme I happened to quote from the volume, and mention it with praise. It was reported to Byron that I had, on the contrary, spoken slightingly of his work and of himself, for the purpose of conciliating the favour of Dr. Butler, the master, who had been severely satirised in one of the poems. Wingfield, who was afterwards Lord Powerscourt, a mutual friend of Byron and myself, disabused him of the error into which he had been led, and this was the occasion of the first letter of the collection. Our intimacy was renewed, and continued from that time till his going abroad. Whatever faults Lord Byron might have had towards others, to myself he was always uniformly affectionate. I have many slights and neglects towards him to reproach myself with; but I cannot call to mind a single instance of caprice or unkindness, in the whole course of our friendship, to allege against him." In December, 1811, Harness paid Byron a visit at Newstead, the only other guest being Francis Hodgson, who, like Harness, was not then ordained. He thus describes the visit ('Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 219-221):-- "When Byron returned, with the MS. of the first two cantos of 'Childe Harold' in his portmanteau, I paid him a visit at Newstead. It was winter--dark, dreary weather--the snow upon the ground; and a straggling, gloomy, depressive, partially inhabited place the Abbey was. Those rooms, however, which had been fitted up for residence were so comfortably appointed, glowing with crimson hangings, and cheerful with capacious fires, that one soon lost the melancholy feeling of being domiciled in the wing of an extensive ruin. Many tales are related or fabled of the orgies which, in the poet's early youth, had made clamorous these ancient halls of the Byrons. I can only say that nothing in the shape of riot or excess occurred when I was there. The only other visitor was Dr. Hodgson, the translator of 'Juvenal', and nothing could be more quiet and regular than the course of our days. Byron was retouching, as the sheets passed through the press, the stanzas of 'Childe Harold'. Hodgson was at work in getting out the ensuing number of the 'Monthly Review', of which he was principal editor. I was reading for my degree. When we met, our general talk was of poets and poetry--of who could or who could not write; but it occasionally rose into very serious discussions on religion. Byron, from his early education in Scotland, had been taught to identify the principles of Christianity with the extreme dogmas of Calvinism. His mind had thus imbibed a most miserable prejudice, which appeared to be the only obstacle to his hearty acceptance of the Gospel. Of this error we were most anxious to disabuse him. The chief weight of the argument rested with Hodgson, who was older, a good deal, than myself. I cannot even now--at a distance of more than fifty years--recall those conversations without a deep feeling of admiration for the judicious zeal and affectionate earnestness (often speaking with tears in his eyes) which Dr. Hodgson evinced in his advocacy of the truth. The only difference, except perhaps in the subjects talked about, between our life at Newstead Abbey and that of the great families around us, was the hours we kept. It was, as I have said, winter, and the days were cold; and, as nothing tempted us to rise early, we got up late. This flung the routine of the day rather backward, and we did not go early to bed. My visit to Newstead lasted about three weeks, when I returned to Cambridge to take my degree." To Harness Byron intended to dedicate 'Childe Harold', but feared to do so, "lest it should injure him in his profession."] [Footnote 2: Three Wingfields, sons of Lord Powerscourt, entered Harrow in February, 1801. The Hon. Richard Wingfield succeeded his father as fifth Viscount Powerscourt in 1809, and died in 1823. Edward became a clergyman and died of cholera in 1825; John, Byron's friend, the "Alonzo" of "Childish Recollections" entered the Coldstream Guards, and died of fever at Coimbra, May 14, 1811. "Of all human beings, I was perhaps at one time most attached to poor Wingfield, who died at Coimbra, 1811, before I returned to England" ('Life', p. 21). To his memory Byron wrote the lines in 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanza xci.] 93.--To J. Ridge. [Mr. Ridge, Newark.] Dorant's Hotel, February 21st, 1808. Mr. Ridge,--Something has occurred which will make considerable alteration in my new volume. You must _go back_ and _cut out_ the whole _poem_ of 'Childish Recollections'. [1] Of course you will be surprized at this, and perhaps displeased, but it must be _done_. I cannot help its detaining you a _month_ longer, but there will be enough in the volume without it, and as I am now reconciled to Dr. Butler I cannot allow my satire to appear against him, nor can I alter that part relating to him without spoiling the whole. You will therefore omit the whole poem. Send me an _immediate_ answer to this letter but _obey_ the directions. It is better that my reputation should suffer as a poet by the omission than as a man of honour by the insertion. Etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: For "Childish Recollections," see 'Poems', vol.i. p.101. A previous letter, written to Ridge from Dorant's Hotel, January 9, 1808, illustrates the rapidity with which Byron's moods changed. In this case, the lines on "Euryalus" (Lord Delawarr: see page 41 [Letter 13], [Foot]note 1 [5]) were to be omitted:-- "Mr. Ridge,--In Childish Recollections omit the whole character of 'Euryalus', and insert instead the lines to 'Florio' as a part of the poem, and send me a proof in due course. "Etc. etc., "BYRON. "P.S.--The first line of the passage to be omitted begins 'Shall fair Euryalus,' etc., and ends at 'Toil for more;' omit the _whole_."] CHAPTER III. 1808-1809. 'ENGLISH BARDS, AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.' 94.--To the Rev. John Becher. [1] Dorant's Hotel, Feb. 26, 1808. MY DEAR BECHER,--Now for Apollo. I am happy that you still retain your predilection, and that the public allow me some share of praise. I am of so much importance that a most violent attack is preparing for me in the next number of the 'Edinburgh Review'. [2] This I had from the authority of a friend who has seen the proof and manuscript of the critique. You know the system of the Edinburgh gentlemen is universal attack. They praise none; and neither the public nor the author expects praise from them. It is, however, something to be noticed, as they profess to pass judgment only on works requiring the public attention. You will see this when it comes out;--it is, I understand, of the most unmerciful description; but I am aware of it, and hope 'you' will not be hurt by its severity. Tell Mrs. Byron not to be out of humour with them, and to prepare her mind for the greatest hostility on their part. It will do no injury whatever, and I trust her mind will not be ruffled. They defeat their object by indiscriminate abuse, and they never praise except the partisans of Lord Holland and Co. [3] It is nothing to be abused when Southey, Moore, Lauderdale, Strangford, and Payne Knight, share the same fate. [4] I am sorry--but "Childish Recollections" must be suppressed during this edition. I have altered, at your suggestion, the _obnoxious allusions_ in the sixth stanza of my last ode. And now, my dear Becher, I must return my best acknowledgments for the interest you have taken in me and my poetical bantlings, and I shall ever be proud to show how much I esteem the _advice_ and the _adviser._ Believe me, most truly, etc. [Footnote 1: The Rev. John Thomas Becher (1770-1848), educated at Westminster and Christ Church, Oxford, was appointed Vicar of Rumpton, Notts., and Midsomer Norton, 1801; Prebendary of Southwell in 1818; and chairman of Newark Quarter Sessions in 1816. In all matters relating to the condition of the poor he made himself an acknowledged authority. He was the originator of a house of correction, a Friendly Society, and a workhouse at Southwell. He was one of the "supervisors" appointed to organize the Milbank Penitentiary, which was opened in June, 1816. On Friendly Societies he published three works (1824, 1825, and 1826), in which, 'inter alia', he sought to prove that labourers, paying sixpence a week from the time they were twenty, could secure not only sick-pay, but an annuity of five shillings a week at the age of sixty-five. His 'Anti-Pauper System' (1828) pointed to indoor relief as the true cure to pauperism. It was by Becher's advice that Byron destroyed his 'Fugitive Pieces'. No one who has read the silly verses which Becher condemned, can doubt that the counsel was wise (see Byron's Lines to Becher, 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 112-114, 114-116, 247-251). The following are the lines in which Becher expostulated with Byron on the mischievous tendency of his verses:-- "Say, Byron! why compel me to deplore Talents designed for choice poetic lore, Deigning to varnish scenes, that shun the day, With guilty lustre, and with amorous lay? Forbear to taint the Virgin's spotless mind, In Power though mighty, be in Mercy kind, Bid the chaste Muse diffuse her hallowed light, So shall thy Page enkindle pure delight, Enhance thy native worth, and proudly twine, With Britain's Honors, those that are divine." [Footnote 2: See, for the Review itself, Appendix II. "As an author," writes Byron to Hobhouse, February 27, 1808, "I am cut to atoms by the E-----'Review;' it is just out, and has completely demolished my little fabric of fame. This is rather scurvy treatment for a Whig Review; but politics and poetry are different things, and I am no adept in either. I therefore submit in silence." Among the less sentimental effects of this Review upon Byron's mind, he used to mention that, on the day he read it, he drank three bottles of claret to his own share after dinner; that nothing, however, relieved him till he had given vent to his indignation in rhyme, and that "after the first twenty lines, he felt himself considerably better" (Moore, 'Life', p. 69). "I was sitting with Charles Lamb," H. Crabb Robinson told De Morgan, "when Wordsworth came in, with fume in his countenance and the 'Edinburgh Review' in his hand. 'I have no patience with these Reviewers,' he said; 'here is a young man, a lord, and a minor, it appears, who publishes a little volume of poetry; and these fellows attack him, as if no one may write poetry unless he lives in a garret. The young man will do something, if he goes on.' When I became acquainted with Lady Byron, I told her this story, and she said, 'Ah! if Byron had known that, he would never have attacked Wordsworth. He once went out to dinner where Wordsworth was to be; when he came home, I said, "Well, how did the young poet get on with the old one?" "To tell you the truth," said he, "I had but one feeling from the beginning of the visit to the end--'reverence!'"'" ('Diary,' iii. 488.)] [Footnote 3: That is to say, the 'Edinburgh Review' praised only Whigs. Henry Richard Vassall Fox, third Lord Holland (1773-1840), the "nephew of Fox, and friend of Grey," married, in 1797, Elizabeth Vassall, the divorced wife of Sir Godfrey Webster. He held the office of Lord Privy Seal in the Ministry of All the Talents (October, 1806, to March, 1807). During the long exclusion of the Whigs from office (1807-32), when there seemed as little chance of a Whig Administration as of "a thaw in Nova Zembla," Holland, in the House of Lords, supported Catholic Emancipation, advocated the emancipation of slaves, opposed the detention of Napoleon as a prisoner of war, and moved the abolition of capital punishment for minor offences. From November, 1830, to his death, with brief intervals, he was Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, in the administrations of Lord Grey and of Lord Melbourne. Outside the House he kept the party together by his great social gifts. An admirable talker, 'raconteur', and mimic, with a wit's relish for wit, the charm of his good temper was irresistible. "In my whole experience of our race," said Lord Brougham, "I never saw such a temper, nor anything that at all resembled it" ('Statesmen of the Time of George III.', ed. 1843, 3rd series, p. 341). Greville speaks of "his imperturbable temper, unflagging vivacity and spirit, his inexhaustible fund of anecdote, extensive information, sprightly wit" ('Memoirs', iii. 446). Leslie, in his 'Autobiographical Recollections' (vol. i. p. 100), adds the tribute that "he was, without any exception, the very best-tempered man I have ever known." Lord John Russell (preface to vol. vi. of the 'Life of Thomas Moore') says that "he won without seeming to court, instructed without seeming to teach, and he amused without labouring to be witty." George Ticknor ('Life', vol. i. p. 264) "never met a man who so disarms opposition in discussion, as I have often seen him, without yielding an iota, merely by the unpretending simplicity and sincerity of his manner." Sydney Smith ('Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith', chap. x. p. 187) considered that his "career was one great, incessant, and unrewarded effort to resist oppression, promote justice, and restrain the abuse of power. He had an invincible hatred of tyranny and oppression, and the most ardent love of public happiness and attachment to public rights." A lover of art, a scholar, a linguist, he wrote memoirs, satires, and verses, collected materials for a life of his uncle, Charles James Fox, and translated both from the Spanish and Italian. His 'Account of the Life and Writings of Lope Felix de Vega Carpio' (1806) was reviewed favourably by the 'Edinburgh Review' for October, 1806. Byron attacked him in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' (lines 540-559, and 'notes'), on the supposition that Lord Holland had instigated the article in the 'Edinburgh Review' on 'Hours of Idleness' (January, 1808). In 1812, learning his mistake, and hearing from Rogers that Lord and Lady Holland desired the satire to be withdrawn, he gave orders that the whole impression should be burned (see 'Introduction to English Sards, and Scotch Reviewers, Poems,' vol. i. p. 294). In his 'Journal' (November 17, 1813) he writes, "I have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland on 'The Bride of Abydos,' which he likes, and so does Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from whom I do not deserve any quarter. Yet I 'did' think at the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not been in such a hurry with that confounded Satire, of which I would suppress even the memory; but people, now they can't get it, make a fuss, I verily believe out of contradiction."] [Footnote 4: In the early numbers of the 'Edinburgh Review' reviews were published of Southey's 'Thalaba' and 'Madoc;' of Moore's 'Odes of Anacreon' and 'Poems;' of Lord Lauderdale's 'Inquiry into the Nature and Origin of Public Wealth;' of Lord Strangford's 'Translations from Camoëns;' of Payne Knight's 'Principles of Taste.'] 95.--To the Rev. John Becher. Dorant's, March 28, 1808. I have lately received a copy of the new edition from Ridge, and it is high time for me to return my best thanks to you for the trouble you have taken in the superintendence. This I do most sincerely, and only regret that Ridge has not seconded you as I could wish,--at least, in the bindings, paper, etc., of the copy he sent to me. Perhaps those for the public may be more respectable in such articles. You have seen the 'Edinburgh Review', of course. I regret that Mrs. Byron is so much annoyed. For my own part, these "paper bullets of the brain" have only taught me to stand fire; and, as I have been lucky enough upon the whole, my repose and appetite are not discomposed. Pratt, [1] the gleaner, author, poet, etc., etc., addressed a long rhyming epistle to me on the subject, by way of consolation; but it was not well done, so I do not send it, though the name of the man might make it go down. The E. Rs. have not performed their task well; at least the literati tell me this; and I think _I_ could write a more sarcastic critique on _myself_ than any yet published. For instance, instead of the remark,--ill-natured enough, but not keen,--about Macpherson, I (quoad reviewers) could have said, "Alas, this imitation only proves the assertion of Dr. Johnson, that many men, women, and _children_, could write such poetry as Ossian's." [2] I am _thin_ and in exercise. During the spring or summer I trust we shall meet. I hear Lord Ruthyn leaves Newstead in April. As soon as he quits it for ever, I wish much you would take a ride over, survey the mansion, and give me your candid opinion on the most advisable mode of proceeding with regard to the _house_. _Entre nous_, I am cursedly dipped; my debts, _every_ thing inclusive, will be nine or ten thousand before I am twenty-one. But I have reason to think my property will turn out better than general expectation may conceive. Of Newstead I have little hope or care; but Hanson, my agent, intimated my Lancashire property was worth three Newsteads. I believe we have it hollow; though the defendants are protracting the surrender, if possible, till after my majority, for the purpose of forming some arrangement with me, thinking I shall probably prefer a sum in hand to a reversion. Newstead I may _sell_;--perhaps I will not,--though of that more anon. I will come down in May or June. Yours most truly, etc. [Footnote 1: Samuel Jackson Pratt (1749-1814), actor, itinerant lecturer, poet of the Cruscan school, tragedian, and novelist, published a large number of volumes. His 'Gleanings' in England, Holland, Wales, and Westphalia attained some reputation. His 'Sympathy, a Poem' (1788) passed through several editions. His stage-name, as well as his 'nom de plume', was Courtney Melmoth. He was the discoverer and patron of the cobbler-poet, Blacket (see also 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', line 319, note 2).] [Footnote 2: "Dr. Johnson's reply to the friend who asked him if any man 'living' could have written such a book, is well known: 'Yes, sir; many men, many women, and many children.' I inquired of him myself if this story was authentic, and he said it was" (Mrs. Piozzi, 'Johnsoniana', p. 84).--[Moore.]] 96.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Six Mile Bottom, Newmarket, Cambridge.] Dorant's, [Tuesday], April 26th, 1808. My dear Augusta,--I regret being compelled to trouble you again, but it is necessary I should request you will inform Col. Leigh, if the P's consent is not obtained in a few days, it will be of little service to Mr. Wallace, who is ordered to join the 17th in ten days, the Regiment is stationed in the East Indies, and, as he has already served there nine years, he is unwilling to return. I shall feel particularly obliged by Col. Leigh's interference, as I think from his influence the Prince's consent might be obtained. I am not much in the habit of asking favours, or pressing exertion, but, on this occasion, my wish to save Wallace must plead my excuse. I have been introduced to Julia Byron [1] by Trevannion at the Opera; she is pretty, but I do not admire her; there is too much Byron in her countenance, I hear she is clever, a very great defect in a woman, who becomes conceited in course; altogether I have not much inclination to improve the acquaintance. I have seen my old friend George, [1] who will prove the best of the family, and will one day be Lord B. I do not much care how soon. Pray name my nephew after his uncle; it must be a nephew, (I _won't_ have a _niece,_) I will make him my _heir,_ for I shall never marry, unless I am ruined, and then his _inheritance_ would not be great. George will have the title and his _laurels;_ my property, (if any is left in five years time,) I can leave to whom I please, and your son shall be the legatee. Adieu. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: George Anson Byron, R.N. (1758-1793), second son of Admiral the Hon. John Byron, by his wife Sophia Trevanion, and brother of Byron's father, married Henrietta Charlotte Dallas, by whom he had a son, George, who was at this time in the Royal Navy, and in 1824 succeeded as seventh Lord Byron; and a daughter, Julia Byron, who married, in 1817, the Rev. Robert Heath. Of his cousin George, Byron writes in his 'Journal' for November 30, 1813 ('Life,' p. 209): "I like George much more than most people like their heirs. He is a fine fellow, and every inch a sailor." Again on December 1, 1813, he says, "I hope he will be an admiral, and, perhaps, Lord Byron into the bargain. If he would but marry, I would engage never to marry myself, or cut him out of the heirship." George Anson Byron and his wife both died in 1793.] 97.--To the Rev. John Becher. Newstead Abbey, Notts., Sept. 14, 1808. My dear Becher,--I am much obliged to you for your inquiries, and shall profit by them accordingly. I am going to get up a play here; the hall will constitute a most admirable theatre. I have settled the 'dram. pers.,' and can do without ladies, as I have some young friends who will make tolerable substitutes for females, and we only want three male characters, beside Mr. Hobhouse and myself, for the play we have fixed on, which will be the 'Revenge.' [1] Pray direct Nicholson the carpenter to come over to me immediately, and inform me what day you will dine and pass the night here. Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: Young's tragedy (1721), from which one of Byron's Harrow speeches in the character of "Zanga" was taken (see page 27 [Letter 10], [Foot]note 1).] 98.--To John Jackson. [1] N. A., Notts., September 18, 1808. Dear Jack,--I wish you would inform me what has been done by Jekyll, at No. 40, Sloane Square, concerning the pony I returned as unsound. I have also to request you will call on Louch at Brompton, and inquire what the devil he meant by sending such an insolent letter to me at Brighton; and at the same time tell him I by no means can comply with the charge he has made for things pretended to be damaged. Ambrose behaved most scandalously about the pony. You may tell Jekyll if he does not refund the money, I shall put the affair into my lawyer's hands. Five and twenty guineas is a sound price for a pony, and by God, if it costs me five hundred pounds, I will make an example of Mr. Jekyll, and that immediately, unless the cash is returned. Believe me, dear Jack, etc. [Footnote 1: John Jackson (1769-1845), better known as "Gentleman" Jackson, was champion of England from 1795 to 1803. His three fights were against Fewterel (1788), George Ingleston (1789), and Mendoza (1795). In his fight at Ingatestone with "George the Brewer," he slipped on the wet stage, and, falling, dislocated his ankle and broke his leg. His fight with Mendoza at Hornchurch, Essex, was decided in nine rounds. At the end of the third round "the odds rose two to one on Mendoza." In the fifth, Jackson "seized hold of his opponent by the hair, and served him out in that defenceless state till he fell to the ground." The fight was practically over, and the odds at once turned in favour of Jackson, who thenceforward had matters all his own way. Even if Mendoza had worn a wig, he probably would have succumbed to Jackson, who was a more powerful man with a longer reach, and as scientific, though not so ornamental, a boxer. In 1803 Jackson retired from the ring. "I can see him now" ('Pugilistica,' vol. i. 98), "as I saw him in '84, walking down Holborn Hill towards Smithfield. He had on a scarlet coat worked in gold at the button-holes, ruffles, and frill of fine lace, a small white stock, no collar (they were not then invented), a looped hat with a broad black band, buff knee-breeches, and long silk strings, striped white silk stockings, pumps, and paste buckles; his waistcoat was pale blue satin, sprigged with white. It was impossible to look on his fine ample chest, his noble shoulders, his waist, (if anything too small,) his large, but not too large hips, ... his limbs, his balustrade calf and beautifully turned, but not over delicate ankle, his firm foot, and peculiarly small hand, without thinking that nature had sent him on earth as a model. On he went at a good five miles and a half an hour, the envy of all men, and the admiration of all women." His rooms at 13, Bond Street, became the head-quarters of the Pugilistic Club, with whose initials, P.C., the ropes and stakes at prize-rings were marked (see page 99 [Letter 51], [Foot]note 1; and Pierce Egan's 'Life in London,' pp. 252-254). From 1803 to 1824, when he retired from the profession, he was, as Pierce Egan says of him (p. 254), unrivalled as "a teacher of the Art of 'self-defence.'" His character stood high. "From the highest to the lowest person in the Sporting World, his 'decision' is law." "This gentleman," says Moore, in a note to 'Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress' (p. 13), "as he well deserves to be called, from the correctness of his conduct and the peculiar urbanity of his manners, forms that useful link between the amateurs and the professors of pugilism, which, when broken, it will be difficult, if not wholly impossible, to replace." He was Byron's guest at Cambridge, Newstead, and Brighton; received from him many letters; and is described by him, in a note to 'Don Juan' (Canto XI. stanza xix.), as "my old friend and corporeal pastor and master." Jackson's monument in Brompton Cemetery, a couchant lion and a mourning athlete, was subscribed for "by several noblemen and gentlemen, to record their admiration of one whose excellence of heart and incorruptible worth endeared him to all who knew him."] 99.--To John Jackson. N. A., Notts., October 4, 1808. You will make as good a bargain as possible with this Master Jekyll, if he is not a gentleman. If he is a _gentleman_, inform me, for I shall take very different steps. If he is not, you must get what you can of the money, for I have too much business on hand at present to commence an action. Besides, Ambrose is the man who ought to refund,--but I have done with him. You can settle with L. out of the balance, and dispose of the bidets, etc., as you best can. I should be very glad to see you here; but the house is filled with workmen, and undergoing a thorough repair. I hope, however, to be more fortunate before many months have elapsed. If you see Bold Webster, [1] remember me to him, and tell him I have to regret Sydney, who has perished, I fear, in my rabbit warren, for we have seen nothing of him for the last fortnight. Adieu. [2] Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: Sir Godfrey Vassal Webster (1788-1836).] [Footnote 2: A third letter to Jackson, written from Newstead, December 12, 1808, runs as follows:-- "My Dear Jack,--You will get the greyhound from the owner at any price, and as many more of the same breed (male or female) as you can collect. "Tell D'Egville his dress shall be returned--I am obliged to him for the pattern. I am sorry you should have so much trouble, but I was not aware of the difficulty of procuring the animals in question. I shall have finished part of my mansion in a few weeks, and, if you can pay me a visit at Christmas, I shall be very glad to see you. Believe me, etc." In a bill, for 1808, sent in to Byron by Messrs. Finn and Johnson, tailors, of Nottingham, appears the following item: "Masquerade Jackett with belt and rich Turban, £11:9:6." This is probably the dress made from d'Egville's pattern. James d'Egville learned dancing from Gaetano Vestris, well known at the Court of Frederick the Great, and from Gardel, the Court teacher of Marie Antoinette. He, his brother Louis, and his sister Madame Michau, were the most famous teachers of the day in England. The real name of the family was Hervey; that of d'Egville was assumed for professional purposes. James d'Egville enjoyed a great reputation, both as an actor and a dancer, in Paris and London. He was Acting-Manager and Director of the King's Theatre (October, 1807, to January, 1808), but was dismissed, owing to a disagreement between the managers, in the course of which he was accused of French proclivities and republican principles (see Waters's 'Opera-Glass', pp. 133-145). A man of taste and cultivation, he produced some musical extravaganzas and ballets; 'e.g. Don Quichotte ou les Noces de Gamache, L'Elèvement d'Adonis, The Rape of Dejanira', etc. A coloured print, in the possession of his great-nephew, Mr. Louis d'Egville, represents him, with Deshayes, in one of his most successful appearances, the ballet-pantomime of 'Achille et Deidamie'. He was an enthusiastic sportsman.] 100.--To his Mother. Newstead Abbey, Notts, October 7, 1808. Dear Madam,--I have no beds for the Hansons or any body else at present. The Hansons sleep at Mansfield. I do not know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau. [1] I have no ambition to be like so illustrious a madman--but this I know, that I shall live in my own manner, and as much alone as possible. When my rooms are ready I shall be glad to see you: at present it would be improper, and uncomfortable to both parties. You can hardly object to my rendering my mansion habitable, notwithstanding my departure for Persia in March (or May at farthest), since _you_ will be _tenant_ till my return; and in case of any accident (for I have already arranged my will to be drawn up the moment I am twenty-one), I have taken care you shall have the house and manor for _life_, besides a sufficient income. So you see my improvements are not entirely selfish. As I have a friend here, we will go to the Infirmary Ball on the 12th; we will drink tea with Mrs. Byron [2] at eight o'clock, and expect to see you at the ball. If that lady will allow us a couple of rooms to dress in, we shall be highly obliged:--if we are at the ball by ten or eleven, it will be time enough, and we shall return to Newstead about three or four. Adieu. Believe me, yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: In Byron's 'Detached Thoughts', quoted by Moore ('Life', p. 72), he thus refers to the comparison with Rousseau:-- "My mother, before I was twenty, would have it that I was like Rousseau, and Madame de Stael used to say so too in 1813, and the 'Edinburgh Review' has something of the sort in its critique on the fourth canto of 'Childe Harold'. I can't see any point of resemblance:--he wrote prose, I verse: he was of the people; I of the aristocracy: he was a philosopher; I am none: he published his first work at forty; I mine at eighteen: his first essay brought him universal applause; mine the contrary: he married his housekeeper; I could not keep house with my wife: he thought all the world in a plot against him; my little world seems to think me in a plot against it, if I may judge by their abuse in print and coterie: he liked botany; I like flowers, herbs, and trees, but know nothing of their pedigrees: he wrote music; I limit my knowledge of it to what I catch by _ear_--I never could learn any thing by _study_, not even a _language_--it was all by rote and ear, and memory: he had a _bad_ memory; I _had_, at least, an excellent one (ask Hodgson the poet--a good judge, for he has an astonishing one): he wrote with hesitation and care; I with rapidity, and rarely with pains: _he_ could never ride, nor swim, nor 'was cunning of fence;' _I_ am an excellent swimmer, a decent, though not at all a dashing, rider, (having staved in a rib at eighteen, in the course of scampering,) and was sufficient of fence, particularly of the Highland broadsword,--not a bad boxer, when I could keep my temper, which was difficult, but which I strove to do ever since I knocked down Mr. Purling, and put his knee-pan out (with the gloves on), in Angelo's and Jackson's rooms in 1806, during the sparring, --and I was, besides, a very fair cricketer,--one of the Harrow eleven, when we played against Eton in 1805. Besides, Rousseau's way of life, his country, his manners, his whole character, were so very different, that I am at a loss to conceive how such a comparison could have arisen, as it has done three several times, and all in rather a remarkable manner. I forgot to say that _he_ was also short-sighted, and that hitherto my eyes have been the contrary, to such a degree that, in the largest theatre of Bologna, I distinguished and read some busts and inscriptions, painted near the stage, from a box so distant and so _darkly_ lighted, that none of the company (composed of young and very bright-eyed people, some of them in the same box,) could make out a letter, and thought it was a trick, though I had never been in that theatre before. "Altogether, I think myself justified in thinking the comparison not well founded. I don't say this out of pique, for Rousseau was a great man; and the thing, if true, were flattering enough;--but I have no idea of being pleased with the chimera."] [Footnote 2: The Hon. Mrs. George Byron, 'née' Frances Levett, Byron's great-aunt, widow of the Hon. George Byron, fourth brother of William, fifth Lord Byron.] 101.--To his Mother. Newstead Abbey, November 2, 1808. DEAR MOTHER,--If you please, we will forget the things you mention. I have no desire to remember them. When my rooms are finished, I shall be happy to see you; as I tell but the truth, you will not suspect me of evasion. I am furnishing the house more for you than myself, and I shall establish you in it before I sail for India, which I expect to do in March, if nothing particularly obstructive occurs. I am now fitting up the _green_ drawing-room; the red for a bed-room, and the rooms over as sleeping-rooms. They will be soon completed;--at least I hope so. I wish you would inquire of Major Watson (who is an old Indian) what things will be necessary to provide for my voyage. I have already procured a friend to write to the Arabic Professor at Cambridge, [1] for some information I am anxious to procure. I can easily get letters from government to the ambassadors, consuls, etc., and also to the governors at Calcutta and Madras. I shall place my property and my will in the hands of trustees till my return, and I mean to appoint you one. From Hanson I have heard nothing--when I do, you shall have the particulars. After all, you must own my project is not a bad one. If I do not travel now, I never shall, and all men should one day or other. I have at present no connections to keep me at home; no wife, or unprovided sisters, brothers, etc. I shall take care of you, and when I return I may possibly become a politician. A few years' knowledge of other countries than our own will not incapacitate me for that part. If we see no nation but our own, we do not give mankind a fair chance;--it is from _experience_, not books, we ought to judge of them. There is nothing like inspection, and trusting to our own senses. Yours, etc. [Footnote 1: The Rev. John Palmer, Fellow of St. John's, Adam's Professor of Arabic (1804-19).] 102.--To Francis Hodgson. [1] Newstead Abbey, Notts., Nov. 3, 1808. My Dear Hodgson,--I expected to have heard ere this the event of your interview with the mysterious Mr. Haynes, my volunteer correspondent; however, as I had no business to trouble you with the adjustment of my concerns with that illustrious stranger, I have no right to complain of your silence. You have of course seen Drury, [2] in all the pleasing palpitations of anticipated wedlock. Well! he has still something to look forward to, and his present extacies are certainly enviable. "Peace be with him and with his spirit," and his flesh also, at least just now ... Hobhouse and your humble are still here. Hobhouse hunts, etc., and I do nothing; we dined the other day with a neighbouring Esquire (not Collet of Staines), and regretted your absence, as the Bouquet of Staines was scarcely to be compared to our last "feast of reason." You know, laughing is the sign of a rational animal; so says Dr. Smollett. I think so, too, but unluckily my spirits don't always keep pace with my opinions. I had not so much scope for risibility the other day as I could have wished, for I was seated near a woman, to whom, when a boy, I was as much attached as boys generally are, and more than a man should be. [3] I knew this before I went, and was determined to be valiant, and converse with _sang froid_; but instead I forgot my valour and my nonchalance, and never opened my lips even to laugh, far less to speak, and the lady was almost as absurd as myself, which made both the object of more observation than if we had conducted ourselves with easy indifference. You will think all this great nonsense; if you had seen it, you would have thought it still more ridiculous. What fools we are! We cry for a plaything, which, like children, we are never satisfied with till we break open, though like them we cannot get rid of it by putting it in the fire. I have tried for Gifford's _Epistle to Pindar_,[4] and the bookseller says the copies were cut up for _waste paper_; if you can procure me a copy I shall be much obliged. Adieu! Believe me, my dear Sir, yours ever sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Francis Hodgson (1781-1852), educated at Eton (1794-99) and at King's College, Cambridge, Scholar (1799), Fellow (1802), hesitated between literature and the bar as his profession. For three years he was a private tutor, for one (1806) a master at Eton. In 1807 he became a resident tutor at King's. It was not till 1812 that he decided to take orders. Two years later he married Miss Tayler, a sister of Mrs. Henry Drury, and took a country curacy. In 1816 he was given the Eton living of Bakewell, in Derbyshire, became Archdeacon of Derby in 1836, and in 1840 Provost of Eton. At Eton he died December 29, 1852. Hodgson's literary facility was extraordinary. He rhymed with an ease which almost rivals that of Byron, and from 1807 to 1818 he poured out quantities of verse, English and Latin, original and translated, besides writing articles for the 'Quarterly', the 'Monthly', and the 'Critical' Reviews. He published his 'Translation of Juvenal' in 1807, in which he was assisted by Drury and Merivale; 'Lady Jane Grey', a Tale; and other Poems (1809); 'Sir Edgar, a Tale' (1810); 'Leaves of Laurel' (1812); 'Charlemagne, an Epic Poem' (1815), translated from the original of Lucien Bonaparte, Prince of Canino, by S. Butler and Francis Hodgson; 'The Friends, a Poem in Four Books; Mythology for Versification' (1831); 'A Charge, as Archdeacon of Derby' (1837); 'Sermons' (1846); and other works. His acquaintance with Byron began in 1807, when Byron was meditating 'British Bards', and Hodgson, provoked by a review of his 'Juvenal' in the 'Edinburgh Review', was composing his 'Gentle Alterative prepared for the Reviewers', which appears on pp. 56, 57 of 'Lady Jane Grey'. There are some curious points of resemblance between the two poems, though Hodgson's lines can hardly be compared for force and sting to 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. Like Byron (see 'English Bards, etc'., line 513, note 7), he makes merry over the blunder of the 'Edinburgh' reviewer, who, in an article on Payne Knight's 'Principles of Taste', severely criticized some Greek lines which he attributed to Knight, but which, in fact, were by Pindar:-- "And when he frown'd on Kn--'s erroneous Greek, Bad him in Pindar's page that error seek." Like Byron also, he attributes the blunder to Hallam, and speaks of "Hallam's baffled art." The article was written by Lord Holland's physician, Dr. Allen, who, according to Sydney Smith, had "the creed of a philosopher and the legs of a clergyman." Like Byron also (see 'English Bards, etc'., line 820), he appeals to Gifford, who was an old family friend, to return to the fray:-- "Oh! for that voice, whose cadence loud and strong Drove Delia Crusca from the field of song-- And with a force that guiltier fools should feel, Rack'd a vain butterfly on Satire's wheel." In a note appended to the words in his satire--"Like clowns detest nobility"--he refers to the 'Edinburgh's' treatment of Byron's verse. The link thus established between Byron and Hodgson grew stronger for the next few years. Hodgson suppressed Moore's challenge to the author of 'English Bards'; was Byron's guest at Newstead (see page 179 [Letter 92], in [Foot]note [further down]); pleaded with him on the subject of religion; translated his lines, "I would I were a careless child," into Latin verse ('Lady Jane Grey', p. 94); addressed him in poetry, as, for instance, in the "Lines to a Friend going abroad" ('Sir Edgar', p. 173). Byron, on his side, seems to have been sincerely attached to Hodgson, to whom he left, by his first will (1811), one-third of his personal goods, and in 1813 gave £1000 to enable him to marry. Hodgson corresponded with Mrs. Leigh and with Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron, endeavoured to heal the breach between husband and wife, and was one of the mourners at Hucknall Torkard Church. In Haydon's 'Table-Talk' (vol. ii. pp. 367-8) is recorded a conversation with Hobhouse on the subject of Hodgson. Haydon's account of Hobhouse's words is confused; but he definitely asserts that Hodgson's life was dissipated, and insinuates that he perverted Byron's character. Part of the explanation is probably this: Hodgson's friend, the Rev. Robert Bland, kept a mistress, described as a woman of great personal and mental attraction. He asked Hodgson, during his absence on the Continent, to visit the lady and send him frequent news of her. Hodgson did so, with the result that, at Bland's return, the lady refused to see him. When Byron came back from his Eastern tour, he received a frantic letter from Bland, telling him that Hodgson had stolen her love. To this Byron refers in his letter to Harness, December 15, 1811, and probably told an embellished story to Hobhouse. But Hodgson himself warmly repudiated the charge; and there is no reason to think that his version of the affair is not the truth.] [Footnote 2: The Rev. Henry Drury married, December 20, 1808, Ann Caroline, daughter of Archdale Wilson Tayler, of Boreham Wood, Herts. Their five sons were all educated at Harrow: Henry, Archdeacon of Wilts and editor of 'Arundines Cami' (1841); Byron, Vice-Admiral R.N.; Benjamin Heath, Vice-President of Caius College, Cambridge; Heber, Colonel in the Madras Army; Charles Curtis, General of the Bengal Staff Corps (see also page 41 [Letter 14], [Foot]note 2 [1]).] [Footnote 3: Mrs. Chaworth Musters (see Byron's lines, "Well! thou art happy," 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 277-279).] [Footnote 4: William Gifford (1756-1826), a self-taught scholar, first a ploughboy, then boy on board a Brixham coaster, afterwards shoemaker's apprentice, was sent by friends to Exeter College, Oxford (1779-81). In the 'Baviad' (1794) and the 'Maeviad' (1795) he attacked many of the smaller writers of the day, who were either silly, like the Delia Cruscan school, or discreditable, like Williams, who wrote as "Anthony Pasquin." In his 'Epistle to Peter Pindar' (1800) he succeeds in laying bare the true character of John Wolcot. As editor of the 'Anti-Jacobin, or Weekly Examiner' (November, 1797, to July, 1798), he supported the political views of Canning and his friends. As editor of the 'Quarterly Review', from its foundation (February, 1809) to his resignation in September, 1824, he did yeoman's service to sound literature by his good sense and adherence to the best models. It was a period when all criticism was narrow, and, to some degree, warped by political prejudice. In these respects, Gifford's work may not have risen above--it certainly did not fall below--the highest standard of contemporary criticism. His editions of 'Massinger' (1805), which superseded that of Monck Mason and Davies (1765), of 'Ben Jonson' (1816), of 'Ford' (1827), are valuable. To his translation of 'Juvenal' (1802) is prefixed his autobiography. His translation of 'Persius' appeared in 1821. To Gifford, Byron usually paid the utmost deference. "Any suggestion of yours, even if it were conveyed," he writes to him, in 1813, "in the less tender text of the 'Baviad,' or a Monk Mason note to Massinger, would be obeyed." See also his letter (September 7, 1811), in which he calls Gifford his "Magnus Apollo," and values his praise above the gems of Samarcand. "He was," says Sir Walter Scott ('Diary,' January 18, 1827), "a little man, dumpled up together, and so ill-made as to seem almost deformed, but with a singular expression of talent in his countenance." Byron was attracted to Gifford, partly by his devotion to the classical models of literature, partly by the outspoken frankness of his literary criticism, partly also, perhaps, by his physical deformity. 103.--To John Hanson. Newstead Abbey, Notts., November 18th, 1808. Dear Sir,--I am truly glad to hear your health is reinstated. As for my affairs I am sure you will do your best, and, though I should be glad to get rid of my Lancashire property for an equivalent in money, I shall not take any steps of that nature without good advice and mature consideration. I am (as I have already told you) going abroad in the spring; for this I have many reasons. In the first place, I wish to study India and Asiatic policy and manners. I am young, tolerably vigorous, abstemious in my way of living; I have no pleasure in fashionable dissipation, and I am determined to take a wider field than is customary with travellers. If I return, my judgment will be more mature, and I shall still be young enough for politics. With regard to expence, travelling through the East is rather inconvenient than expensive: it is not like the tour of Europe, you undergo hardship, but incur little hazard of spending money. If I live here I must have my house in town, a separate house for Mrs. Byron; I must keep horses, etc., etc. When I go abroad I place Mrs. Byron at Newstead (there is one great expence saved), I have no horses to keep. A voyage to India will take me six months, and if I had a dozen attendants cannot cost me five hundred pounds; and you will agree with me that a like term of months in England would lead me into four times that expenditure. I have written to Government for letters and permission of the Company, so you see I am _serious._ You honour my debts; they amount to perhaps twelve thousand pounds, and I shall require perhaps three or four thousand at setting out, with credit on a Bengal agent. This you must manage for me. If my resources are not adequate to the supply I must _sell_, but _not Newstead._ I will at least transmit that to the next Lord. My debts must be paid, if possible, in February. I shall leave my affairs to the care of _trustees_, of whom, with your acquiescence, I shall _name you_ one, Mr. Parker another, and two more, on whom I am not yet determined. Pray let me hear from you soon. Remember me to Mrs. Hanson, whom I hope to see on her return. Present my best respects to the young lady, and believe me, etc., BYRON. 104.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, Notts., Nov. 27, 1808. My Dear Sir,--Boatswain [1] is to be buried in a vault waiting for myself. I have also written an epitaph, which I would send, were it not for two reasons: one is, that it is too long for a letter; and the other, that I hope you will some day read it on the spot where it will be engraved. You discomfort me with the intelligence of the real orthodoxy of the Arch-fiend's name, [2] but alas! it must stand with me at present; if ever I have an opportunity of correcting, I shall liken him to Geoffrey of Monmouth, a noted liar in his way, and perhaps a more correct prototype than the Carnifex of James II. I do not think the composition of your poem "a sufficing reason" for not keeping your promise of a Christmas visit. Why not come? I will never disturb you in your moments of inspiration; and if you wish to collect any materials for the _scenery_?,[3] Hardwicke (where Mary was confined for several years) is not eight miles distant, and, independent of the interest you must take in it as her vindicator, is a most beautiful and venerable object of curiosity. I shall take it very ill if you do not come; my mansion is improving in comfort, and, when you require solitude, I shall have an apartment devoted to the purpose of receiving your poetical reveries. I have heard from our Drury; he says little of the Row, which I regret: indeed I would have sacrificed much to have contributed in any way (as a schoolboy) to its consummation; but Butler survives, and thirteen boys have been expelled in vain. Davies is not here, but Hobhouse hunts as usual, and your humble servant "drags at each remove a lengthened chain." I have heard from his Grace of Portland [4] on the subject of my expedition: he talks of difficulties; by the gods! if he throws any in my way I will next session ring such a peal in his ears, That he shall wish the fiery Dane Had rather been his guest again. [5] You do not tell me if Gifford is really my commentator: it is too good to be true, for I know nothing would gratify my vanity so much as the reality; even the idea is too precious to part with. I shall expect you here; let me have no more excuses. Hobhouse desires his best remembrance. We are now lingering over our evening potations. I have extended my letter further than I ought, and beg you will excuse it; on the opposite page I send you some stanzas [6] I wrote off on being questioned by a former flame as to my motives for quitting this country. You are the first reader. Hobhouse hates everything of the kind, therefore I do not show them to him. Adieu! Believe me, yours very sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Boatswain, the Newfoundland dog, died November 18, 1808. (For Byron's inscriptions in prose and verse, see 'Poems', vol. i. p. 280.)] [Footnote 2: Byron at first thought that Jeffrey, the editor of the 'Edinburgh Review', spelt his name in the same way as the Judge Jeffreys of the Bloody Assizes. He probably writes "orthodoxy" for "orthography" as a joke. (See the lines quoted from 'British Bards' in notes to 'English. Bards, etc.', line 439, note 2.)] [Footnote 3: It is stated that Hodgson was writing a poem on Mary Queen of Scots ('Life of Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. p. 107). No such poem was apparently ever published. In Hodgson's 'Lady Jane Grey', Queen Mary of England plays a part; hence, possibly, the mistake.] [Footnote 4: Byron asked the Duke of Portland to procure him "permission from the E.I. Directors to pass through their settlements." The duke replied, in effect, that Byron trespassed on his time and patience. So Byron at least took his answer (see 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers,' line 1016 and note 2).] [Footnote 5: 'Marmion', Canto II. stanza xxxi.] [Footnote 6: See stanzas "To a Lady on being asked my Reason for Quitting England in the Spring" ('Poems', vol. i. p. 282).] 105.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Ld. Chichester's, Stratton Street, London.] Newstead Abbey, Notts., [Wednesday], Novr. 30th, 1808. My Dearest Augusta,--I return you my best thanks for making me an uncle, and forgive the sex this time; but the next _must_ be a nephew. You will be happy to hear my Lancashire property is likely to prove extremely valuable; indeed my pecuniary affairs are altogether far superior to my expectations or any other person's. If I would _sell_, my income would probably be six thousand per annum; but I will not part at least with Newstead, or indeed with the other, which is of a nature to increase in value yearly. I am living here _alone_, which suits my inclinations better than society of any kind. Mrs. Byron I have shaken off for two years, and I shall not resume her yoke in future, I am afraid my disposition will suffer in your estimation; but I never can forgive that woman, or breathe in comfort under the same roof. I am a very unlucky fellow, for I think I had naturally not a bad heart; but it has been so bent, twisted, and trampled on, that it has now become as hard as a Highlander's heelpiece. I do not know that much alteration has taken place in my person, except that I am grown much thinner, and somewhat taller! I saw Col. Leigh at Brighton in July, where I should have been glad to have seen you; I only know your husband by sight, though I am acquainted with many of the Tenth. Indeed my relations are those whom I know the least, and in most instances, I am not very anxious to improve the acquaintance. I hope you are quite recovered, I shall be in town in January to take my seat, and will call, if convenient; let me hear from you before. [Signature cut off, and over the page is, in Mrs. Leigh's writing, this endorsement: "Sent to Miss Alderson to go to Germany, May 29th, 1843."] 106.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Ld. Chichester's, Stratton Street, London.] Newstead Abbey, Notts., Decr. 14th, 1808. My Dearest Augusta,--When I stated in my last, that my intercourse with the world had hardened my heart, I did not mean from any matrimonial disappointment, no, I have been guilty of many absurdities, but I hope in God I shall always escape that worst of evils, Marriage. I have no doubt there are exceptions, and of course include you amongst them, but you will recollect, that "_exceptions only prove the Rule_." I live here much in my own manner, that is, _alone_, for I could not bear the company of my best friend, above a month; there is such a sameness in mankind upon the whole, and they grow so much more disgusting every day, that, were it not for a portion of Ambition, and a conviction that in times like the present we ought to perform our respective duties, I should live here all my life, in unvaried Solitude. I have been visited by all our Nobility and Gentry; but I return no visits. Joseph Murray is at the head of my household, poor honest fellow! I should be a great Brute, if I had not provided for him in the manner most congenial to his own feelings, and to mine. I have several horses, and a considerable establishment, but I am not addicted to hunting or shooting. I hate all field sports, though a few years since I was a tolerable adept in the _polite_ arts of Foxhunting, Hawking, Boxing, etc., etc. My Library is rather extensive, (and as you perhaps know) I am a mighty Scribbler; I flatter myself I have made some improvements in Newstead, and, as I am independent, I am happy, as far as any person unfortunate enough to be born into this world, can be said to be so. I shall be glad to hear from you when convenient, and beg you to believe me, Very sincerely yours, BYRON. 107.--To John Hanson. Newstead Abbey, Notts., Dec. 17, 1808. My Dear Sir,--I regret the contents of your letter as I think we shall be thrown on our backs from the delay. I do not know if our best method would not be to compromise if possible, as you know the state of my affairs will not be much bettered by a protracted and possibly unsuccessful litigation. However, I am and have been so much in the dark during the whole transaction that I am not a competent judge of the most expedient measures. I suppose it will end in my marrying a _Golden Dolly_ [1] or blowing my brains out; it does not much matter which, the remedies are nearly alike. I shall be glad to hear from you further on the business. I suppose now it will be still more difficult to come to any terms. Have you seen Mrs. Massingberd, and have you arranged my Israelitish accounts? Pray remember me to Mrs. Hanson, to Harriet, and all the family, female and male. Believe me also, yours very sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Byron also advised his marriage with an heiress. The following passage is taken from her letter to Hanson, January 30, 1809:-- "I was sorry I could not see you here. Byron told me he intended to put his servants on Board Wages at Newstead. I was very sorry to hear of the great expence the Newstead _fête_ would put him to. I can see nothing but the Road to Ruin in all this, which grieves me to the heart and makes me still worse than I would otherwise be (unless, indeed, Coal Mines turn to Gold Mines), or that he mends his fortune in the old and usual way by marrying a Woman with two or three hundred thousand pounds. I have no doubt of his being a great speaker and a celebrated public character, and _all_ that; but that _won't add_ to his fortune, but bring on more expenses on him, and there is nothing to be had in this country to make a man rich in his line of life." In another letter to Hanson, dated March 4, 1809, she returns to the same subject:-- "I have had a very dismal letter from my son, informing me that he is _ruined_. He wishes to borrow my money. This I shall be very ready to oblige him in, on such security as you approve. As it is my _all_, this is very necessary, and I am sure he would not wish to have it on any other terms. It cannot be paid up, however, under six months' notice. I wish he would take the debt of a thousand pounds, that I have been security for, on himself, and pay about eighty pounds he owes here. I wish to God he would exert himself and retrieve his affairs. He must marry a Woman of _fortune_ this spring; love matches is all nonsense. Let him make use of the Talents God has given him. He is an English Peer, and has all the privileges of that situation. What is this about proving his grandfather's marriage? I thought it had been in Lancashire. If it was not, it surely easily can be proved. Is nothing going forward concerning the Rochdale Property? I am sure, if I was Lord Byron, I would sell no estates to pay Jews; I only would pay what was lawful. Pray answer the note immediately, and answer all my questions concerning lending the money, the Rochdale property, and why B. don't or can't take his seat, which is very hard, and very provoking. I am, Dear Sir, yours sincerely, C. G. BYRON."] 108.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, Notts., Dec. 17, 1808. My Dear Hodgson,--I have just received your letter, and one from B. Drury, [1] which I would send, were it not too bulky to despatch within a sheet of paper; but I must impart the contents and consign the answer to your care. In the first place, I cannot address the answer to him, because the epistle is without date or direction; and in the next, the contents are so singular that I can scarce believe my optics, "which are made the fools of the other senses, or else worth all the rest." A few weeks ago, I wrote to our friend Harry Drury of facetious memory, to request he would prevail on his brother at Eton to receive the son of a citizen in London well known unto me as a pupil; the family having been particularly polite during the short time I was with them, induced me to this application. "Now mark what follows," as somebody or Southey sublimely saith: on this day, the 17th December, arrives an epistle signed B. Drury, containing not the smallest reference to tuition or _in_tuition, but a _petition_ for _Robert Gregson_, [2] of pugilistic notoriety, now in bondage for certain paltry pounds sterling, and liable to take up his everlasting abode in Banco Regis. Had this letter been from any of my _lay_ acquaintance, or, in short, from anyone but the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should have marvelled not. If Drury is serious, I congratulate pugilism on the acquisition of such a patron, and shall be happy to advance any sum necessary for the liberation of the captive Gregson; but I certainly hope to be certified from you or some reputable housekeeper of the fact, before I write to Drury on the subject. When I say the _fact_, I mean of the _letter_ being written by _Drury_, not having any doubt as to the authenticity of the statement. The letter is now before me, and I keep it for your perusal. When I hear from you I shall address my answer to him, under _your care_; for as it is now the vacation at Eton, and the letter is without _time_ or _place_, I cannot venture to consign my sentiments on so _momentous_ a _concern_ to chance. To you, my dear Hodgson, I have not much to say. If you can make it convenient or pleasant to trust yourself here, be assured it will be both to me. [Footnote 1: Benjamin Heath Drury (1782-1835), second son of the Headmaster of Harrow (see page 41 [Letter 14], [Foot]note 2 [1]), was a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, and Assistant-master at Eton. Gronow ('Reminiscences', vol. i. pp. 209 and 233) says that Drury was "passionately devoted to theatricals," and, with his friend Knapp, frequently drove up to London after school-hours to sup with Edmund Kean and Arnold at Drury Lane or the Hummums in Covent Garden. On one occasion they took with them Lord Eldon's son, then a school-boy at Eton. After supper the party were "run in" by the watchmen, and bailed out at Bow Street by the Lord Chancellor's secretary.] [Footnote 2: Bob Gregson (1778-1824), the big-boned, burly landlord of the Castle, Holborn, known as "Bob's Chop-house," was a familiar figure in the sporting world. When captain of the Liverpool and Wigan Packet, he established his reputation in Lancashire as a fighter. He stood 6 feet 1-1/2 inches in height, and weighed 15 stone 6 pounds. But, in spite of the eulogies of Pierce Egan--a low-caste Irishman, who was first a compositor, then a comedian, and afterwards a newspaper reporter (see Grantley Berkeley's 'My Life and Recollections', vol. i. pp. 107, 108)--Gregson had no science, and depended only on his strength, courage, and endurance. He was beaten by Gully at Six Mile Bottom in 1807, and again in 1808 at Markyate Street; also by Tom Cribb at Moulsey Hurst in 1808 ('Pugilistica', vol. i. pp. 237-241). Failing as landlord of the Castle, he set up a school of boxing at Dublin, where he afterwards kept "the Punch House," in Moor Street. He died at Liverpool in 1824. According to Egan ('Boxiana', vol. i. pp. 357, 358), Gregson "united Pugilism with Poetry." On this claim he adopted the letters "P.P." after his name. Egan gives some of his doggerel among "Prime Chaunts for the Fancy" ('ibid'., p. 358). Moore, in 'Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress', attributes to him his "Lines to Miss Grace Maddox" (pp. 75-77); "Ya-Hip, my Hearties!" (pp. 80-83); and "The Annual Pill" (pp. 84-86).] 109.--To John Hanson. Newstead Abbey, Jan. 15th, 1809. My Dear Sir,--I am much obliged by your kind invitation, but I wish you, if possible, to be here on the 22nd. [1] Your presence will be of great service, everything is prepared for your reception exactly as if I remained, and I think Hargreaves will be gratified by the appearance of the place, and the humours of the day. I shall on the first opportunity pay my respects to your family, and though I will not trespass on your hospitality on the 22nd, my obligation is not less for your agreeable offer, which on any other occasion would be immediately accepted, but I wish you much to be present at the festivities, and I hope you will add Charles to the party. Consider, as the Courtier says in the tragedy of _Tom Thumb_ [2]-- "This is a day; your Majesties may boast of it, And since it never can come o'er, 'tis fit you make the most of it." I shall take my seat as soon as circumstances will admit. I have not yet chosen my side in politics, nor shall I hastily commit myself with professions, or pledge my support to any men or measures, but though I shall not run headlong into opposition, I will studiously avoid a connection with ministry. I cannot say that my opinion is strongly in favour of either party; [3] on the one side we have the late underlings of Pitt, possessing all his ill fortune, without his talents; this may render their failure more excusable, but will not diminish the public contempt; on the other, we have the ill-assorted fragments of a worn-out minority; Mr. Windham with his coat _twice_ turned, and my Lord Grenville who perhaps has more sense than he can make good use of; between the two and the shuttlecock of both, a Sidmouth, and the general _football_ Sir F. Burdett, kicked at by all, and owned by none. I shall stand aloof, speak what I think, but not often, nor too soon. I will preserve my independence, if possible, but if involved with a party, I will take care not to be the _last_ or _least_ in the ranks. As to _patriotism_, the word is obsolete, perhaps improperly, so, for all men in the Country are patriots, knowing that their own existence must stand or fall with the Constitution, yet everybody thinks he could alter it for the better, and govern a people, who are in fact easily governed, but always claim the privilege of grumbling. So much for Politics, of which I at present know little and care less; bye and bye, I shall use the senatorial privilege of talking, and indeed in such times, and in such a crew, it must be difficult to hold one's tongue. Believe me, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: Byron's coming of age was celebrated at Newstead on January 22, 1809.] [Footnote 2: See O'Hara's acting version of Fielding's _Tom Thumb the Great_, act i. sc. I-- "_Doodle_. A Day we never saw before; A Day of fun and drollery. _Noodle_. That you may say, Their Majesties may boast of it; And since it never can come more, 'Tis fit they make the most of it."] [Footnote 3: Lord Grenville (1759-1834) became First Lord of the Treasury; Lord Sidmouth, Lord Privy Seal; and William Windham, Secretary for War, in February, 1806. They, with Fox and his friends, formed the administration of "All the Talents," which in March, 1807, fell over the Roman Catholic question. They were succeeded by the Duke of Portland's Ministry, which included the "late underlings of Pitt,"--Perceval, Canning, Dundas, etc. "Weathercock" Windham, in the Ministry of "All the Talents," was responsible for the conduct of a war which, as leader of the so-called "New Opposition," he had vigorously opposed. Sir Francis Burdett's zeal for Parliamentary Reform involved him in hostility to both Whigs and Tories, who had combined to exclude him from Parliament after his election for Middlesex (1802-6). In 1807 he had been elected for Westminster.] 110.--To R. C. Dallas. Reddish's Hotel, Jan. 25, 1809. My Dear Sir,--My only reason for not adopting your lines is because they are _your_ lines. [1] You will recollect that Lady Wortley Montague said to Pope: "No touching, for the good will be given to you, and the bad attributed to me." I am determined it shall be all my own, except such alterations as may be absolutely required; but I am much obliged by the trouble you have taken, and your good opinion. The couplet on Lord C. [2] may be scratched out and the following inserted: Roscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled, No future laurels deck a noble head. Nor e'en a hackney'd Muse will deign to smile On minor Byron, nor mature Carlisle. This will answer the purpose of concealment. Now for some couplets on Mr. Crabbe, [3] which you may place after "Gifford, Sotheby, M'Niel:" There be who say, in these enlightened days, That splendid lies are all the Poet's praise; That strained invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern Bard to sing. 'Tis true that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to genius, trite: Yet Truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires. This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest; Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best. I am sorry to differ with you with regard to the title, [4] but I mean to retain it with this addition: _The British [the word "British" is struck through] English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_; and if we call it a _Satire_, it will obviate the objection, as the Bards also were Welch. Your title is too humorous;--and as I know a little of----, I wish not to embroil myself with him, though I do not commend his treatment of----. I shall be glad to hear from you or see you, and beg you to believe me, Yours very sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Dallas (January 24, 1809) takes "the liberty of sending you some two dozen lines," etc.] [Footnote 2: The couplet on Lord Carlisle, as it stood in 'British Bards', was-- "On one alone Apollo deigns to smile, And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle." (See 'English Bards, etc.', lines 723, 'et seqq.'; see also line 927, note 2. For Lord Carlisle, see page 36, note 2.)] [Footnote 3: For "Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil," see 'English Bards, etc'., line 818, and 'notes'. Dallas had written (January 24, 1809), "I am sorry you have not found a place among the genuine sons of Apollo for Crabbe, who, in spite of something bordering on servility in his dedication, may surely rank with some you have admitted to his temple" (see 'English Bards, etc'., lines 849-858).] [Footnote 4: Dallas suggested as a title, 'The Parish Poor of Parnassus'.] 111.--To R. C. Dallas. February 7, 1809. My Dear Sir,--Suppose we have this couplet-- Though sweet the sound, disdain a borrow'd tone, Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own: [1] or, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. So much for your admonition; but my note of notes, my solitary pun, [2] must not be given up--no, rather "Let mightiest of all the beasts of chace That roam in woody Caledon" come against me; my annotation must stand. We shall never sell a thousand; then why print so many? Did you receive my yesterday's note? I am troubling you, but I am apprehensive some of the lines are omitted by your young amanuensis, to whom, however, I am infinitely obliged. Believe me, yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Dallas (February 6, 1809) objected to the rhyme in the couplet:-- "Translation's servile work at length disown, And quit Achaia's Muse to court your own." (For the corrected couplet, see 'English Bards, etc'., lines 889, 890.)] [Footnote 2: See 'English Bards, etc.', line 1016, note 2.] 112.--To R. C. Dallas. February 11, 1809. I wish you to call, if possible, as I have some alterations to suggest as to the part about Brougham. [1] B. [Footnote 1: See 'ibid.', line 524, note 2.] 113.--To R. C. Dallas. February 12, 1809. Excuse the trouble, but I have added two lines which are necessary to complete the poetical character of Lord Carlisle. [1] ..........in his age His scenes alone had damn'd our singing stage; But Managers for once cried, "hold, enough!" Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff! Yours, etc., B. [Footnote 1: See 'ibid.', lines 733-736. Another letter, written February 15, 1809, runs as follows:-- "I wish you much to call on me, about _One_, not later, if convenient, as I have some thirty or forty lines for addition. Believe me, etc., B."] 114.--To R. C. Dallas. February 16, 1809. _Ecce iterum Crispinus!_--I send you some lines to be placed after "Gifford, Sotheby, M'Niel." [1] Pray call tomorrow any time before two, and Believe me, etc., B. P.S.--Print soon, or I shall overflow with more rhyme. [Footnote 1: See 'English Bards, etc.', lines 819-830.] 115.--To R. C. Dallas. February 19, 1809. I enclose some lines to be inserted, the first six after "Lords too are bards," etc., or rather immediately following the line: "Ah! who would take their titles with their rhymes." The four next will wind up the panegyric on Lord Carlisle, and come after "tragic stuff." [1] Yours truly. In these our times with daily wonders big, A letter'd Peer is like a letter'd Pig: Both know their alphabet, but who from thence Infers that Peers or Pigs have manly sense? Still less that such should woo the graceful Nine? Parnassus was not made for Lords and Swine. Roscommon, Sheffield, etc., etc. ... ... tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, And case his volumes in congenial calf: Yes, doff that covering where morocco shines, "And hang a calf-skin on those recreant" lines. [Footnote 1: See 'ibid.', lines 736-740.] 116.--To R. C. Dallas. February 22, 1809. A cut at the opera.--_Ecce signum_! from last night's observation, and inuendos against the Society for the Suppression of Vice. [1] The lines will come well in after the couplets concerning Naldi and Catalani! [2] Yours truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: See 'English Bards, etc.', lines 618-631, note 1, for the "cut at the opera." The piece which provoked the outburst was 'I Villegiatori Rezzani', at the King's Theatre, February 21, 1809. Guiseppe Naldi (1770-1820) made his 'début' in London, at the King's Theatre, in April, 1806. (For further details, see 'English Bards, etc.', line 613, note 2.) Angelica Catalani, born at Sinigaglia, in 1779, or, according to some authorities, 1785, came out at Venice, in an opera by Nasolini. She sang in many capitals of Europe, married at Lisbon a French officer named Vallabrègue, and came to London in October, 1806. The salary paid her was a cause of the O. P. riots at Covent Garden in 1809, when one of the cries was, "No foreigners! No Catalani!" A series of caricatures, one set by Isaac Cruikshank, and several medals, commemorate the riots. Madame Catalani died at Paris in 1849.] [Footnote 2: See 'English Bards, etc.', lines 632-637.] 117.--To his Mother. 8, St. James's Street, March 6, 1809. Dear Mother,--My last letter was written under great depression of spirits from poor Falkland's death, [1] who has left without a shilling four children and his wife. I have been endeavouring to assist them, which, God knows, I cannot do as I could wish, for my own embarrassments and the many claims upon me from other quarters. What you say is all very true: come what may, _Newstead_ and I _stand_ or fall together. I have now lived on the spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me to barter the last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within me which will enable me to support difficulties. I can endure privations; but could I obtain in exchange for Newstead Abbey the first fortune in the country, I would reject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on that score; Mr. Hanson talks like a man of business on the subject,--I feel like a man of honour, and I will not sell Newstead. I shall get my seat [2] on the return of the affidavits from Carhais, in Cornwall, and will do something in the House soon: I must dash, or it is all over. My Satire must be kept secret for a _month_; after that you may say what you please on the subject. Lord Carlisle has used me infamously, and refused to state any particulars of my family to the Chancellor. I have _lashed_ him in my rhymes, and perhaps his lordship may regret not being more conciliatory. They tell me it will have a sale; I hope so, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as publishing well goes. Believe me, etc. P.S.--You shall have a mortgage on one of the farms. [3] [Footnote 1: Captain Charles John Cary, R.N., succeeded his brother Thomas in 1796 as ninth Lord Falkland. He married, in 1803, Miss Anton, the daughter of a West India merchant. He had been recently dismissed from his ship "on account of some irregularities arising from too free a circulation of the bottle." But he had received a promise of being reinstated, and, in high spirits at the prospect, dined one evening in March, 1809, at Stevens's Coffeehouse, in Bond Street. There he applied to Mr. Powell an offensive nickname. "He lost his life for a joke, and one too he did not make himself" (Medwin, 'Conversations', ed. 1825, p. 66). A challenge resulted. The parties met on Goldar's Green, and Falkland, mortally wounded, died two days later in Powell's house in Devonshire Place, on March 7, 1809. ('Annual Register', vol. li. pp. 449, 450.) For a more detailed account, see 'Gentleman's Magazine' for March, 1809. Both accounts give March 7 as the date of Falkland's death. A posthumous child was born to Lady Falkland. Byron stood godfather, and gave £500 at the christening. [Footnote 2: Byron took his seat in the House of Lords, March 13, 1809. The delay was caused by the difficulty of proving the marriage of Admiral the Hon. John Byron with Miss Sophia Trevanion in the private chapel of Carhais. Probably Carlisle neither possessed nor withheld any information.] [Footnote 3: Byron had borrowed £1000 for his return to Cambridge in 1807: £200 from Messrs. Wylde and Co., bankers, of Southwell; and the remainder from the Misses Parkyns, and his great-aunt, the Hon. Mrs. George Byron. For this debt his mother made herself liable. No mortgage was given (see page 221 [Letter 121], [Foot]note 2 [1]).] 118.--To William Harness. 8, St. James's Street, March 18, 1809. There was no necessity for your excuses: if you have time and inclination to write, "for what we receive, the Lord make us thankful,"--if I do not hear from you, I console myself with the idea that you are much more agreeably employed. I send down to you by this post a certain Satire lately published, and in return for the three and sixpence expenditure upon it, only beg that if you should guess the author, you will keep his name secret; at least for the present. London is full of the Duke's business. [1] The Commons have been at it these last three nights, and are not yet come to a decision. I do not know if the affair will be brought before our House, unless in the shape of an impeachment. If it makes its appearance in a debatable form, I believe I shall be tempted to say something on the subject.--I am glad to hear you like Cambridge: firstly, because, to know that you are happy is pleasant to one who wishes you all possible sublunary enjoyment; and, secondly, I admire the morality of the sentiment. _Alma Mater_ was to me _injusta noverca_; and the old beldam only gave me my M.A. degree because she could not avoid it. [2]--You know what a farce a noble Cantab. must perform. I am going abroad, if possible, in the spring, and before I depart I am collecting the pictures of my most intimate school-fellows; I have already a few, and shall want yours, or my cabinet will be incomplete. I have employed one of the first miniature painters [3] of the day to take them, of course, at my own expense, as I never allow my acquaintance to incur the least expenditure to gratify a whim of mine. To mention this may seem indelicate; but when I tell you a friend of ours first refused to sit, under the idea that he was to disburse on the occasion, you will see that it is necessary to state these preliminaries to prevent the recurrence of any similar mistake. I shall see you in time, and will carry you to the 'limner'. It will be a tax on your patience for a week; but pray excuse it, as it is possible the resemblance may be the sole trace I shall be able to preserve of our past friendship and acquaintance. Just now it seems foolish enough; but in a few years, when some of us are dead, and others are separated by inevitable circumstances, it will be a kind of satisfaction to retain in these images of the living the idea of our former selves, and, to contemplate, in the resemblances of the dead, all that remains of judgment, feeling, and a host of passions. But all this will be dull enough for you, and so good night; and, to end my chapter, or rather my homily, Believe me, my dear H., yours most affectionately, [Footnote 1: This was the inquiry into the charges made by Colonel Gwyllym Wardle, M.P. for Okehampton (1807-12), against the Duke of York and his mistress, Mary Ann Clarke. The inquiry began January 27, 1809, and ended March 20, 1809, with the duke's resignation, the Commons having previously (March 17) acquitted him of "personal connivance and corruption." The case has passed into literature. Wardle, the valorous Dowler, and Lowten, Mr. Perker's clerk, had all figured in the trial before they played their parts in 'Pickwick'. Wardle, who was a colonel of the Welsh Fusiliers ("Wynne's Lambs") had fought at Vinegar Hill. After losing his seat, he took a farm between Tunbridge Wells and Rochester, from which he fled to escape his creditors, and died at Florence, November 30, 1834, aged seventy-two.] [Footnote 2: Byron took his M.A. degree, July 4, 1808. In another letter to Harness, dated February, 1809, he says, "I do not know how you and Alma Mater agree. I was but an untoward child myself, and I believe the good lady and her brat were equally rejoiced when I was weaned, and if I obtained her benediction at parting, it was, at best, equivocal."] [Footnote 3: George Sanders (1774-1846) painted miniatures, made watercolour copies of continental master-pieces, and afterwards became a portrait-painter in oils. He painted several portraits of Byron, two of which have been often engraved.] 119.--To William Bankes. Twelve o'clock, Friday night. My Dear Bankes,--I have just received your note; believe me I regret most sincerely that I was not fortunate enough to see it before, as I need not repeat to you that your conversation for half an hour would have been much more agreeable to me than gambling [1] or drinking, or any other fashionable mode of passing an evening abroad or at home.--I really am very sorry that I went out previous to the arrival of your despatch: in future pray let me hear from you before six, and whatever my engagements may be, I will always postpone them.--Believe me, with that deference which I have always from my childhood paid to your _talents_, and with somewhat a better opinion of your heart than I have hitherto entertained, Yours ever, etc. [Footnote 1: "I learn with delight," writes Hobhouse from Cambridge, May 12, 1808, "from Scrope Davies, that you have totally given up dice. To be sure you must give it up; for you to be seen every night in the very vilest company in town--could anything be more shocking, anything more unfit? I speak feelingly on this occasion, 'non ignara mali miseris, &c'. I know of nothing that should bribe me to be present once more at such horrible scenes. Perhaps 'tis as well that we are both acquainted with the extent of the evil, that we may be the more earnest in abstaining from it. You shall henceforth be 'Diis animosus hostis'." Moore quotes ('Life', p. 86) the following extract from Byron's 'Journal':-- "I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as many people, being always _excited_. Women, wine, fame, the table,--even ambition, _sate_ now and then; but every turn of the card and cast of the dice keeps the gamester alive: besides, one can game ten times longer than one can do any thing else. I was very fond of it when young, that is to say, of hazard, for I hate all _card_ games,--even faro. When macco (or whatever they spell it) was introduced, I gave up the whole thing, for I loved and missed the _rattle_ and _dash_ of the box and dice, and the glorious uncertainty, not only of good luck or bad luck, but of _any luck at all_, as one had sometimes to throw _often_ to decide at all. I have thrown as many as fourteen mains running, and carried off all the cash upon the table occasionally; but I had no coolness, or judgment, or calculation. It was the delight of the thing that pleased me. Upon the whole, I left off in time, without being much a winner or loser. Since one-and-twenty years of age I played but little, and then never above a hundred, or two, or three."] 120.--To R. C. Dallas. April 25, 1809. Dear Sir,--I am just arrived at Batt's Hotel, Jermyn Street, St. James's, from Newstead, and shall be very glad to see you when convenient or agreeable. Hobhouse is on his way up to town, full of printing resolution, [1] and proof against criticism.--Believe me, with great sincerity, Yours truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: See page 163 [Letter 86], [Foot]note 1. Hobhouse's miscellany was published in 1809, under the title of 'Imitations and Translations from the Antient and Modern Classics: Together with Original Poems never before published'.] 121.--To John Hanson. Batt's Hotel, Jermyn Street, April 26th, 1809. DEAR SIR,--I wish to know before I make my final effort elsewhere, if you can or cannot assist me in raising a sum of money on fair and equitable terms and immediately. [1] I called twice this morning, and beg you will favour me with an answer when convenient. I hope all your family are well. I should like to see them together before my departure. The Court of Chancery it seems will not pay the money, of which indeed I do not know the precise amount; the Duke of Portland will not pay his debt, and with the Rochdale property nothing is done.--My debts are daily increasing, and it is with difficulty I can command a shilling. As soon as possible I shall get quit of this country, but I wish to do justice to my creditors (though I do not like their importunity), and particularly to my securities, for their annuities must be paid off soon, or the interest will swallow up everything. Come what may, in every shape and in any shape, I can meet ruin, but I will never sell Newstead; the Abbey and I shall stand or fall together, and, were my head as grey and defenceless as the Arch of the Priory, I would abide by this resolution. The whole of my wishes are summed up in this; procure me, either of my own or borrowed of others, three thousand pounds, and place two in Hammersley's hands for letters of credit at Constantinople; if possible sell Rochdale in my absence, pay off these annuities and my debts, and with the little that remains do as you will, but allow me to depart from this cursed country, and I promise to turn Mussulman, rather than return to it. Believe me to be, Yours truly, BYRON. P.S.--Is my will finished? I should like to sign it while I have anything to leave. [Footnote 1: Money was obtained, partly by means of a life insurance effected with the Provident Institution. The medical report, signed by Benjamin Hutchinson, F.R.C.S., London, states that Hutchinson had attended Byron for the last four or five years; that he was, when last seen by Hutchinson, in very good health; that he never was afflicted with any serious malady; that he was sober and temperate; that he "sometimes used much exercise, and at others was of a studious and sedentary turn;" and thus concludes: "I do believe that he possesses an unimpaired, healthy constitution, and I am not aware of any circumstance which may be considered as tending to shorten his life." Mrs. Byron (April 9, 1809) begs Hanson to see that Byron gave some security for the thousand pounds for which she was bound. She adds: "There is some Trades People at Nottingham that will be completely ruined if he does not pay them, which I would not have happen for the whole world." No security seems to have been given, and the tradesmen remained unpaid. Mrs. Byron's death was doubtless accelerated by anxiety from these causes.] 122.-To the Rev. R. Lowe. [1] 8, St. James Street, May 15, 1809. MY DEAR SIR,--I have just been informed that a report is circulating in Notts of an intention on my part to sell Newstead, which is rather unfortunate, as I have just tied the property up in such a manner as to prevent the practicability, even if my inclination led me to dispose of it. But as such a report may render my tenants uncomfortable, I will feel very much obliged if you will be good enough to contradict the rumour, should it come to your ears, on my authority. I rather conjecture it has arisen from the sale of some copyholds of mine in Norfolk. [2] I sail for Gibraltar in June, and thence to Malta when, of course, you shall have the promised detail. I saw your friend Thornhill last night, who spoke of you as a friend ought to do. Excuse this trouble, and believe me to be, with great sincerity, Yours affectionately, BYRON. [Footnote 1. The Rev. Robert Lowe was some years older than Byron, and had known him intimately at Southwell in his early youth. Miss Pigot was a cousin of Mr. Lowe, as was also the Rev. J. T. Becher of Southwell. Mrs. Chaworth Musters, who contributed this letter to 'The Life and Letters of Viscount Sherbrooke' (vol. i. p. 46), adds that her grandfather was, naturally, excessively annoyed at having been made the mouthpiece of an untruth, and that the coolness which arose in consequence lasted up to the end of Byron's life. There can, however, be no doubt that Byron made the statement in all sincerity.] [Footnote 2: At Wymondham.] CHAPTER IV. TRAVELS IN ALBANIA, GREECE, ETC.--DEATH OF MRS. BYRON. 1809-1811. 123.--To his Mother. Falmouth, June 22, 1809. DEAR MOTHER,--I am about to sail in a few days; probably before this reaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, that I have continued him in my service. If he does not behave well abroad, I will send him back in a _transport_. I have a German servant (who has been with Mr. Wilbraham in Persia before, and was strongly recommended to me by Dr. Butler, of Harrow), Robert and William; [1] they constitute my whole suite. I have letters in plenty:--you shall hear from me at the different ports I touch upon; but you must not be alarmed if my letters miscarry. The Continent is in a fine state--an insurrection has broken out at Paris, and the Austrians are beating Buonaparte--the Tyrolese have risen. There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down to Newstead soon. [2] --I wish the Miss Pigots had something better to do than carry my miniatures to Nottingham to copy. Now they have done it, you may ask them to copy the others, which are greater favourites than my own. As to money matters, I am ruined--at least till Rochdale is sold; and if that does not turn out well, I shall enter into the Austrian or Russian service--perhaps the Turkish, if I like their manners. The world is all before me, and I leave England without regret, and without a wish to revisit any thing it contains, except _yourself_, and your present residence. Believe me, yours ever sincerely. P.S.--Pray tell Mr. Rushton his son is well, and doing well; so is Murray, [3] indeed better than I ever saw him; he will be back in about a month. I ought to add the leaving Murray to my few regrets, as his age perhaps will prevent my seeing him again. Robert I take with me; I like him, because, like myself, he seems a friendless animal. [Footnote 1: Robert Rushton and William Fletcher, the "little page" and "staunch yeoman" of Childe Harold's "Good Night," Canto I. stanza xiii.] [Footnote 2: By George Sanders.] [Footnote 3: "Joe" Murray was sent back from Gibraltar, and with him returned the homesick Robert Rushton. 124.--To the Rev. Henry Drury. Falmouth, June 28, 1809. MY DEAR DRURY,--We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having been detained till now by the lack of wind, and other necessaries. These being at last procured, by this time tomorrow evening we shall be embarked on the vide vorld of vaters, vor all the vorld like Robinson Crusoe. The Malta vessel not sailing for some weeks, we have determined to go by way of Lisbon, and, as my servants term it, to see "that there "'Portingale'"--thence to Cadiz and Gibraltar, and so on our old route to Malta and Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd, our gallant, or rather gallows, commander, understands plain sailing and Mercator, and takes us on a voyage all according to the chart. Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the treasure of a servant, Friese, the native of Prussia Proper, into my service from his recommendation? He has been all among the Worshippers of Fire in Persia, and has seen Persepolis and all that. Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book on his return; 100 pens, two gallons of Japan Ink, and several volumes of best blank, is no bad provision for a discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but have promised to contribute a chapter on the state of morals, and a further treatise on the same to be intituled "..., 'Simplified,... or Proved to be Praiseworthy from Ancient Authors and Modern Practice.'" Hobhouse further hopes to indemnify himself in Turkey for a life of exemplary chastity at home. Pray buy his 'Missellingany', as the Printer's Devil calls it. I suppose it is in print by this time. Providence has interposed in our favour with a fair wind to carry us out of its reach, or he would have hired a Faqui to translate it into the Turcoman lingo. "The cock is crowing, I must be going, And can no more." 'Ghost of Gaffer Thumb'. [1] Adieu.--Believe me, etc., etc. [Footnote 1: In Fielding's burlesque tragedy, 'The Tragedy of Tragedies; or the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great'(1730), occur the lines-- "Arthur, beware; I must this moment hence, Not frighted by your voice, but by the cock's." The burlesque was altered by Kane O'Hara, and published as performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, in 1805. In this prompt-book version (act i.) appear the lines quoted by Byron. "'Ghost'. Grizzle's Rebellion, What need I tell you on? Or by a red cow Tom Thumb devoured? ('cock crows') Hark the cock crowing! I must be going: I can no more {'vanishes'}."] 125.--To Francis Hodgson. Falmouth, June 25, 1809. MY DEAR HODGSON,--Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers' wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto subalterns for the troops, three Portuguese esquires and domestics, in all nineteen souls, will have sailed in the Lisbon packet, with the noble Captain Kidd, a gallant commander as ever smuggled an anker of right Nantz. We are going to Lisbon first, because the Malta packet has sailed, d'ye see?--from Lisbon to Gibraltar, Malta, Constantinople, and "all that," as Orator Henley said, when he put the Church, and "all that," in danger. [1] This town of Falmouth, as you will partly conjecture, is no great ways from the sea. It is defended on the sea-side by tway castles, St. Maws and Pendennis, extremely well calculated for annoying every body except an enemy. St. Maws is garrisoned by an able-bodied person of fourscore, a widower. He has the whole command and sole management of six most unmanageable pieces of ordnance, admirably adapted for the destruction of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the opposite side of the Channel. We have seen St. Maws, but Pendennis they will not let us behold, save at a distance, because Hobhouse and I are suspected of having already taken St. Maws by a coup de main. The town contains many Quakers and salt fish--the oysters have a taste of copper, owing to the soil of a mining country--the women (blessed be the Corporation therefor!) are flogged at the cart's tail when they pick and steal, as happened to one of the fair sex yesterday noon. She was pertinacious in her behaviour, and damned the mayor. This is all I know of Falmouth. Nothing occurred of note in our way down, except that on Hartford Bridge we changed horses at an inn, where the great----, Beckford, [2] sojourned for the night. We tried in vain to see the martyr of prejudice, but could not. What we thought singular, though you perhaps will not, was that Ld Courtney [3] travelled the same night on the same road, only one stage _behind_ him. Hodgson, remember me to the Drury, and remember me to yourself when drunk. I am not worth a sober thought. Look to my satire at Cawthorn's, Cockspur Street, and look to the 'Miscellany' of the Hobhouse. It has pleased Providence to interfere in behalf of a suffering public by giving him a sprained wrist, so that he cannot write, and there is a cessation of ink-shed. I don't know when I can write again, because it depends on that experienced navigator, Captain Kidd, and the "stormy winds that (don't) blow" at this season. I leave England without regret--I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation, but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab;--and thus ends my first chapter. Adieu. [4] Yours, etc. [Footnote 1: Henley, in one of his publications entitled 'Oratory Transactions', engaged "to execute singly what would sprain a dozen of modern doctors of the tribe of Issachar--to write, read, and study twelve hours a day, and yet appear as untouched by the yoke as if he never wore it--to teach in one year what schools or universities teach in five;" and he furthermore pledged himself to persevere in his bold scheme until he had "put the church,--and all that--, in danger." (Moore).] [Footnote 2: William Beckford (1760-1844), son of Chatham's friend who was twice Lord Mayor of London, at the age of eleven succeeded it is said, to a million of ready money and a hundred thousand a year. Before he was seventeen he wrote his 'Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters', designed as a satire on the 'Vies des Peintres Flamands', ('Memoirs of William Beckford', by Cyrus Redding, vol. i. p. 96.) His travels (1777-82) in Switzerland, the Low Countries, and Italy are described in his 'Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents, in a series of letters from various parts of Europe', published anonymously in 1783, and reprinted, with additions and omissions, in 1834 and 1840. In the previous year he had written 'Vathek' in French, in "three days and two nights," without, as he says, taking off his clothes; "the severe application made me very ill." This statement, if made by Beckford, as Redding implies, is untrue. Evidence exists to prove that 'Vathek' was a careful and elaborate composition. The book was published with his name in 1787; but a translation, made and printed without his leave, had already (1784) appeared, and was often mistaken for the original. In 1783 he married Lady Margaret Gordon, with whom he lived in Switzerland till her death in 1786. One of his two daughters--he had no son--became Mrs. Orde, the other the Duchess of Hamilton. From 1787 to 1791, and again from 1794 to 1796, he visited Portugal and Spain, and to this period belong his 'Sketches of Spain and Portugal' (1834), and his 'Recollections of an Excursion to the 'Monasteries of Alobaca and Batalha' (1835). Between his two visits to Portugal, on the last of which he occupied the retreat at Cintra celebrated by Byron ('Childe Harold', Canto I. stanzas xviii.-xxii.), he saw the destruction of the Bastille, bought Gibbon's library at Lausanne (in 1796), and, shutting himself up in it "for six weeks, from early in the morning until night, only now and then taking "a ride," read himself "nearly blind" (Cyrus Redding's "Recollections of the Author of Vathek," 'New Monthly Magazine', vol. lxxi. p. 307). He also wrote two burlesque novels, to ridicule, it is said, those written by his sister, Mrs. Henry: 'Azemia; a Descriptive and Sentimental Novel. By Jacquetta Agneta Mariana Jenks of Bellgrove Priory in Wales' (1796); and 'Modern Novel-Writing, or the Elegant Enthusiast. By the Rt. Hon. Lady Harriet Marlow'(1797). He represented Wells from 1784 to 1790, and Hindon from 1806 to 1820; but took no part in political life. He was now settled at Fonthill (1796-1822), absorbed in collecting books, pictures, and engravings, laying out the grounds, indulging his architectural extravagances, and shutting himself and his palace out from the world by a gigantic wall. When Rogers visited him at Fonthill, and arrived at the gate, he was told that neither his servant nor his horses could be admitted, but that Mr. Beckford's attendants and horses would be at his service ('Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', p. 217). Beckford had been taught music by Mozart, and Rogers says ('ibid'.) that "in the evening Beckford would amuse us by reading one of his unpublished works; or he would extemporize on the pianoforte, producing the most novel and charming melodies." In 1822 his gigantic fortune had dwindled; he was in embarrassed circumstances; Fonthill and most of its contents were sold, and Beckford settled in Lansdowne Terrace, Bath, where he still collected books and works of art, laid out the grounds, and built the tower on Lansdowne Hill, which are now the property of the city. At Bath he died in 1844. 'Vathek' is a masterpiece, which, as an Eastern tale, is unrivalled in European literature. "For correctness of costume," says Byron, in one of his diaries, "beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 'Rasselas' must bow before it: his 'Happy Valley' will not bear a comparison with the Hall of Eblis." Beckford's letters are, in their way, equally masterpieces, and, like 'Vathek', have the appearance of being struck off without labour. Reprinted, as their writer says (Preface to the edition of 1840), because "some justly admired Authors... condescended to glean a few stray thoughts from these letters," they suggest, in some respects, comparison with Byron's own work. There is the same prodigality of power, the same simple nervous style, the same vein of melancholy, the same cynical contempt for mankind. In both writers there is a passionate feeling for the grander aspects of nature, though Beckford was also thrilled, as Byron was not, by the beauties of art. In both there are similar inconsistencies and incongruities of temperament, and the same vein of reckless self-indulgence appears to run by the side of nobler enthusiasms. In both there is a taste for Oriental magnificence, which, in Beckford, was to some degree corrected by his artistic perceptions. Both, finally, described not so much the objects they saw, as the impression which those objects produced on themselves, and thus steeped their pictures, clear and vivid though they are, in an atmosphere of their own personality.] [Footnote 3: William, third Viscount Courtenay, died unmarried in 1835, and with him the viscountcy became extinct. In 1831 he proved before Parliament his title to the earldom of Devon, which passed at his death to a cousin, William, tenth Earl of Devon (1777-1859).] [Footnote 4: In this letter the following verses were enclosed:-- "Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809. "Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired, Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the Custom-house; Trunks unpacking, Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet. Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient--push from shore. 'Have a care! that case holds liquor-- Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!' 'Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board.' Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax. Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in, Some to grumble, some to spew. 'Hey day! call you that a cabin? Why 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-- Who the deuce can harbour there?' 'Who, sir? plenty-- Nobles twenty-- Did at once my vessel fill'-- 'Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket, Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.' Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Stretch'd along the deck like logs-- Bear a hand, you jolly tar you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls; Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth--and damns our souls. 'Here's a stanza On Braganza-- Help!'--'A couplet?'--'No, a cup Of warm water.'-- 'What's the matter?' 'Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.' Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack. But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on--as I do now. Laugh at all things, Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore; While we're quaffing, Let's have laughing-- Who the devil cares for more?-- Some good wine! and who would lack it, Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet? "BYRON." 126.--To Francis Hodgson. Lisbon, July 16, 1809. Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, etc.;--which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate by smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and clandestine manner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world. I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own,--and I goes into society (with my pocket-pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and have got a diarrhoea and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a pleasuring. When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say 'Carracho!'--the great oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of "Damme,"--and, when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronounce him 'Ambra di merdo'. With these two phrases, and a third, 'Avra louro', which signifieth "Get an ass," I am universally understood to be a person of degree and a master of languages. How merrily we lives that travellers be!--if we had food and raiment. But, in sober sadness, any thing is better than England, and I am infinitely amused with my pilgrimage as far as it has gone. To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and Byzantium. A letter to Malta will find me, or to be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and Dwyer, and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler's donative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility. Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and defeats and capital crimes and the misfortunes of one's friends; and let us hear of literary matters, and the controversies and the criticisms. All this will be pleasant--'Suave mari magno', etc. Talking of that, I have been sea-sick, and sick of the sea. Adieu. Yours faithfully, etc. 127.--To Francis Hodgson. Gibraltar, August 6, 1809. I have just arrived at this place after a journey through Portugal, and a part of Spain, of nearly 500 miles. We left Lisbon and travelled on horseback to Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the 'Hyperion' frigate to Gibraltar. The horses are excellent--we rode seventy miles a day. Eggs and wine, and hard beds, are all the accommodation we found, and, in such torrid weather, quite enough. My health is better than in England. Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, part of which we crossed, a very sufficient mountain; but damn description, it is always disgusting. Cadiz, sweet Cadiz! [1]--it is the first spot in the creation. The beauty of its streets and mansions is only excelled by the loveliness of its inhabitants. For, with all national prejudice, I must confess the women of Cadiz are as far superior to the English women in beauty as the Spaniards are inferior to the English in every quality that dignifies the name of man. Just as I began to know the principal persons of the city, I was obliged to sail. You will not expect a long letter after my riding so far "on hollow pampered jades of Asia." Talking of Asia puts me in mind of Africa, which is within five miles of my present residence. I am going over before I go on to Constantinople. Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many of the grandees who have left Madrid during the troubles reside there, and I do believe it is the prettiest and cleanest town in Europe. London is filthy in the comparison. The Spanish women are all alike, their education the same. The wife of a duke is, in information, as the wife of a peasant,--the wife of peasant, in manner, equal to a duchess. Certainly they are fascinating; but their minds have only one idea, and the business of their lives is intrigue. I have seen Sir John Carr [2] at Seville and Cadiz, and, like Swift's barber, have been down on my knees to beg he would not put me into black and white [3]. Pray remember me [4] to the Drurys and the Davies, and all of that stamp who are yet extant. Send me a letter and news to Malta. My next epistle shall be from Mount Caucasus or Mount Sion. I shall return to Spain before I see England, for I am enamoured of the country. Adieu, and believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: In 'Childe Harold' (Canto I., after stanza lxxxiv.), instead of the song "To Inez," Byron originally wrote the song beginning "Oh never talk again to me Of northern climes and British ladies, It has not been your lot to see, Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz."] [Footnote 2: Sir John Carr (1772-1832), a native of Devonshire, and a barrister of the Middle Temple, was knighted by the Duke of Bedford as Viceroy of Ireland about 1807. He published 'The Fury of Discord, a Poem' (1803); 'The Sea-side Hero, a Drama in 3 Acts' (1804); and 'Poems'(1809). But he is best known by his travels, which gained him the nickname of "Jaunting Carr," and considerable profit. 'The Stranger in France' (1803) was bought by Johnson for £100. 'A Northern Summer, or Travels round the Baltic, etc._(1805), 'The Stranger in Ireland' (1806), and 'A Tour through Holland_(1807), were bought for £500, £700, and £600 respectively by Sir Richard Phillips, who, but for the ridicule cast upon Carr by Edward Dubois (in 'My Pocket Book; or Hints for a Ryhte Merrie and Conceited Tour in Quarto, to be called "The Stranger in Ireland in 1805," by a Knight Errant'), would have given £600 for his 'Caledonian Sketches' (1808). In spite, however, of this proof of damages, the jury found, in Carr's action against Messrs. Hood and Sharpe, the publishers of 'My Pocket Book', that the criticism was fair and justifiable (1808). Carr published, in 1811, his 'Descriptive Travels in the Southern and Eastern Parts of Spain', without mentioning Byron's name. Byron concluded his MS. of 'Childe Harold', Canto I. with three stanzas on "Green Erin's Knight and Europe's Wandering Star" (see, for the lines, 'Childe Harold', at the end of Canto I.). In letter vii. of 'Intercepted Letters; or the Twopenny Post-bag', by Thomas Brown the Younger (1813), occur the following lines:-- "Since the Chevalier C--rr took to marrying lately, The Trade is in want of a 'Traveller' greatly-- No job, Sir, more easy--your 'Country' once plann'd, A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand."] [Footnote 3: "Once stopping at an inn at Dundalk, the Dean was so much amused with a prating barber, that rather than be alone he invited him to dinner. The fellow was rejoiced at this unexpected honour, and being dressed out in his best apparel came to the inn, first inquiring of the groom what the clergyman's name was who had so kindly invited him. 'What the vengeance!' said the servant,' don't you know Dean Swift?' At which the barber turned pale, and, running into the house, fell upon his knees and intreated the Dean 'not to put him into print; for that he was a poor barber, had a large family to maintain, and if his reverence put him into black and white he should lose all his customers.' Swift laughed heartily at the poor fellow's simplicity, bade him sit down and eat his dinner in peace, for he assured him he would neither put him nor his wife in print." Sheridan's 'Life of Swift'.--(Moore).] [Footnote 4: "This sort of passage," says the Rev. Francis Hodgson, in a note on his copy of this letter, "constantly occurs in his correspondence. Nor was his interest confined to mere remembrances and inquiries after health. Were it possible to state 'all' he has done for numerous friends, he would appear amiable indeed. For myself, I am bound to acknowledge, in the fullest and warmest manner, his most generous and well-timed aid; and, were my poor friend Bland alive, he would as gladly bear the like testimony;--though I have most reason, of all men, to do so." (Moore).] 128.--To his Mother. Gibraltar, August 11th, 1809. Dear Mother,-I have been so much occupied since my departure from England, that till I could address you at length I have forborne writing altogether. As I have now passed through Portugal, and a considerable part of Spain, and have leisure at this place, I shall endeavour to give you a short detail of my movements. We sailed from Falmouth on the 2nd of July, reached Lisbon after a very favourable passage of four days and a half, and took up our abode in that city. It has been often described without being worthy of description; for, except the view from the Tagus, which is beautiful, and some fine churches and convents, it contains little but filthy streets, and more filthy inhabitants. To make amends for this, the village of Cintra, about fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps in every respect, the most delightful in Europe; it contains beauties of every description, natural and artificial. Palaces and gardens rising in the midst of rocks, cataracts, and precipices; convents on stupendous heights--a distant view of the sea and the Tagus; and, besides (though that is a secondary consideration), is remarkable as the scene of Sir Hew Dalrymple's Convention.[1] It unites in itself all the wildness of the western highlands, with the verdure of the south of France. Near this place, about ten miles to the right, is the palace of Mafra, the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any other country, in point of magnificence without elegance. There is a convent annexed; the monks, who possess large revenues, are courteous enough, and understand Latin, so that we had a long conversation: they have a large library, and asked me if the _English_ had _any books_ in their country? I sent my baggage, and part of the servants, by sea to Gibraltar, and travelled on horseback from Aldea Galbega (the first stage from Lisbon, which is only accessible by water) to Seville (one of the most famous cities in Spain), where the Government called the Junta is now held. The distance to Seville is nearly four hundred miles, and to Cadiz almost ninety farther towards the coast. I had orders from the governments, and every possible accommodation on the road, as an English nobleman, in an English uniform, is a very respectable personage in Spain at present. The horses are remarkably good, and the roads (I assure you upon my honour, for you will hardly believe it) very far superior to the best English roads, without the smallest toll or turnpike. You will suppose this when I rode post to Seville, in four days, through this parching country in the midst of summer, without fatigue or annoyance. Seville is a beautiful town; though the streets are narrow, they are clean. We lodged in the house of two Spanish unmarried ladies, who possess _six_ houses in Seville, and gave me a curious specimen of Spanish manners. They are women of character, and the eldest a fine woman, the youngest pretty, but not so good a figure as Donna Josepha. The freedom of manner, which is general here, astonished me not a little; and in the course of further observation, I find that reserve is not the characteristic of the Spanish belles, who are, in general, very handsome, with large black eyes, and very fine forms. The eldest honoured your _unworthy_ son with very particular attention, embracing him with great tenderness at parting (I was there but three days), after cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own, about three feet in length, which I send, and beg you will retain till my return. Her last words were, _Adios, tu hermoso! me gusto mucho_--"Adieu, you pretty fellow! you please me much." She offered me a share of her apartment, which my _virtue_ induced me to decline; she laughed, and said I had some English _amante_ (lover), and added that she was going to be married to an officer in the Spanish army. I left Seville, and rode on to Cadiz, through a beautiful country. At _Xeres_, where the sherry we drink is made, I met a great merchant--a Mr. Gordon of Scotland--who was extremely polite, and favoured me with the inspection of his vaults and cellars, so that I quaffed at the fountain head. Cadiz, sweet Cadiz, is the most delightful town I ever beheld, very different from our English cities in every respect except cleanliness (and it is as clean as London), but still beautiful, and full of the finest women in Spain, the Cadiz belles being the Lancashire witches of their land. Just as I was introduced and began to like the grandees, I was forced to leave it for this cursed place; but before I return to England I will visit it again. The night before I left it, I sat in the box at the opera with Admiral Cordova's family; [2] he is the commander whom Lord St. Vincent defeated in 1797, and has an aged wife and a fine daughter, Sennorita Cordova. The girl is very pretty, in the Spanish style; in my opinion, by no means inferior to the English in charms, and certainly superior in fascination. Long black hair, dark languishing eyes, _clear_ olive complexions, and forms more graceful in motion than can be conceived by an Englishman used to the drowsy, listless air of his countrywomen, added to the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, the most decent in the world, render a Spanish beauty irresistible. I beg leave to observe that intrigue here is the business of life; when a woman marries she throws off all restraint, but I believe their conduct is chaste enough before. If you make a proposal, which in England will bring a box on the ear from the meekest of virgins, to a Spanish girl, she thanks you for the honour you intend her, and replies, "Wait till I am married, and I shall be too happy." This is literally and strictly true. Miss Cordova and her little brother understood a little French, and, after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, she proposed to become my preceptress in that language. I could only reply by a low bow, and express my regret that I quitted Cadiz too soon to permit me to make the progress which would doubtless attend my studies under so charming a directress. I was standing at the back of the box, which resembles our Opera boxes, (the theatre is large and finely decorated, the music admirable,) in the manner which Englishmen generally adopt, for fear of incommoding the ladies in front, when this fair Spaniard dispossessed an old woman (an aunt or a duenna) of her chair, and commanded me to be seated next herself, at a tolerable distance from her mamma. At the close of the performance I withdrew, and was lounging with a party of men in the passage, when, _en passant,_ the lady turned round and called me, and I had the honour of attending her to the admiral's mansion. I have an invitation on my return to Cadiz, which I shall accept if I repass through the country on my return from Asia. [3] I have met Sir John Carr, Knight Errant, at Seville and Cadiz. He is a pleasant man. I like the Spaniards much. You have heard of the battle near Madrid, [4] and in England they would call it a victory--a pretty victory! Two hundred officers and five thousand men killed, all English, and the French in as great force as ever. I should have joined the army, but we have no time to lose before we get up the Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am going over to Africa tomorrow; it is only six miles from this fortress. My next stage is Cagliari in Sardinia, where I shall be presented to His Majesty. I have a most superb uniform as a court dress, indispensable in travelling. _August 13._--I have not yet been to Africa--the wind is contrary--but I dined yesterday at Algesiras, with Lady Westmorland, [5] where I met General Castanos, the celebrated Spanish leader in the late and present war. To-day I dine with him. He has offered me letters to Tetuan in Barbary, for the principal Moors, and I am to have the house for a few days of one of the great men, which was intended for Lady W., whose health will not permit her to cross the Straits. _August 15_.--I could not dine with Castanos [6] yesterday, but this afternoon I had that honour. He is pleasant and, for aught I know to the contrary, clever. I cannot go to Barbary. The Malta packet sails to-morrow, and myself in it. Admiral Purvis, with whom I dined at Cadiz, gave me a passage in a frigate to Gibraltar, but we have no ship of war destined for Malta at present. The packets sail fast, and have good accommodation. You shall hear from me on our route. Joe Murray delivers this; I have sent him and the boy back. Pray show the lad kindness, as he is my great favourite; I would have taken him on. And say this to his father, who may otherwise think he has behaved ill. I hope this will find you well. Believe me, Yours ever sincerely, BYRON. P.S.--So Lord G----[7] is married to a rustic. Well done! If I wed, I will bring home a Sultana, with half a dozen cities for a dowry, and reconcile you to an Ottoman daughter-in-law, with a bushel of pearls not larger than ostrich eggs, or smaller than walnuts. [Footnote 1: Sir Hew Whitefoord Dalrymple (1750-1830) took command of the British forces in the Peninsular War, August 22, 1808, and signed the Convention of Cintra (August 31), by which Junot, whom Sir Arthur Wellesley had defeated at Vimeira, evacuated Portugal, and surrendered Elvas and Lisbon. The Convention was approved by a court of general officers ordered to sit at Chelsea Hospital; but Dalrymple never again obtained a command. The so-called Convention of Cintra was signed at the palace of the Marquis de Marialva, thirty miles distant.] [Footnote 2: Admiral Cordova commanded the Spanish Fleet, defeated, February 14, 1797, off Cape St. Vincent, by Sir John Jervis, afterwards Earl St. Vincent.] [Footnote 3: To these adventures in his hasty passage through Spain Byron briefly alludes in the early part of his _Memoranda._ "For some time," he said, "I went on prosperously both as a linguist and a lover, till at length the lady took a fancy to a ring which I wore, and set her heart on my giving it to her, as a pledge of my sincerity. This, however, could not be:--any thing but the ring, I declared, was at her service, and much more than its value,--but the ring itself I had made a vow never to give away." The young Spaniard grew angry as the contention went on, and it was not long before the lover became angry also; till, at length, the affair ended by their separating. "Soon after this," said he, "I sailed for Malta, and there parted with both my heart and ring." ('Life', p.93). He also alludes to the incident in 'Don Juan', Canto II, stanza clxiv.-- "'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean, When both the teacher and the taught are young, As was the case, at least, where I have been," etc.] [Footnote 4: The battle of Talavera, July 27 and 28, 1809, in which Sir Arthur Wellesley defeated Marshal Victor. In Cuesta's despatch to the Spanish Government, dated Seville, August 7, the British loss is mentioned as 260 officers and 5000 men.] [Footnote 5: Lady Westmorland, _nee_ Jane Saunders, daughter of Dr. R. H. Saunders, married, in 1800, as his second wife, John, tenth Earl of Westmorland (1759-1841). At her house Lady Caroline Lamb refused to be introduced to Byron (_Life of Lord Melbourne,_ vol. i. p.103). [Footnote 6: General Francisco de Castanos, Duke of Baylen (1758-1852) defeated General Dupont at Baylen in 1808, and distinguished himself at Vittoria in 1813. He was guardian to Queen Isabella in 1843.] [Footnote 7: Lord Grey de Ruthyn. (See page 23 [Letter 8], [Foot]note 1.)] 129.--To Mr. Rushton. Gibraltar, August 15, 1809. Mr. Rushton,--I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, because the country which I am about to travel through is in a state which renders it unsafe, particularly for one so young. I allow you to deduct five-and-twenty pounds a year for his education for three years, provided I do not return before that time, and I desire he may be considered as in my service. Let every care be taken of him, and let him be sent to school. In case of my death I have provided enough in my will to render him independent. He has behaved extremely well, and has travelled a great deal for the time of his absence. Deduct the expense of his education from your rent. BYRON. 130.--To his Mother. Malta, September 15, 1809. Dear Mother,--Though I have a very short time to spare, being to sail immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid taking an opportunity of telling you that I am well. I have been in Malta [1] a short time, and have found the inhabitants hospitable and pleasant. This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary woman, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. [2] She has since been shipwrecked, and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would appear improbable. She was born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian Ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the vengeance of Buonaparte by a part in some conspiracy; several times risked her life; and is not yet twenty-five. She is here on her way to England, to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here, I have had scarcely any other companion. I have found her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Buonaparte is even now so incensed against her, that her life would be in some danger if she were taken prisoner a second time. You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, and received my letter. Little has happened since that date. I have touched at Cagliari in Sardinia, and at Girgenti in Sicily, and embark to-morrow for Patras, from whence I proceed to Yanina, where Ali Pacha holds his court. So I shall soon be among the Mussulmans. Adieu. Believe me, with sincerity, yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: At Gibraltar, John Galt, who was travelling for his health, met Byron, whom he did not know by sight, but by whose appearance he was attracted. "His dress indicated a Londoner of some fashion, partly by its neatness and simplicity, with just so much of a peculiarity of style as served to show that, although he belonged to the order of metropolitan beaux, he was not altogether a common one ... His physiognomy was prepossessing and intelligent, but ever and anon his brows lowered and gathered--a habit, as I then thought, with a degree of affectation in it, probably first assumed for picturesque effect and energetic expression, but which I afterwards discovered was undoubtedly the scowl of some unpleasant reminiscence; it was certainly disagreeable, forbidding, but still the general cast of his features was impressed with elegance and character." Afterwards Galt was a fellow-passenger on board the packet from Gibraltar to Malta. "In the little bustle and process of embarking their luggage, his Lordship affected, as it seemed to me, more aristocracy than befitted his years, or the occasion; and then I thought of his singular scowl, and suspected him of pride and irascibility. The impression that evening was not agreeable, but it was interesting; and that forehead mark, the frown, was calculated to awaken curiosity, and beget conjectures ... Byron held himself aloof, and sat on the rail, leaning on the mizzen shrouds, inhaling, as it were, poetical sympathy from the gloomy rock, then dark and stern in the twilight. There was, in all about him that evening, much waywardness. He spoke petulantly to Fletcher, his valet, and was evidently ill at ease with himself, and fretful towards others. I thought he would turn out an unsatisfactory shipmate; yet there was something redeeming in the tones of his voice, and when, some time after having indulged his sullen meditation he again addressed Fletcher; so that, instead of finding him ill-natured, I was soon convinced he was only capricious." On the voyage, "about the third day, Byron relented from his rapt mood, as if he felt it was out of place, and became playful, and disposed to contribute his fair proportion to the general endeavour to while away the tediousness of the dull voyage." But yet throughout the whole passage, "if," says Galt, "my remembrance is not treacherous, he only spent one evening in the cabin with us--the evening before we came to anchor at Cagliari; for, when the lights were placed, he made himself a man forbid, took his station on the railing, between the pegs on which the sheets are belayed and the shrouds, and there, for hours, sat in silence, enamoured, it may be, of the moon. All these peculiarities, with his caprices, and something inexplicable in the cast of his metaphysics, while they served to awaken interest, contributed little to conciliate esteem. He was often strangely rapt--it may have been from his genius; and, had its grandeur and darkness been then divulged, susceptible of explanation; but, at the time, it threw, as it were, around him the sackcloth of penitence. Sitting amid the shrouds and rattlings, in the tranquillity of the moonlight, churning an inarticulate melody, he seemed almost apparitional, suggesting dim reminiscences of him who shot the albatross" (Galt's 'Life of Byron', pp. 57-61).] [Footnote 2: Byron's "new Calypso." Mrs. Spencer Smith (born about 1785) was the daughter of Baron Herbert, Austrian Ambassador at Constantinople, wife of Spencer Smith, the British Minister at Stuttgart, and sister-in-law of Sir Sidney Smith, the hero of Acre. In 1805 she was staying, for her health, at the baths of Valdagno, near Vicenza, when the Napoleonic wars overspread Northern Italy, and she took refuge with her sister, the Countess Attems, at Venice. In 1806 General Lauriston took over the government of the city in the name of Napoleon, and M. de La Garde was appointed Prefect of the Police. A few days after their arrival, on April 18, Mrs. Smith was arrested, and, guarded by 'gendarmes', conveyed towards the Italian frontier, to be confined, as La Garde told a Sicilian nobleman, the Marquis de Salvo, at Valenciennes. Mrs. Smith's beauty and impending fate deeply impressed the marquis, who determined to rescue her. The prisoner and her guard had reached Brescia, and were lodged at the 'Albergo delle due Torre', The opportunity seemed favourable. Once across the Guarda Lake, and in the passes of Tyrol, it would be easy to reach Styria. The marquis made his arrangements--hired two boats, one for the fugitives, the other for their post-chaise and horses; procured for Mrs. Smith a boy's dress, as a disguise; made a ladder long enough to reach her window in the inn, and succeeded in making known his plan to the prisoner. The escape was effected; but all along the road the danger continued, for their way lay through a country which was practically French territory. It was not till they reached Gratz, and Mrs. Smith was under the roof of her sister, the Countess Strassoldo, that she was safe. The story is told in detail by the Marquis de Salvo, in his 'Travels in the Year 1806 from Italy to England' (1807), and by the Duchesse d'Abrantes ('Memoires,' vol. xv. pp. 1-74). To Mrs. Spencer Smith are addressed the "Lines to Florence," the "Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm" (near Zitza, in October, 1809), and stanzas xxx.-xxxii. of the second canto of 'Childe Harold.' The Duchesse d'Abrantés ('Mémoires', vol. xv. pp. 4, 5) thus describes her: "Une jeune femme, dont la délicate et elégante tournure, la peau blanche et diaphane, les cheveux blonds, les mouvemens onduleux, toute une tournure impossible à décrire autrement qu'en disant qu'elle était de toutes les créatures la plus gracieuse, lui donnaient l'aspect d'une de ces apparitions amenées par un rêve heureux... il y avail de la Sylphide en elle. Sa vue excessivement basse n'etait qu'un charme de plus." Moore ('Life,' p. 95) thinks that Byron was less in love with Mrs. Smith than with his recollection of her. According to Gait ('Life of Byron,' p. 66), "he affected a passion for her, but it was only Platonic. She, however, beguiled him of his valuable yellow diamond ring."] 131.--To his Mother. Prevesa, November 12, 1809. My Dear Mother,--I have now been some time in Turkey: this place is on the coast, but I have traversed the interior of the province of Albania on a visit to the Pacha. I left Malta in the _Spider,_ a brig of war, on the 21st of September, and arrived in eight days at Prevesa. I thence have been about 150 miles, as far as Tepaleen, his Highness's country palace, where I stayed three days. The name of the Pacha is _Ali_ [1] and he is considered a man of the first abilities: he governs the whole of Albania (the ancient Illyricum), Epirus, and part of Macedonia. His son, Vely Pacha, [2] to whom he has given me letters, governs the Morea, and has great influence in Egypt; in short, he is one of the most powerful men in the Ottoman empire. When I reached Yanina, the capital, after a journey of three days over the mountains, through a country of the most picturesque beauty, I found that Ali Pacha was with his army in Illyricum, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in the castle of Berat. He had heard that an Englishman of rank was in his dominions, and had left orders in Yanina with the commandant to provide a house, and supply me with every kind of necessary _gratis_; and, though I have been allowed to make presents to the slaves, etc., I have not been permitted to pay for a single article of household consumption. I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the palaces of himself and grandsons: they are splendid, but too much ornamented with silk and gold. I then went over the mountains through Zitza, [3] a village with a Greek monastery (where I slept on my return), in the most beautiful situation (always excepting Cintra, in Portugal) I ever beheld. In nine days I reached Tepaleen. Our journey was much prolonged by the torrents that had fallen from the mountains, and intersected the roads. I shall never forget the singular scene on entering Tepaleen at five in the afternoon, as the sun was going down. It brought to my mind (with some change of _dress_, however) Scott's description of Branksome Castle in his _Lay_, and the feudal system. [4] The Albanians, in their dresses, (the most magnificent in the world, consisting of a long _white kilt_, gold-worked cloak, crimson velvet gold-laced jacket and waistcoat, silver-mounted pistols and daggers,) the Tartars with their high caps, the Turks in their vast pelisses and turbans, the soldiers and black slaves with the horses, the former in groups in an immense large open gallery in front of the palace, the latter placed in a kind of cloister below it, two hundred steeds ready caparisoned to move in a moment, couriers entering or passing out with the despatches, the kettle-drums beating, boys calling the hour from the minaret of the mosque, altogether, with the singular appearance of the building itself, formed a new and delightful spectacle to a stranger. I was conducted to a very handsome apartment, and my health inquired after by the vizier's secretary, 'à-la-mode Turque'! The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I was dressed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a very magnificent sabre, etc. The vizier received me in a large room paved with marble; a fountain was playing in the centre; the apartment was surrounded by scarlet ottomans. He received me standing, a wonderful compliment from a Mussulman, and made me sit down on his right hand. I have a Greek interpreter for general use, but a physician of Ali's named Femlario, who understands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His first question was, why, at so early an age, I left my country?--(the Turks have no idea of travelling for amusement). He then said, the English minister, Captain Leake, [5] had told him I was of a great family, and desired his respects to my mother; which I now, in the name of Ali Pacha, present to you. He said he was certain I was a man of birth, because I had small ears, curling hair, and little white hands, and expressed himself pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me to consider him as a father whilst I was in Turkey, and said he looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me like a child, sending me almonds and sugared sherbet, fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. He begged me to visit him often, and at night, when he was at leisure. I then, after coffee and pipes, retired for the first time. I saw him thrice afterwards. It is singular that the Turks, who have no hereditary dignities, and few great families, except the Sultans, pay so much respect to birth; for I found my pedigree more regarded than my title. To-day I saw the remains of the town of Actium, [6] near which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where two frigates could hardly manoeuvre: a broken wall is the sole remnant. On another part of the gulf stand the ruins of Nicopolis, built by Augustus in honour of his victory. Last night I was at a Greek marriage; but this and a thousand things more I have neither time nor _space_ to describe. His highness is sixty years old, very fat, and not tall, but with a fine face, light blue eyes, and a white beard; his manner is very kind, and at the same time he possesses that dignity which I find universal amongst the Turks. He has the appearance of anything but his real character, for he is a remorseless tyrant, guilty of the most horrible cruelties, very brave, and so good a general that they call him the Mahometan Buonaparte. Napoleon has twice offered to make him King of Epirus, but he prefers the English interest, and abhors the French, as he himself told me. He is of so much consequence, that he is much courted by both, the Albanians being the most warlike subjects of the Sultan, though Ali is only nominally dependent on the Porte; he has been a mighty warrior, but is as barbarous as he is successful, roasting rebels, etc., etc. Buonaparte sent him a snuff-box with his picture. He said the snuff-box was very well, but the picture he could excuse, as he neither liked it nor the original. His ideas of judging of a man's birth from ears, hands, etc., were curious enough. To me he was, indeed, a father, giving me letters, guards, and every possible accommodation. Our next conversations were of war and travelling, politics and England. He called my Albanian soldier, who attends me, and told him to protect me at all hazard; his name is Viseillie, and, like all the Albanians, he is brave, rigidly honest, and faithful; but they are cruel, though not treacherous, and have several vices but no meannesses. They are, perhaps, the most beautiful race, in point of countenance, in the world; their women are sometimes handsome also, but they are treated like slaves, _beaten_, and, in short, complete beasts of burden; they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying wood, and actually repairing the highways. The men are all soldiers, and war and the chase their sole occupations. The women are the labourers, which after all is no great hardship in so delightful a climate. Yesterday, the 11th of November, I bathed in the sea; to-day is so hot that I am writing in a shady room of the English consul's, with three doors wide open, no fire, or even _fireplace_, in the house, except for culinary purposes. I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty men, to Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I shall winter. [7] Two days ago I was nearly lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the captain and crew, though the storm was not violent. Fletcher yelled after his wife, the Greeks called on all the saints, the Mussulmans on Alla; the captain burst into tears and ran below deck, telling us to call on God; the sails were split, the main-yard shivered, the wind blowing fresh, the night setting in, and all our chance was to make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as Fletcher pathetically termed it) "a watery grave." I did what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incorrigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote (an immense cloak), and lay down on deck to wait the worst. I have learnt to philosophise in my travels; and if I had not, complaint was useless. Luckily the wind abated, and only drove us on the coast of Suli, on the main land, where we landed, and proceeded, by the help of the natives, to Prevesa again; but I shall not trust Turkish sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one of his own galliots to take me to Patras. I am therefore going as far as Missolonghi by land, and there have only to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels. We were one night lost for nine hours in the mountains in a thunder-storm, and since nearly wrecked. In both cases Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from apprehensions of famine and banditti in the first, and drowning in the second instance. His eyes were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying (I don't know which), but are now recovered. When you write, address to me at Mr. Strané's, English consul, Patras, Morea. I could tell you I know not how many incidents that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on my mind as much as they would swell my paper, and I can neither arrange them in the one, nor put them down on the other, except in the greatest confusion. I like the Albanians much; they are not all Turks; some tribes are Christians. But their religion makes little difference in their manner or conduct. They are esteemed the best troops in the Turkish service. I lived on my route, two days at once, and three days again, in a barrack at Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, though I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and Malta, and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, and was always welcome to their provision and milk. Not a week ago an Albanian chief, (every village has its chief, who is called Primate,) after helping us out of the Turkish galley in her distress, feeding us, and lodging my suite, consisting of Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, a Greek priest, and my companion, Mr. Hobhouse, refused any compensation but a written paper stating that I was well received; and when I pressed him to accept a few sequins, "No," he replied; "I wish you to love me, not to pay me." These are his words. It is astonishing how far money goes in this country. While I was in the capital I had nothing to pay by the vizier's order; but since, though I have generally had sixteen horses, and generally six or seven men, the expense has not been _half_ as much as staying only three weeks in Malta, though Sir A. Ball, [8] the governor, gave me a house for nothing, and I had only _one servant_. By the by, I expect Hanson to remit regularly; for I am not about to stay in this province for ever. Let him write to me at Mr. Strané's, English consul, Patras. The fact is, the fertility of the plains is wonderful, and specie is scarce, which makes this remarkable cheapness. I am going to Athens, to study modern Greek, which differs much from the ancient, though radically similar. I have no desire to return to England, nor shall I, unless compelled by absolute want, and Hanson's neglect; but I shall not enter into Asia for a year or two, as I have much to see in Greece, and I may perhaps cross into Africa, at least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all Englishmen, is very much dissatisfied, though a little reconciled to the Turks by a present of eighty piastres from the vizier, which, if you consider every thing, and the value of specie here, is nearly worth ten guineas English. He has suffered nothing but from cold, heat, and vermin, which those who lie in cottages and cross mountains in a cold country must undergo, and of which I have equally partaken with himself; but he is not valiant, and is afraid of robbers and tempests. I have no one to be remembered to in England, and wish to hear nothing from it, but that you are well, and a letter or two on business from Hanson, whom you may tell to write. I will write when I can, and beg you to believe me, Your affectionate son, BYRON. P.S.--I have some very "magnifiques" Albanian dresses, the only expensive articles in this country. They cost fifty guineas each, and have so much gold, they would cost in England two hundred. I have been introduced to Hussein Bey, [9] and Mahmout Pacha, [9] both little boys, grandchildren of Ali, at Yanina; they are totally unlike our lads, have painted complexions like rouged dowagers, large black eyes, and features perfectly regular. They are the prettiest little animals I ever saw, and are broken into the court ceremonies already. The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head, with the hand on the heart; intimates always kiss. Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me again; we are friends without understanding each other, like many other folks, though from a different cause. He has given me a letter to his father in the Morea, to whom I have also letters from Ali Pacha. [Footnote 1: Ali Pasha (1741-1822) was born in Albania, at Tepeleni, a town 75 miles north of Janina, of which his father was governor. This "Mahometan Buonaparte," or "Rob Roy of Albania," made himself the supreme ruler of Epirus and Albania, acquired a predominance over the Agas of Thessaly, and pushed his troops to the frontiers of ancient Attica (see Raumer's 'Historisches Taschenbuch,' pp. 87-175). A merciless and unscrupulous tyrant, he was also a fine soldier and a born administrator. Intriguing now with the Porte, now with Buonaparte, now with the English, using the rival despots of the country against each other, hand in glove with the brigands while commanding the police for their suppression, he extended his power by using conflicting interests to aggrandize himself. The Venetian possessions on the eastern shores of the Adriatic, which had passed in 1797 to France, by the treaty of Campo Formio, were wrested from the French by Ali, who defeated General La Salsette (1798) in the plains of Nicopolis, and, with the exception of Parga, seized and held the principal towns in the name of the Sultan. Byron speaks of his "aged venerable face" in 'Childe Harold' (Canto II. stanza lxii.; see also stanza xlvii.), and of the delicacy of his hand in 'Don Juan' (Canto IV. stanza xlv.), and finds in his treatment of "Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro or Scutari (I am not sure which)," the material for stanzas xiv., xv. of Canto II. of 'The Bride of Abydos'. Hobhouse ('Journey through Albania', edit. 1854, vol. i. pp. 96, 97) describes Ali as "a short man, about five feet five inches in height, and very fat, though not particularly corpulent. He had a very pleasing face, fair and round, with blue quick eyes, not at all settled into a Turkish gravity. His beard was long and white, and such a one as any other Turk would have been proud of; though he, who was more taken up with his guests than himself, did not continue looking at it, nor smelling and stroking it, as is usually the custom of his country-men, to fill up the pauses of conversation." Dr. (afterwards Sir Henry) Holland, in his 'Travels in the Ionian Isles, Albania, Thessaly, and Greece in 1812-13', pp. 125, 126 (1815), gives an account of his first interview with Ali: "Were I to attempt a description of Ali, I should speak of his face as large and full; the forehead remarkably broad and open, and traced by many deep furrows; the eye penetrating, yet not expressive of ferocity; the nose handsome and well formed; the mouth and lower part of the face concealed, except when speaking, by his mustachios and the long beard which flows over his breast. His complexion is somewhat lighter than that usual among the Turks, and his general appearance does not indicate more than his actual age ... The neck is short and thick, the figure corpulent and unwieldy; his stature I had afterwards the means of ascertaining to be about five feet nine inches. The general character and expression of the countenance are unquestionably fine, and the forehead especially is a striking and majestic feature. Much of the talent of the man may be inferred from his exterior; the moral qualities, however, may not equally be determined in this way; and to the casual observation of the stranger I can conceive from my own experience, that nothing may appear but what is open, placid, and alluring. Opportunities were afterwards afforded me of looking beneath this exterior of expression; it is the fire of a stove burning fiercely under a smooth and polished surface.... The inquiries he made respecting our journey to Joannina, gave us the opportunity of complimenting him on the excellent police of his dominions, and the attention he has paid to his roads. I mentioned to him generally Lord Byron's poetical description of Albania, the interest it had excited in England, and Mr. Hobhouse's intended publication of his travels in the same country. He seemed pleased with these circumstances, and stated his recollection of Lord Byron." Dr. Holland brought back to England a letter to Byron from Ali (see Letter to Moore, September 8, 1813). A further account of Ali, together with a portrait, will be found in Hughes's 'Travels in Sicily, etc.' (pp. 446-449). He again (1813) "asked with much apparent interest respecting Lord Byron." At the close of the Napoleonic struggle, the interest of this country was excited by the resistance of Parga to his arms, especially as, during the late war, the Pargiotes had received the protection of Great Britain. After the fall of Parga (1819), Ali's power roused the jealousy of the Sultan, and it was partly in consequence of his open defiance of the Porte, that insurrections broke out in Wallachia, and that Ypsilanti proclaimed himself the liberator of Greece. The Turkish troops, under Kurchid Pasha, gradually overpowered Ali, and, at the end of 1821, shut him up in his citadel of Janina. In the following January he surrendered, and was at first treated with respect. But on February 5, 1822, Ali was informed that the Sultan demanded his head. His answer was to fire his pistol at the messenger. In the fray that followed he was killed. Another and better account (Walsh's 'Narrative of a Journey from Constantinople to England', p. 62) says that he was stabbed in the back as he was bowing to the departing messenger, who had solemnly assured him of the Sultan's pardon and favour. His head was cut off, sent to Constantinople, and fixed on the grand gate of the Seraglio, with the sentence of death by its side. Recently fresh interest has been aroused in Ali by the publication of Mr. Bain's translation of Maurus Jókai's semi-historical novel 'Janicsárok végnapjai', under the title of 'The Lion of Janina' (1897).] [Footnote 2: Veli Pasha was the son of Ali by a daughter of Coul Pasha, the governor of Berat, in whose army Ali had served as a young man. He was married (1798) to a daughter of Ibrahim Pasha, who had succeeded Coul Pasha in the pashalik of Berat. The war with Ibrahim, to which Byron alludes, ended in his defeat, and the transference of his pashalik to Ali. Veli, at this time Vizier of the Morea, resided at Tripolizza, when he was visited by Galt, who describes him as sitting "on a crimson velvet cushion, wrapped in a superb pelisse; on his head was a vast turban, in his belt a dagger encrusted with jewels, and on the little finger of his right hand he wore a solitaire which was said to have cost two thousand five hundred pounds sterling. In his left hand he held a string of small coral beads, a comboloio which he twisted backwards and forwards during the greater part of the visit." "In his manners," says Galt, "I found him free and urbane, with a considerable tincture of humour and drollery" ('Life of Byron', p. 83). Hobhouse ('Journey through Albania, etc.', vol. i. p. 193) says, "The Vizier, for he is a Pasha of three tails, is a lively young man; and besides the Albanian, Greek, and Turkish languages, speaks Italian--an accomplishment not possessed, I should think, by any other man of his high rank in Turkey. It is reported that he, as well as his father, is preparing, in case of the overthrow of the Ottoman power, to establish an independent sovereignty." Veli, in his father's struggle with the Sultan, betrayed Prevesa to the Turks. He was executed in 1822, and is buried at the Silivria Gate of Constantinople. [Footnote 3: For "monastic Zitza," see 'Childe Harold', Canto II. stanza xlviii., and Byron's note.] [Footnote 4: See 'Lay of the Last Minstrel', canto i.] [Footnote 5: William Martin Leake (1777-1860) received his commission as second lieutenant in the artillery in 1794, became a captain in 1799, major in 1809, and lieutenant-colonel in 1813. His professional life, up to 1815, was spent abroad, chiefly at Constantinople, in Egypt, or in various parts of European Turkey. In 1808 he had been sent by the British Government with stores of artillery, ammunition, and Congreve rockets, to Ali, Pasha of Albania, and he remained at Preveza, or Janina, as the representative of Great Britain, till 1810. During his travels he collected the vases, gems, bronzes, marbles, and coins now placed in the British Museum, and in the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge. At the same time, he accumulated the materials which, during his literary life (1815-59), he embodied in numerous books. Of these the more important are--'The Topography of Athens' (1821); 'Journal of a Tour in Asia Minor' (1824); 'An Historical Outline of the Greek Revolution' (1825); 'Travels in the Morea' (1830); 'Travels in Northern Greece' (1835); 'Numismata Hellenica' (1854-59). As a diplomatist he was remarkably successful; but his reputation mainly rests on his topographical works. With his antiquarian labours Byron would have had little sympathy; but Leake was also a warm-hearted advocate of the Christian population of Greece against their Turkish rulers.] [Footnote 6: The battle of Actium (B.C. 31) was fought at the entrance of the Gulf of Arta, and Nicopolis, the city of victory, the 'Palaio-Kastro' of the modern Greek, was founded by Augustus on an isthmus connecting Prevesa with the mainland to commemorate his triumph. Leake ('Travels in Northern Greece', vol. i. p. 175) identifies Actium with Punda ([Greek (transliterated: aktae], "the head of a promontory") on the headland opposite Prevesa (see 'Childe Harold', Canto II. stanza xlv.).] [Footnote 7: "Upon Parnassus going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 1809," writes Byron, in his 'Diary' for 1821 ('Life', pp. 99, 100), "I saw a flight of twelve eagles (H. says they were vultures--at least in conversation), and I seized the omen. On the day before I composed the lines to Parnassus (in 'Childe Harold'), and, on beholding the birds, had a hope that Apollo had accepted my homage. I have at least had the name and fame of a poet during the poetical part of life (from twenty to thirty);--whether it will 'last' is another matter." (For the lines to Parnassus, see 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanzas lx.-lxii.) To this journey belongs another incident, recorded by Byron. "The last bird I ever fired at was an eaglet, on the shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vostizza. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it,--the eye was so bright. But it pined, and died in a few days; and I never did since, and never will, attempt the death of another bird."] [Footnote 8: Rear-Admiral Sir Alexander John Ball (1757-1809), who belonged to a Gloucestershire family, entered the navy, inspired by 'Robinson Crusoe'. A lieutenant in 1778, he distinguished himself with Rodney in 1782 (post-captain, 1783; rear-admiral, 1805), and at the battle of the Nile, when he commanded the 'Alexander'. Nelson had no liking for Ball until the latter saved the dismasted 'Vanguard' from going on shore by taking her in tow. Henceforward they were friends, and Nelson spoke of him as one of his "three right arms." By his skill in blockading Valetta (1798-1800), Ball was the hero of the siege of Malta, and (June 6, 1801) was created a baronet for his services, and received the Order of Merit from Ferdinand IV of Naples. When Byron met him, Ball was "His Majesty's Civil Commissioner for the Island of Malta and its Dependencies, and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Order of St. John." S.T. Coleridge, who was with him as secretary from May, 1804, to October, 1805, wrote enthusiastically of him in his letters, and in 'The Friend' (3rd edit., vol. i. essay i., and vol. iii. pp. 226-301). But his picture of the admiral would have been more definite had he remembered the spirit of the remark (quoted in 'The Friend') which Ball once made to him: "The distinction is just, and, now I understand you, abundantly obvious; but hardly worth the trouble of your inventing a puzzle of words to make it appear otherwise."] [Footnote 9: Hussein Bey, then a boy of ten years old, son of Mouctar Pasha, the eldest son of Ali, in after years (1820-22) remained faithful to his grandfather, when his father, uncles, and cousin had gone over to the Sultan, and held Tepeleni for Ali in his last struggle against the Turks. Mahomet Pasha, son of Veli Pasha, second son of Ali, though only twelve years old, was already in possession of a pashalik. In Ali's contest with Turkey, he betrayed Parga to the Sultan, and persuaded his father to surrender Prevesa. He was, however, rewarded for his treachery by execution, and is among the five members of his family who lie buried at the Silivria Gate at Constantinople (Walsh's 'Narrative', p. 67).] 132.--To his Mother. Smyrna, March 19, 1810. DEAR MOTHER,--I cannot write you a long letter; but as I know you will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of my movements, pray accept what I can give. I have traversed the greatest part of Greece, besides Epirus, etc., etc., resided ten weeks at Athens, and am now on the Asiatic side on my way to Constantinople. I have just returned from viewing the ruins of Ephesus, a day's journey from Smyrna. [1] I presume you have received a long letter I wrote from Albania, with an account of my reception by the Pacha of the Province. When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall determine whether to proceed into Persia or return, which latter I do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I have no intelligence from Mr. Hanson, and but one letter from yourself. I shall stand in need of remittances whether I proceed or return. I have written to him repeatedly, that he may not plead ignorance of my situation for neglect. I can give you no account of any thing, for I have not time or opportunity, the frigate sailing immediately. Indeed the further I go the more my laziness increases, and my aversion to letter-writing becomes more confirmed. I have written to no one but to yourself and Mr. Hanson, and these are communications of business and duty rather than of inclination. Fletcher is very much disgusted with his fatigues, though he has undergone nothing that I have not shared. He is a poor creature; indeed English servants are detestable travellers. I have, besides him, two Albanian soldiers and a Greek interpreter; all excellent in their way. Greece, particularly in the vicinity of Athens, is delightful;--cloudless skies and lovely landscapes. But I must reserve all account of my adventures till we meet. I keep no journal, but my friend Hobhouse scribbles incessantly. Pray take care of Murray and Robert, and tell the boy it is the most fortunate thing for him that he did not accompany me to Turkey. Consider this as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, Yours, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: It was at Smyrna that the two first cantos of 'Childe Harold' were completed. To his original MS. of the poem is prefixed the following memorandum:-- "Byron, Ioannina in Albania. Begun October 31st, 1809; Concluded Canto 2d, Smyrna, March 28th, 1810. --BYRON."] 133.--To his Mother. Smyrna, April 9, 1810. Dear Mother,--I know you will be glad to hear from me: I wish I could say I am equally delighted to write. However, there is no great loss in my scribbles, except to the portmanteau-makers, who, I suppose, will get all by and by. Nobody but yourself asks me about my creed,--what I am, am not, etc., etc. If I were to begin _explaining_, God knows where I should leave off; so we will say no more about that, if you please. I am no "good soul," and not an atheist, but an English gentleman, I hope, who loves his mother, mankind, and his country. I have not time to write more at present, and beg you to believe me, Ever yours, etc., BYRON. P.S.-Are the Miss----anxiously expecting my arrival and contributions to their gossip and _rhymes_, which are about as bad as they can be? B. 134.--To his Mother. Smyrna, April 10, 1810. Dear Mother,--To-morrow, or this evening, I sail for Constantinople in the 'Salsette' frigate, of thirty-six guns. She returns to England with our ambassador, [1] whom she is going up on purpose to receive. I have written to you short letters from Athens, Smyrna, and a long one from Albania. I have not yet mustered courage for a second large epistle, and you must not be angry, since I take all opportunities of apprizing you of my safety; but even that is an effort, writing is so irksome. I have been traversing Greece, and Epirus, Illyria, etc., etc., and you see by my date, have got into Asia. I have made but one excursion lately to the ruins of Ephesus. Malta is the rendez-vous of my letters, so address to that island. Mr. Hanson has not written, though I wished to hear of the Norfolk sale, [2] the Lancashire law-suit, etc., etc., I am anxiously expecting fresh remittances. I believe you will like Nottinghamshire, at least my share of it. [3] Pray accept my good wishes in lieu of a long letter, and believe me, Yours sincerely and affectionately, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Robert (afterwards the Right Hon. Sir Robert) Adair (1763-1855), son of Sergeant-Surgeon Adair and Lady Caroline Keppel, described by an Austrian aristocrat as "le fils du plus grand 'Seigneur' d'Angleterre," was educated at Westminster and the University of Gottingen." At the latter place Adair, always, as his kinsman Lord Albemarle said of him, "an enthusiastic admirer of the fair sex" ('Recollections', vol. i. p. 229), fell in love with his tutor's daughter. He did not, however, marry "Sweet Matilda Pottingen," but Angélique Gabrielle, daughter of the Marquis d'Hazincourt. He is supposed to have contributed to the 'Rolliad'; and the "Dedication to Sir Lloyd Kenyon," "Margaret Nicholson" ('Political Eclogues', p. 207), and the "Song of Scrutina" ('Probationary Odes', p. 285), have been attributed to him. He, however, denied (Moore's 'Journal and Correspondence', vol. ii. p. 304) that he wrote any part of the 'Rolliad'. A Whig, and an intimate friend and follower of Fox, he was in 1791 at St. Petersburg, where the Tories believed that he had been sent by his chief on "half a mission" to intrigue with Russia against Pitt. The charge was published by Dr. Pretyman, Bishop of Winchester, in his 'Life of Pitt' (1821), who may have wished to pay off old scores, and to retaliate on one of the reputed authors of the 'Rolliad' for the "Pretymaniana," and was answered in 'Two Letters from Mr. Adair to the Bishop of Winchester'. It is to this accusation that Ellis and Frere, in the 'Anti-Jacobin', refer in "A Bit of an Ode to Mr. Fox" ('Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin', edit. 1854, pp. 71-73):-- "I mount, I mount into the sky, Sweet bird, to 'Petersburg' I'll fly, Or, if you bid, to 'Paris'. Fresh missions of the 'Fox' and 'Goose' Successful 'Treaties' may produce, Though Pitt in all miscarries." Sir James Mackintosh, speaking of the story, told Moore ('Journals and Correspondence', vol. iv. p. 267) that a private letter from Adair, reporting his conversations with a high official in St. Petersburg, fell into the hands of the British Government; that some members of the Council were desirous of taking proceedings upon it; but that Lord Grenville and Pitt threatened to resign, if any use was made of such a document so obtained. (See also the "Translation of a Letter from Bawba-Dara-Adul-Phoola," etc.--'i.e.' "Bob Adair, a dull fool"--in the 'Anti-Jacobin', p. 208.) Adair was in 1806 sent by Fox as Ambassador to Vienna, and in 1809 was appointed by Canning Ambassador Extraordinary at Constantinople, where, with Stratford Canning as his secretary, he negotiated the Treaty of the Dardanelles. For his services, on his return in 1810, he was made a K.C.B. He was subsequently (1831-35) employed on a mission to the Low Countries, when war appeared imminent between William, Prince of Orange and King Leopold. He was afterwards sworn a member of the Privy Council, and received a pension. George Ticknor ('Life', vol. i. p. 269), who met him at Woburn in 1819, speaks of his great conversational charms, and Moore ('Journals and Correspondence', vol. vii. p. 216) describes him, in 1838, as a man "from whom one gets, now and then, an agreeable whiff of the days of Fox, Tickell, and Sheridan." Many years after Fox's death, Adair was at a fête at Chiswick House. "'In which room,' he asked of Samuel Rogers, 'did Fox expire?' 'In this very room,' I replied. Immediately, Adair burst into tears with a vehemence of grief such as I hardly ever saw exhibited by a man" ('Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', p. 97).] [Footnote 2: The sale of Wymondham and other property in Norfolk, which had come to him through his great-uncle.] [Footnote 3: Probably an allusion to his mother leaving Burgage Manor and taking up her residence at Newstead.] 135.--To his Mother. _Salsette Frigate, off the Dardanelles_, April 17, 1810. Dear Madam,--I write at anchor (on our way to Constantinople) off the Troad, which I traversed ten days ago. All the remains of Troy are the tombs of her destroyers, amongst which I saw that of Antilochus from my cabin window. These are large mounds of earth, like the barrows of the Danes in your island. There are several monuments, about twelve miles distant, of the Alexandrian Troas, which I also examined, but by no means to be compared with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This will be sent in a ship of war, bound with despatches for Malta. In a few days we shall be at Constantinople, barring accidents. I have also written from Smyrna, and shall, from time to time, transmit short accounts of my movements, but I feel totally unequal to long letters. Believe me, yours very sincerely, BYRON. P.S.--No accounts from Hanson!!! Do not complain of short letters; I write to nobody but yourself and Mr. H. 136.--To Henry Drury. _Salsette_ frigate, May 3, 1810. My Dear Drury,--When I left England, nearly a year ago, you requested me to write to you--I will do so. I have crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, visited Sardinia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed into Turkey, where I am still wandering. I first landed in Albania, the ancient Epirus, where we penetrated as far as Mount Tomarit-- excellently treated by the chief Ali Pacha,--and, after journeying through Illyria, Chaonia, etc., crossed the Gulf of Actium, with a guard of fifty Albanians, and passed the Achelous in our route through Acarnania and Ætolia. We stopped a short time in the Morea, crossed the Gulf of Lepanto, and landed at the foot of Parnassus;--saw all that Delphi retains, and so on to Thebes and Athens, at which last we remained ten weeks. His Majesty's ship, _Pylades_, brought us to Smyrna; but not before we had topographised Attica, including, of course, Marathon and the Sunian promontory. From Smyrna to the Troad (which we visited when at anchor, for a fortnight, off the tomb of Antilochus) was our next stage; and now we are in the Dardanelles, waiting for a wind to proceed to Constantinople. This morning I _swam_ from _Sestos_ to _Abydos_. [1] The immediate distance is not above a mile, but the current renders it hazardous;--so much so that I doubt whether Leander's conjugal affection must not have been a little chilled in his passage to Paradise. I attempted it a week ago, and failed,--owing to the north wind, and the wonderful rapidity of the tide,--though I have been from my childhood a strong swimmer. But, this morning being calmer, I succeeded, and crossed the "broad Hellespont" in an hour and ten minutes. Well, my dear sir, I have left my home, and seen part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable portion of Europe. I have been with generals and admirals, princes and pashas, governors and ungovernables,--but I have not time or paper to expatiate. I wish to let you know that I live with a friendly remembrance of you, and a hope to meet you again; and if I do this as shortly as possible, attribute it to any thing but forgetfulness. Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well to require description. Albania, indeed, I have seen more of than any Englishman (except a Mr. Leake), for it is a country rarely visited, from the savage character of the natives, though abounding in more natural beauties than the classical regions of Greece,--which, however, are still eminently beautiful, particularly Delphi and Cape Colonna in Attica. Yet these are nothing to parts of Illyria and Epirus, where places without a name, and rivers not laid down in maps, may, one day, when more known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, for the pencil and the pen, to the dry ditch of the Ilissus and the bogs of Boeotia. The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and snipe-shooting, and a good sportsman and an ingenious scholar may exercise their feet and faculties to great advantage upon the spot;--or, if they prefer riding, lose their way (as I did) in a cursed quagmire of the Scamander, who wriggles about as if the Dardan virgins still offered their wonted tribute. The only vestige of Troy, or her destroyers, are the barrows supposed to contain the carcasses of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, etc.;--but Mount Ida is still in high feather, though the shepherds are now-a-days not much like Ganymede. But why should I say more of these things? are they not written in the _Boke_ of _Gell_? [2] and has not Hobhouse got a journal? I keep none, as I have renounced scribbling. I see not much difference between ourselves and the Turks, save that we have----and they have none--that they have long dresses, and we short, and that we talk much, and they little. They are sensible people. Ali Pacha told me he was sure I was a man of rank, because I had _small ears_ and _hands_, and _curling hair_. By the by, I speak the Romaic, or modern Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the ancient dialects so much as you would conceive; but the pronunciation is diametrically opposite. Of verse, except in rhyme, they have no idea. I like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals,--with all the Turkish vices, without their courage. However, some are brave, and all are beautiful, very much resembling the busts of Alcibiades;--the women not quite so handsome. I can swear in Turkish; but, except one horrible oath, and "pimp," and "bread," and "water," I have got no great vocabulary in that language. They are extremely polite to strangers of any rank, properly protected; and as I have two servants and two soldiers, we get on with great éclat. We have been occasionally in danger of thieves, and once of shipwreck,--but always escaped. Of Spain I sent some account to our Hodgson, but have subsequently written to no one, save notes to relations and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. I mean to give up all connection, on my return, with many of my best friends--as I supposed them-and to snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good-humoured laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer, and pledge Hodgson, before I commence cynicism. Tell Dr. Butler I am now writing with the gold pen he gave me before I left England, which is the reason my scrawl is more unintelligible than usual. I have been at Athens, and seen plenty of these reeds for scribbling, some of which he refused to bestow upon me, because topographic Gell had brought them from Attica. But I will not describe,--no--you must be satisfied with simple detail till my return, and then we will unfold the floodgates of colloquy. I am in a thirty-six gun frigate, going up to fetch Bob Adair from Constantinople, who will have the honour to carry this letter. And so Hobhouse's _boke_ is out, [3] with some sentimental sing-song of my own to fill up,--and how does it take, eh? and where the devil is the second edition of my Satire, with additions? and my name on the title page? and more lines tagged to the end, with a new exordium and what not, hot from my anvil before I cleared the Channel? The Mediterranean and the Atlantic roll between me and criticism; and the thunders of the Hyperborean Review are deafened by the roar of the Hellespont. Remember me to Claridge, [4] if not translated to college, and present to Hodgson assurances of my high consideration. Now, you will ask, what shall I do next? and I answer, I do not know. I may return in a few months, but I have intents and projects after visiting Constantinople. Hobhouse, however, will probably be back in September. On the 2d of July we have left Albion one year--_oblitus meorum obliviscendus et illis_. I was sick of my own country, and not much prepossessed in favour of any other; but I "drag on my chain" without "lengthening it at each remove." [5] I am like the Jolly Miller, caring for nobody, and not cared for. [6] All countries are much the same in my eyes. I smoke, and stare at mountains, and twirl my mustachios very independently. I miss no comforts, and the musquitoes that rack the morbid frame of H. have, luckily for me, little effect on mine, because I live more temperately. I omitted Ephesus in my catalogue, which I visited during my sojourn at Smyrna; but the Temple has almost perished, and St. Paul need not trouble himself to epistolise the present brood of Ephesians, who have converted a large church built entirely of marble into a mosque, and I don't know that the edifice looks the worse for it. My paper is full, and my ink ebbing--good afternoon! If you address to me at Malta, the letter will be forwarded wherever I may be. H. greets you; he pines for his poetry,--at least, some tidings of it. I almost forgot to tell you that I am dying for love of three Greek girls at Athens, sisters. I lived in the same house. Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka, [7] are the names of these divinities,--all of them under fifteen. Your [Greek (transliterated): tapeinotatos doulos], BYRON. [Footnote 1: Byron made two attempts to swim across the Hellespont from Abydos to Sestos. The first, April 16, failed; the second, May 3, in warmer weather, succeeded. "Byron was one hour and ten minutes in the water; his companion, Mr. Ekenhead, five minutes less ... My fellow-traveller had before made a more perilous, but less celebrated, passage; for I recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, and, having to contend with a tide and counter-current, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less than two hours in crossing the river" (Hobhouse, 'Travels in Albania', etc., vol. ii. p. 195). In Hobhouse's journal, Byron made the following note: "The whole distance E. and myself swam was more than four miles--the current very strong and cold--some large fish near us when half across--we were not fatigued, but a little chilled--did it with little difficulty.--May 26, 1810. BYRON." Of his feat Byron was always proud. See the "Lines Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos" ("by the by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct"), and 'Don Juan', Canto II. stanza cv.:-- "A better swimmer you could scarce see ever; He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did." In a note to the "Lines Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos," Byron writes, "Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the 'Salsette''s crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability." Lieutenant Ekenhead, of the Marines, was afterwards killed by a fall from the fortifications of Malta.] [Footnote 2: Sir William Gell (1777-1836) published the 'Topography of Troy' (1804); 'Geography and Antiquities of Ithaca' (1807); the 'Itinerary of Greece' (1810); and many other subsequent works. (For Byron's review of 'Ithaca' and 'Greece', in the 'Monthly Review' for August, 1811, see Appendix III.) In the MS. of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' (line 1034) he called him "coxcomb Gell;" but, having made his personal acquaintance before the Satire was printed, he changed the epithet to "classic." After seeing the country himself, he again altered the epithet-- "Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell, I leave topography to rapid Gell." To these lines is appended the following note: "'Rapid,' indeed! He topographised and typographised King Priam's dominions in three days! I called him 'classic' before I saw the Troad, but since have learned better than to tack to his name what don't belong to it." To this passage Byron, in 1816, added the further expression of his opinion, that "Gell's survey was hasty and superficial." One of two suppressed stanzas in 'Childe Harold' (Canto II. stanza xiii.) refers to Gell and his works:-- "Or will the gentle Dilettanti crew Now delegate the task to digging Gell? That mighty limner of a bird's-eye view, How like to Nature let his volumes tell; Who can with him the folio's limits swell With all the Author saw, or said he saw? Who can topographise or delve so well? No boaster he, nor impudent and raw, His pencil, pen, and shade, alike without a flaw."] [Footnote 3: 'Imitations and Translations from the Ancient and Modern Classics, etc.' (London, 1809, 8vo). Of the sixty-five pieces, nine were by Byron (see 'Poems', vol. i., Bibliographical note; and vol. vi., Bibliographical note). The second and enlarged edition of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', with Byron's name attached, appeared in October, 1809.] [Footnote 4: Two boys of this name, sons of J. Claridge, of Sevenoaks, entered Harrow School in April, 1805. George became a. solicitor, and died at Sevenoaks in 1841; John (afterwards Sir John) went to Christ Church, Oxford, became a barrister, and died in 1868. John Claridge seems to have been one of Byron's "juniors and favourites," whom he "spoilt by indulgence."] [Footnote 5: "Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." GOLDSMITH'S Traveller, lines 9, 10.] [Footnote 6: The allusion is to the familiar lines inserted by Isaac Bickerstaffe in 'Love in a Village' (1762), act i. sc. 3-- "There was a jolly miller once, Liv'd on the river Dee; He work'd and sung from morn till night; No lark more blithe than he. "And this the burden of his song, For ever us'd to be-- I care for nobody, not I, If no one cares for me."] [Footnote 7: "During our stay at Athens," writes Hobhouse ('Travels in Albania, etc.', vol. i. pp. 242, 243), "we occupied two houses separated from each other only by a single wall, through which we opened a doorway. One of them belongs to a Greek lady, whose name is Theodora Macri, the daughter of the late English Vice-Consul, and who has to show many letters of recommendation left in her hands by several English travellers. Her lodgings consisted of a sitting-room and two bedrooms, opening into a court-yard where there were five or six lemon-trees, from which, during our residence in the place, was plucked the fruit that seasoned the pilaf and other national dishes served up at our frugal table." The beauty of the Greek women is transient. Hughes ('Travels in Sicily, etc.', vol. i. p. 254, published in 1820) speaks of the three daughters of Madame Macri as "the 'belles' of Athens." Of Theresa, the eldest, he says that "her countenance was extremely interesting, and her eye retained much of its wonted brilliancy; but the roses had already deserted the cheek, and we observed the remains only of that loveliness which elicited such strains from an impassioned poet." Walsh, in his 'Narrative of a Resident in Constantinople' (vol. i. p. 122), speaks of Theresa Macri, the "Maid of Athens," whom he saw in 1821, as "still very elegant in her person, and gentle and ladylike in her manners," but adds that "she has lost all pretensions to beauty, and has a countenance singularly marked by hopeless sadness." On the other hand, Williams, in his 'Travels in Italy, etc.' (vol. ii. pp. 290, 291), speaks, in 1820, with an artist's enthusiasm, of the beauty of the three daughters of Theodora Macri. He quotes from the "Visitors' Book," to which Hobhouse alludes, four lines written by Byron in answer to an anonymous versifier-- "This modest bard, like many a bard unknown, Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, His name would bring more credit than his verse." Theresa and Mariana Macri were dark; Katinka was fair. The latter name Byron uses as that of the fair Georgian in 'Don Juan' (Canto VI. stanza xli.). "It was," says Moore, "if I recollect right, in making love to one of these girls that he had recourse to an act of courtship often practised in that country;--namely, giving himself a wound across the breast with his dagger. The young Athenian, by his own account, looked on very coolly during the operation, considering it a fit tribute to her beauty, but in no degree moved to gratitude." Theresa, sometimes called Thyrza, Macri married an Englishman named Black, employed in H.M.'s Consular service at Missolonghi. She survived her husband, and fell into great poverty. Finlay, the historian of Greece, made an appeal on her behalf, which obtained the support of the leading members of Athenian society, including M. Charilaus Tricoupi, for some time Prime Minister at Athens, the son of Spiridion Tricoupi--Byron's intimate friend. In the 'New York Times' for October 22, 1875, Mr. Anthony Martelaus, United States Consular Agent at Athens, describes Mrs. Black, whom he visited in August, 1875, as "a tall old lady, with features inspiring reverence, and showing that at a time past she was a beautiful woman." Theresa Black died October 15, 1875, aged 80 years. (See letters to the 'Times', October 25 and October 27, 1875, by Richard Edgcumbe and Neocles Mussabini respectively.)] 137.--To Francis Hodgson. 'Salsette' frigate, in the Dardanelles, off Abydos, May 5, 1810. I am on my way to Constantinople, after a tour through Greece, Epirus, etc., and part of Asia Minor, some particulars of which I have just communicated to our friend and host, H. Drury. With these, then, I shall not trouble you; but as you will perhaps be pleased to hear that I am well, etc., I take the opportunity of our ambassador's return to forward the few lines I have time to despatch. We have undergone some inconveniences, and incurred partial perils, but no events worthy of communication, unless you will deem it one that two days ago I swam from Sestos to Abydos. This, with a few alarms from robbers, and some danger of shipwreck in a Turkish galliot six months ago, a visit to a Pacha, a passion for a married woman at Malta, [1] a challenge to an officer, an attachment to three Greek girls at Athens, with a great deal of buffoonery and fine prospects, form all that has distinguished my progress since my departure from Spain. Hobhouse rhymes and journalises; I stare and do nothing--unless smoking can be deemed an active amusement. The Turks take too much care of their women to permit them to be scrutinised; but I have lived a good deal with the Greeks, whose modern dialect I can converse in enough for my purposes. With the Turks I have also some male acquaintances--female society is out of the question. I have been very well treated by the Pachas and Governors, and have no complaint to make of any kind. Hobhouse will one day inform you of all our adventures--were I to attempt the recital, neither _my_ paper nor _your_ patience would hold out during the operation. Nobody, save yourself, has written to me since I left England; but indeed I did not request it. I except my relations, who write quite as often as I wish. Of Hobhouse's volume I know nothing, except that it is out; and of my second edition I do not even know _that_, and certainly do not, at this distance, interest myself in the matter. I hope you and Bland [2] roll down the stream of sale with rapidity. Of my return I cannot positively speak, but think it probable Hobhouse will precede me in that respect. We have been very nearly one year abroad. I should wish to gaze away another, at least, in these evergreen climates; but I fear business, law business, the worst of employments, will recall me previous to that period, if not very quickly. If so, you shall have due notice. I hope you will find me an altered personage,--I do not mean in body, but in manner, for I begin to find out that nothing but virtue will do in this damned world. I am tolerably sick of vice, which I have tried in its agreeable varieties, and mean, on my return, to cut all my dissolute acquaintance, leave off wine and carnal company, and betake myself to politics and decorum. I am very serious and cynical, and a good deal disposed to moralise; but fortunately for you the coming homily is cut off by default of pen and defection of paper. Good morrow! If you write, address to me at Malta, whence your letters will be forwarded. You need not remember me to any body, but believe me, Yours with all faith, BYRON. Constantinople, May 15, 1810. P.S.--My dear H.,--The date of my postscript "will prate to you of my whereabouts." We anchored between the Seven Towers and the Seraglio on the 13th, and yesterday settled ashore. [3] The ambassador [4] is laid up; but the secretary [5] does the honours of the palace, and we have a general invitation to his palace. In a short time he has his leave of audience, and we accompany him in our uniforms to the Sultan, etc., and in a few days I am to visit the Captain Pacha with the commander of our frigate. [6] I have seen enough of their Pashas already; but I wish to have a view of the Sultan, the last of the Ottoman race. Of Constantinople you have Gibbon's description, very correct as far as I have seen. The mosques I shall have a firman to visit. I shall most probably ('Deo volente'), after a full inspection of Stamboul, bend my course homewards; but this is uncertain. I have seen the most interesting parts, particularly Albania, where few Franks have ever been, and all the most celebrated ruins of Greece and Ionia. Of England I know nothing, hear nothing, and can find no person better informed on the subject than myself. I this moment drink your health in a bumper of hock; Hobhouse fills and empties to the same; do you and Drury pledge us in a pint of any liquid you please--vinegar will bear the nearest resemblance to that which I have just swallowed to your name; but when we meet again the draught shall be mended and the wine also. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Spencer Smith (see page 244 [Letter 130], [Foot]note 1 [2]). "In the mean time," writes Galt, who was at Malta with him, "besides his "Platonic dalliance with Mrs. Spencer Smith, Byron had involved himself in a quarrel with an officer; but it was satisfactorily settled" ('Life of Byron', p. 67).] [Footnote 2: The Rev. Robert Bland (1780-1825), the son of a well-known London doctor, educated at Harrow and Pembroke College, Cambridge, was an assistant-master at Harrow when Byron was a schoolboy. There he became one of a "social club or circle," to which belonged J. Herman Merivale, Hodgson, Henry Drury, Denman (afterwards Lord Chief Justice), Charles Pepys (afterwards Lord Chancellor), Launcelot Shadwell (afterwards Vice-Chancellor), Walford (afterwards Solicitor to the Customs), and Paley, a son of the archdeacon. A good singer, an amusing companion, and a clever, impulsive, eccentric creature, he was nicknamed by his friends "Don Hyperbolo" for his humorous extravagances. Some of his letters, together with a sketch of his life, are given in the 'Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 226-250. In the 'Monthly Magazine' for March, 1805, he and Merivale began to publish a series of translations from the Greek minor poets and epigrammatists, which were afterwards collected, with additions by Denman, Hodgson, Drury, and others, and published (1806) under the title of 'Translations, chiefly from the Greek Anthology, with Tales and Miscellaneous Poems'. Bland and Merivale (1779-1844) are addressed by Byron ('English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 881-890) as "associate bards," and adjured to "resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own." The two friends also collaborated in the 'Collections from the Greek Anthology' (1813), and 'A Collection of the most Beautiful Poems of the Minor Poets of Greece' (1813). Bland also published two volumes of original verse: 'Edwy and Elgiva' (1808), and 'The Four Slaves of Cythera, a Poetical Romance' (1809). Several generations of schoolboys have learned to write Latin verse from his 'Elements of Latin Hexameters and Pentameters'. A lover of France, and of the French nation and of French acting, he spoke the language like a native, travelled in disguise over the countries occupied by Napoleon's armies, and (1813) published, in collaboration with Miss Plumptre, a translation of the 'Memoirs' of Baron Grimm and Diderot. He was appointed Chaplain at Amsterdam, whence he returned in 1811. (For the circumstances of his quarrel with Hodgson, see page 195 [Letter 102], [Foot]note 1.) He was successively Curate of Prittlewell and Kenilworth. At the latter place, where he eked out a scanty income by taking pupils, he died in 1825 from breaking a blood-vessel.] [Footnote 3: Byron and Hobhouse landed on May 14, and rode to their inn. "This," says Hobhouse ('Travels in Albania, etc.', vol. ii pp. 216, 217), "was situated at the corner of the main street of Pera, here four ways meet, all of which were not less mean and dirty than the lanes of Wapping. The hotel, however (kept by a Mons. Marchand), was a very comfortable mansion, containing many chambers handsomely furnished, and a large billiard-room, which is the resort of all the idle young men of the place. Our dinners there were better served, and composed of meats more to the English taste, than we had seen at any tavern since our departure from Falmouth; and the butter of Belgrade (perfectly fresh, though not of a proper consistency) was a delicacy to which we had long been unaccustomed. The best London porter, and nearly every species of wine, except port, were also to be procured in any quantity. To this eulogy cannot be added the material recommendation of cheapness."] [Footnote 4: Robert Adair. (See page 260 [Letter 134], [Foot]note 1.)] [Footnote 5: Stratford Canning, afterwards Lord Stratford de Redcliffe.] [Footnote 6: Captain Bathurst, and the officers of the 'Salsette', anxious to see the arsenal and the Turkish fleet, paid a visit with Byron to Ali, the Capudan-Pasha, or Lord High Admiral. "He was," writes Hobhouse ('Travels in Albania, etc.', vol. ii. p. 279), "in his kiosk of audience at Divan-Hane, a splendid chamber, surrounded by his attendants, and, contrary to custom, received us sitting. He is reported to be a ferocious character, and certainly had the appearance of being so."] 138.--To his Mother. Constantinople, May 18, 1810. Dear Madam,--I arrived here in an English frigate from Smyrna a few days ago, without any events worth mentioning, except landing to view the plains of Troy, and afterwards, when we were at anchor in the Dardanelles, _swimming_ from Sestos to Abydos, in imitation of Monsieur Leander, whose story you, no doubt, know too well for me to add anything on the subject except that I crossed the Hellespont without so good a motive for the undertaking. As I am just going to visit the Captain-Pacha, you will excuse the brevity of my letter. When Mr. Adair takes leave I am to see the Sultan and the mosques, etc. Believe me, yours ever, BYRON. 139.--To his Mother. Constantinople, May 24, 1810. Dear Mother,--I wrote to you very shortly the other day on my arrival here, and, as another opportunity avails, take up my pen again, that the frequency of my letters may atone for their brevity. Pray did you ever receive a picture of me in oil by _Sanders_ in _Vigo Lane_, London? (a noted limner); if not, write for it immediately; it was paid for, except the frame (if frame there be), before I left England. I believe I mentioned to you in my last that my only notable exploit lately has been swimming from Sestos to Abydos in humble imitation of _Leander_, of amorous memory; though I had no _Hero_ to receive me on the other shore of the Hellespont. Of Constantinople you have of course read fifty descriptions by sundry travellers, which are in general so correct that I have nothing to add on the subject. When our ambassador takes his leave I shall accompany him to see the Sultan, and afterwards probably return to Greece. I have heard nothing of Mr. H----, but one remittance without any letter from that legal gentleman. If you have occasion for any pecuniary supply, pray use my funds as far as they _go_, without reserve; and lest there should not be enough, in my next to Mr. H----I will direct him to advance any sum you want, leaving at your discretion how much, in the present state of my affairs, you may think proper to require. I have already seen the most interesting part of Turkey in Europe and Asia Minor, but shall not proceed further till I hear from England. In the mean time I shall expect occasional supplies, according to circumstances, and shall pass my summer amongst my friends the Greeks of the Morea. You will direct to Malta, where my letters are forwarded. And believe me, with great sincerity, yours ever, BYRON. P.S.--Fletcher is well. Pray take care of my boy Robert and the old man Murray. It is fortunate they returned; neither the youth of the one nor the age of the other would have suited the changes of climate and fatigue of travelling. 140.--To Henry Drury. Constantinople, June 17, 1810. Though I wrote to you so recently, I break in upon you again to congratulate you on a child being born, [1] as a letter from Hodgson apprizes me of that event, in which I rejoice. I am just come from an expedition through the Bosphorus to the Black Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, up which last I scrambled with as great risk as ever the Argonauts escaped in their hoy. You remember the beginning of the nurse's dole in the 'Medea', of which I beg you to take the following translation, done on the summit:-- "Oh how I wish that an embargo Had kept in port the good ship Argo! Who, still unlaunched from Grecian docks, Had never passed the Azure rocks; But now I fear her trip will be a Damned business for my Miss Medea, etc., etc.," [2] as it very nearly was to me;--for, had not this sublime passage been in my head, I should never have dreamed of ascending the said rocks, and bruising my carcass in honour of the ancients. I have now sat on the Cyaneans, swam from Sestos to Abydos (as I trumpeted in my last), and, after passing through the Morea again, shall set sail for Santa Maura, and toss myself from the Leucadian promontory;--surviving which operation, I shall probably join you in England. Hobhouse, who will deliver this, is bound straight for these parts; and, as he is bursting with his travels, I shall not anticipate his narratives, but merely beg you not to believe one word he says, but reserve your ear for me, if you have any desire to be acquainted with the truth. I am bound for Athens once more, and thence to the Morea; but my stay depends so much on my caprice, that I can say nothing of its probable duration. I have been out a year already, and may stay another; but I am quicksilver, and say nothing positively. We are all very much occupied doing nothing, at present. We have seen every thing but the mosques, which we are to view with a firman on Tuesday next. But of these and other sundries let H. relate, with this proviso, that 'I' am to be referred to for authenticity; and I beg leave to contradict all those things whereon he lays particular stress. But, if he soars at any time into wit, I give you leave to applaud, because that is necessarily stolen from his fellow-pilgrim. Tell Davies [3] that Hobhouse has made excellent use of his best jokes in many of his Majesty's ships of war; but add, also, that I always took care to restore them to the right owner; in consequence of which he (Davies) is no less famous by water than by land, and reigns unrivalled in the cabin as in the "Cocoa Tree." [4] And Hodgson has been publishing more poesy--I wish he would send me his 'Sir Edgar', [5] and Bland's 'Anthology', to Malta, where they will be forwarded. In my last, which I hope you received, I gave an outline of the ground we have covered. If you have not been overtaken by this despatch, Hobhouse's tongue is at your service. Remember me to Dwyer, who owes me eleven guineas. Tell him to put them in my banker's hands at Gibraltar or Constantinople. I believe he paid them once, but that goes for nothing, as it was an annuity. I wish you would write. I have heard from Hodgson frequently. Malta is my post-office. I mean to be with you by next Montem. You remember the last,--I hope for such another; but after having swam across the "broad Hellespont," I disdain Datchett. [6] Good afternoon! I am yours, very sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Henry Drury, afterwards Archdeacon of Wilts.] [Footnote 2: Euripides, 'Medea', lines 1-7-- [Greek (transliterated)]: Eith _ophel Argous mae diaptasthai skaphos Kolch_on es aian kuaneas Symplaegadas, maed en napaisi Paeliou pedein pote tmaetheisa peukae, maed eretm_osai cheras andr_on ariste_on, oi to pagchryson deros Pelia metaelthon ou gar an despoin emae Maedeia pyrgous gaes epleus I_olkias k.t.l.]] [Footnote 3: For Scrope Berdmore Davies, see page 165 [Letter 86], [Foot]note 2.] [Footnote 4: "The Cocoa Tree," now 64, St. James's Street, formerly in Pall Mall, was, in the reign of Queen Anne, the Tory Chocolate House. It became a club about 1745, and was then regarded as the headquarters of the Jacobites. Probably for this reason Gibbon, whose father professed Jacobite opinions, belonged to it on coming to live in London (see his journal for November, 1762, and his letter to his stepmother, January 18, 1766: "The Cocoa Tree serves now and then to take off an idle hour"). Byron was a member.] [Footnote 5: Hodgson's 'Sir Edgar' was published in 1810.] [Footnote 6: Alluding to his having swum across the Thames with Henry Drury, after the Montem, to see how many times they could make the passage backwards and forwards without touching land. In this trial Byron was the conqueror.] 141.--To his Mother. Constantinople, June 28, 1810. My dear Mother,--I regret to perceive by your last letter that several of mine have not arrived, particularly a very long one written in November last from Albania, where I was on a visit to the Pacha of that province. Fletcher has also written to his spouse perpetually. Mr. Hobhouse, who will forward or deliver this, and is on his return to England, can inform you of our different movements, but I am very uncertain as to my own return. He will probably be down in Notts, some time or other; but Fletcher, whom I send back as an incumbrance (English servants are sad travellers), will supply his place in the interim, and describe our travels, which have been tolerably extensive. I have written twice briefly from this capital, from Smyrna, from Athens and other parts of Greece; from Albania, the Pacha of which province desired his respects to my mother, and said he was sure I was a man of high birth because I had small ears, curling hair, and white hands!!! He was very kind to me, begged me to consider him as a father, and gave me a guard of forty soldiers through the forests of Acarnania. But of this and other circumstances I have written to you at large, and yet hope you will receive my letters. I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson of Ali Pacha, at Yanina, (a little fellow of ten years of age, with large black eyes, which our ladies would purchase at any price, and those regular features which distinguish the Turks,) asked me how I came to travel so young, without anybody to take care of me. This question was put by the little man with all the gravity of threescore. I cannot now write copiously; I have only time to tell you that I have passed many a fatiguing, but never a tedious moment; and all that I am afraid of is that I shall contract a gypsy like wandering disposition, which will make home tiresome to me: this, I am told, is very common with men in the habit of peregrination, and, indeed, I feel it so. On the 3rd of May I swam from _Sestos_ to _Abydos_. You know the story of Leander, but I had no _Hero_ to receive me at landing. I also passed a fortnight on the Troad. The tombs of Achilles and Æsyetes still exist in large barrows, similar to those you have doubtless seen in the North. The other day I was at Belgrade (a village in these environs), to see the house built on the same site as Lady Mary Wortley's.[1] By-the-by, her ladyship, as far as I can judge, has lied, but not half so much as any other woman would have done in the same situation. I have been in all the principal mosques by the virtue of a firman: this is a favor rarely permitted to Infidels, but the ambassador's departure obtained it for us. I have been up the Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the walls of the city, and, indeed, I know more of it by sight than I do of London. I hope to amuse you some winter's evening with the details, but at present you must excuse me;--I am not able to write long letters in June. I return to spend my summer in Greece. I write often, but you must not be alarmed when you do not receive my letters; consider we have no regular post farther than Malta, where I beg you will in future send your letters, and not to this city. Fletcher is a poor creature, and requires comforts that I can dispense with. He is very sick of his travels, but you must not believe his account of the country. He sighs for ale, and idleness, and a wife, and the devil knows what besides. I have not been disappointed or disgusted. I have lived with the highest and the lowest. I have been for days in a Pacha's palace, and have passed many a night in a cowhouse, and I find the people inoffensive and kind. I have also passed some time with the principal Greeks in the Morea and Livadia, and, though inferior to the Turks, they are better than the Spaniards, who, in their turn, excel the Portuguese. Of Constantinople you will find many descriptions in different travels; but Lady Mary Wortley errs strangely when she says, "St. Paul's would cut a strange figure by St. Sophia's." [2] I have been in both, surveyed them inside and out attentively. St. Sophia's is undoubtedly the most interesting from its immense antiquity, and the circumstance of all the Greek emperors, from Justinian, having been crowned there, and several murdered at the altar, besides the Turkish Sultans who attend it regularly. But it is inferior in beauty and size to some of the mosques, particularly "Soleyman," etc., and not to be mentioned in the same page with St. Paul's (I speak like a _Cockney_). However, I prefer the Gothic cathedral of Seville to St. Paul's, St. Sophia's, and any religious building I have ever seen. The walls of the Seraglio are like the walls of Newstead gardens, only higher, and much in the same _order_; but the ride by the walls of the city, on the land side, is beautiful. Imagine four miles of immense triple battlements, covered with ivy, surmounted with 218 towers, and, on the other side of the road, Turkish burying-grounds (the loveliest spots on earth), full of enormous cypresses. I have seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi. I have traversed great part of Turkey, and many other parts of Europe, and some of Asia; but I never beheld a work of nature or art which yielded an impression like the prospect on each side from the Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. [3] Now for England. I am glad to hear of the progress of 'English Bards', etc. Of course, you observed I have made great additions to the new edition. Have you received my picture from Sanders, Vigo Lane, London? It was finished and paid for long before I left England: pray, send for it. You seem to be a mighty reader of magazines: where do you pick up all this intelligence, quotations, etc., etc.? Though I was happy to obtain my seat without the assistance of Lord Carlisle, I had no measures to keep with a man who declined interfering as my relation on that occasion, and I have done with him, though I regret distressing Mrs. Leigh, [4] poor thing!--I hope she is happy. It is my opinion that Mr. B----ought to marry Miss R----. Our first duty is not to do evil; but, alas! that is impossible: our next is to repair it, if in our power. The girl is his equal: if she were his inferior, a sum of money and provision for the child would be some, though a poor, compensation: as it is, he should marry her. I will have no gay deceivers on my estate, and I shall not allow my tenants a privilege I do not permit myself--_that_ of debauching each other's daughters. God knows, I have been guilty of many excesses; but, as I have laid down a resolution to reform, and lately kept it, I expect this Lothario to follow the example, and begin by restoring this girl to society, or, by the beard of my father! he shall hear of it. Pray take some notice of Robert, who will miss his master; poor boy, he was very unwilling to return. I trust you are well and happy. It will be a pleasure to hear from you. Believe me, yours very sincerely, BYRON. P.S.--How is Joe Murray? P.S.--I open my letter again to tell you that Fletcher having petitioned to accompany me into the Morea, I have taken him with me, contrary to the intention expressed in my letter. [Footnote 1: Alluding to his having swum across the Thames with Henry Drury, after the Montem, to see how many times they could make the passage backwards and forwards without touching land. In this trial Byron was the conqueror.] [Footnote 2: Lady Mary describes the village of Belgrade in a letter to Pope, dated June 17, 1717 ('Letters', edit. 1893, vol. i. pp. 331-333). But Walsh ('Narrative of a Residence in Constantinople', vol. ii. 108, 109), who visited Belgrade in 1821, says that no trace of her description was then to be seen--no view of the Black Sea, no houses of the wealthy Christians, no fountains, and no fruit-trees. "The very tradition" of the house, which had disappeared before Dallaway visited Belgrade in 1794, had perished.] [Footnote 3: Lady Mary does not compare St. Paul's with St. Sophia's, but with the mosque of the Valide, "the largest of all, built entirely of marble, the most prodigious, and, I think, the most beautiful structure I ever saw, be it spoken to the honour of our sex, for it was founded by the mother of Mahomet IV. Between friends, "St. Paul's Church would make a pitiful figure near it" ('Letters', vol. i. p. 356). [Footnote 4: "The European with the Asian shore Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean stream Here and there studded with a seventy-four; Sophia's cupola with golden gleam; The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar; The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream, Far less describe, present the very view Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu." _Don Juan_, Canto V. stanza 3.] [Footnote 5: For Mrs. Leigh, 'née' Augusta Byron, see page 18 [Letter 7], [Foot]note 1.] 142.--To his Mother. Constantinople, July 1, 1810. My dear Mother,--I have no wish to forget those who have any claim upon me, and shall be glad of the good wishes of R----when he can express them in person, which it seems will be at some very indefinite date. I shall perhaps essay a speech or _two_ in the House when I return, but I am not ambitious of a parliamentary career, which is of all things the most degrading and unthankful. If I could by my own efforts inculcate the truth, that a man is not intended for a despot or a machine, but as an individual of a community, and fit for the society of kings, so long as he does not trespass on the laws or rebel against just governments, I might attempt to found a new Utopia; but as matters are at present, in course you will not expect me to sacrifice my health or self to your or anyone's ambition. To quit this new idea for something you will understand better, how are Miss R's, the W's, and Mr. R's blue bastards? for I suppose he will not deny their _authorship_, which was, to say the least, imprudent and immoral. Poor Miss----: if he does not marry, and marry her speedily, he shall be no tenant of mine from the day that I set foot on English shores. I am glad you have received my portrait from Sanders. It does not _flatter_ me, I think, but the subject is a bad one, and I must even do as Fletcher does over his Greek wines--make a face and hope for better. What you told me of----is not _true_, which I regret for your sake and your gossip-seeking neighbours, whom present with my good wishes, and believe me, Yours, etc., BYRON. 143.--To Francis Hodgson. Constantinople, July 4, 1810. My Dear Hodgson,--Twice have I written--once in answer to your last, and a former letter when I arrived here in May. That I may have nothing to reproach myself with, I will write once more--a very superfluous task, seeing that Hobhouse is bound for your parts full of talk and wonderment. My first letter went by an ambassadorial express; my second by the _Black John_ lugger; my third will be conveyed by Cam, the miscellanist. I shall begin by telling you, having only told it you twice before, that I swam from Sestos to Abydos. I do this that you may be impressed with proper respect for me, the performer; for I plume myself on this achievement more than I could possibly do on any kind of glory, political, poetical, or rhetorical. Having told you this, I will tell you nothing more, because it would be cruel to curtail Cam's narrative, which, by-the-by, you must not believe till confirmed by me, the eye-witness. I promise myself much pleasure from contradicting the greatest part of it. He has been plaguily pleased by the intelligence contained in your last to me respecting the reviews of his hymns. I refreshed him with that paragraph immediately, together with the tidings of my own third edition, which added to his recreation. But then he has had a letter from a Lincoln's Inn Bencher, full of praise of his harpings, and vituperation of the other contributions to his _Missellingany_, which that sagacious person is pleased to say must have been put in as FOILS (_horresco referens!_); furthermore he adds that Cam "is a genuine pupil of Dryden," concluding with a comparison rather to the disadvantage of Pope. I have written to Drury by Hobhouse; a letter is also from me on its way to England intended for that matrimonial man. Before it is very long, I hope we shall again be together; the moment I set out for England you shall have intelligence, that we may meet as soon as possible. Next week the frigate sails with Adair; I am for Greece, Hobhouse for England. A year together on the 2nd July since we sailed from Falmouth. I have known a hundred instances of men setting out in couples, but not one of a similar return. Aberdeen's [1] party split; several voyagers at present have done the same. I am confident that twelve months of any given individual is perfect ipecacuanha. The Russians and Turks are at it, [2] and the Sultan in person is soon to head the army. The Captain Pasha cuts off heads every day, and a Frenchman's ears; the last is a serious affair. By-the-by I like the Pashas in general. Ali Pasha called me his son, desired his compliments to my mother, and said he was sure I was a man of birth, because I had "small ears and curling hair." He is Pasha of Albania six hundred miles off, where I was in October--a fine portly person. His grandson Mahmout, a little fellow ten years old, with large black eyes as big as pigeon's eggs, and all the gravity of sixty, asked me what I did travelling so young without a _Lala_ (tutor)? Good night, dear H. I have crammed my paper, and crave your indulgence. Write to me at Malta. I am, with all sincerity, Yours affectionately, BYRON. [Footnote 1: George Hamilton Gordon, Earl of Aberdeen (1784-1860), afterwards Prime Minister (1852-55), succeeded his grandfather as fourth earl in 1801. Grandson of the purchaser of Mrs. Byron's old home of Gight, and writer of an article in the 'Edinburgh Review' (July, 1805) on Gell's 'Topography of Troy,' he has a place in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' (lines 508, 509). He also appears as "sullen Aberdeen," in a suppressed stanza of 'Childe Harold', Canto II., which in the MS. follows stanza xiii., among those who "----pilfer all the Pilgrim loves to see, All that yet consecrates the fading scene." After leaving Harrow, and before entering St. John's College, Cambridge, he spent two years (1801-3) in Greece. On his return he founded the Athenian Society, and became President of the Society of Antiquaries from 1812 to 1846. It may be added that he was Foreign Secretary when the Porte acknowledged the independence of Greece by the Treaty of Adrianople (1829).] [Footnote 2: In this war, the scene of which lay chiefly in Wallachia, Bosnia, Bulgaria, and Servia, the main episodes were the two battles of Rustchuk (July 4 and October 14, 1811), the recapture of Silistria by the Russians, and the Convention of Giurgevo between the contending forces (October 28, 1811).]g 144.--To his Mother. Athens, July 25, 1810. Dear Mother,--I have arrived here in four days from Constantinople, which is considered as singularly quick, particularly for the season of the year. I left Constantinople with Adair, at whose adieux of leave I saw Sultan Mahmout, [1] and obtained a firman to visit the mosques, of which I gave you a description in my last letter, now voyaging to England in the _Salsette_ frigate, in which I visited the plains of Troy and Constantinople. Your northern gentry can have no conception of a Greek summer; which, however, is a perfect frost compared with Malta and Gibraltar, where I reposed myself in the shade last year, after a gentle gallop of four hundred miles, without intermission, through Portugal and Spain. You see, by my date, that I am at Athens again, a place which I think I prefer, upon the whole, to any I have seen. My next movement is to-morrow into the Morea, where I shall probably remain a month or two, and then return to winter here, if I do not change my plans, which, however, are very variable, as you may suppose; but none of them verge to England. The Marquis of Sligo, [2] my old fellow-collegian, is here, and wishes to accompany me into the Morea. We shall go together for that purpose; but I am woefully sick of travelling companions, after a year's experience of Mr. Hobhouse, who is on his way to Great Britain. Lord S. will afterwards pursue his way to the capital; and Lord B., having seen all the wonders in that quarter, will let you know what he does next, of which at present he is not quite certain. Malta is my perpetual post-office, from which my letters are forwarded to all parts of the habitable globe:--by the bye, I have now been in Asia, Africa, and the east of Europe, and, indeed, made the most of my time, without hurrying over the most interesting scenes of the ancient world. Fletcher, after having been toasted and roasted, and baked, and grilled, and eaten by all sorts of creeping things, begins to philosophise, is grown a refined as well as a resigned character, and promises at his return to become an ornament to his own parish, and a very prominent person in the future family pedigree of the Fletchers, who I take to be Goths by their accomplishments, Greeks by their acuteness, and ancient Saxons by their appetite. He (Fletcher) begs leave to send half-a-dozen sighs to Sally his spouse, and wonders (though I do not) that his ill-written and worse spelt letters have never come to hand; as for that matter, there is no great loss in either of our letters, saving and except that I wish you to know we are well, and warm enough at this present writing, God knows. You must not expect long letters at present, for they are written with the sweat of my brow, I assure you. It is rather singular that Mr. Hanson has not written a syllable since my departure. Your letters I have mostly received as well as others; from which I conjecture that the man of law is either angry or busy. I trust you like Newstead, and agree with your neighbours; but you know _you_ are a _vixen_--is not that a dutiful appellation? Pray, take care of my books and several boxes of papers in the hands of Joseph; and pray leave me a few bottles of champagne to drink, for I am very thirsty;--but I do not insist on the last article, without you like it. I suppose you have your house full of silly women, prating scandalous things. Have you ever received my picture in oil from Sanders, London? It has been paid for these sixteen months: why do you not get it? My suite, consisting of two Turks, two Greeks, a Lutheran, and the nondescript, Fletcher, are making so much noise, that I am glad to sign myself Yours, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: On July 10, 1810, the British ambassador, Robert Adair, had his audience of Sultan Mahmoud II, and on the 14th the 'Salsette' set sail. She touched at the island of Zea to land Byron, who thence made his way to Athens. It was in making war against Mahmoud II, the conqueror of Ali Pasha and the destroyer of the Janissaries, that Byron lost his life. The following description of the Sultan is given by Hobhouse ('Travels in Albania, etc.,' vol. ii. pp. 364, 365):-- "The chamber was small and dark, or rather illumined with a gloomy artificial light, reflected from the ornaments of silver, pearls, and other white brilliants, with which it is thickly studded on every side and on the roof. The throne, which is supposed the richest in the world, is like a four-posted bed, but of a dazzling splendour; the lower part formed of burnished silver and pearls, and the canopy and supporters encrusted with jewels. It is in an awkward position, being in one corner of the room, and close to a fireplace. "Sultan Mahmoud was placed in the middle of the throne, with his feet upon the ground, which, notwithstanding the common form of squatting upon the hams, seems the seat of ceremony. He was dressed in a robe of yellow satin, with a broad border of the darkest sable; his dagger, and an ornament on his breast, were covered with diamonds; the front of his white and blue turban shone with a large treble sprig of diamonds, which served as a buckle to a high, straight plume of bird-of-paradise feathers. He, for the most part, kept a hand on each knee, and neither moved his body nor head, but rolled his eyes from side to side, without fixing them for an instant upon the ambassador or any other person present. Occasionally he stroked and turned up his beard, displaying a milk-white hand glittering with diamond rings. His eyebrows, eyes, and beard, being of a glossy jet black, did not appear natural, but added to that indescribable majesty which it would be difficult for any but an Oriental sovereign to assume; his face was pale, and regularly formed, except that his nose (contrary to the usual form of that feature in the Ottoman princes) was slightly turned up and pointed; his whole physiognomy was mild and benevolent, but expressive and full of dignity. He appeared of a short and small stature, and about thirty years old, which is somewhat more than his actual age." Byron, at the audience, claimed some precedence in the procession as a peer. On May 23, 1819, Moore sat at dinner next to Stratford Canning (afterwards Lord Stratford de Redcliffe), who "gave a ludicrous account of Lord Byron's insisting upon taking precedence of the 'corps diplomatique' in a procession at Constantinople (when Canning was secretary), and upon Adair's refusing it, limping, with as much swagger as he could muster, up the hall, cocking a foreign military hat on his head. He found, however, he was wrong, and wrote a very frank letter acknowledging it, and offering to take his station anywhere" ('Journals, etc., of Thomas Moore', vol. ii. p. 313). An incident of the voyage from Constantinople to Zea is mentioned by Moore ('Life', p. 110). Picking up a Turkish dagger on the deck, Byron looked at the blade, and then, before replacing it in the sheath, was overheard to say to himself, "I should like to know how a person feels after committing a murder." In 'Firmilian; a Spasmodic Tragedy' (scene ix.) the sentiment is parodied. Firmilian determines to murder his friend, in order to shriek "delirious at the taste of sin!" He had already blown up a church full of people; but-- "I must have A more potential draught of guilt than this With more of wormwood in it! ... ... Courage, Firmilian! for the hour has come When thou canst know atrocity indeed, By smiting him that was thy dearest friend. And think not that he dies a vulgar death-- 'Tis poetry demands the sacrifice!" And he hurls Haverillo from the summit of the Pillar of St. Simeon Stylites. [Footnote 3: For Lord Sligo, see page 100 [Letter 51], [Foot]note 2 [4]. Lord Sligo was at Athens with a 12-gun brig and a crew of fifty men. At Athens, also, were Lady Hester Stanhope and Michael Bruce, on their way through European Turkey. As the party were passing the Piraeus, they saw a man jump from the mole-head into the sea. Lord Sligo, recognizing the bather as Byron, called to him to dress and join them. Thus began what Byron, in his Memoranda, speaks of as "the most delightful acquaintance which I formed in Greece." From Lord Sligo Moore heard the following stories:-- Weakened and thinned by his illness at Patras, Byron returned to Athens. There, standing one day before a looking-glass, he said to Lord Sligo, "How pale I look! I should like, I think, to die of a consumption." "Why of a consumption?" asked his friend. "Because then," he answered, "the women would all say, 'See that poor Byron--how interesting he looks in dying!'" He often spoke of his mother to Lord Sligo, who thought that his feeling towards her was little short of aversion. "Some time or other," he said, "I will tell you why I feel thus towards her." A few days after, when they were bathing together in the Gulf of Lepanto, pointing to his naked leg and foot, he exclaimed, "Look there! It is to her false delicacy at my birth I owe that deformity; and yet as long as I can remember, she has never ceased to taunt and reproach me with it. Even a few days before we parted, for the last time, on my leaving England, she, in one of her fits of passion, uttered an imprecation upon me, praying that I might prove as ill formed in mind as I am in body!" Relics of ancient art only appealed to Byron's imagination among their original and natural surroundings. For collections and collectors he had a contempt which, like everything he thought or felt, was unreservedly expressed. Lord Sligo wished to spend some money in digging for antiquities, and Byron offered to act as his agent, and to see the money honestly applied. "You may safely trust 'me'" he said; "I am no dilettante. Your connoisseurs are all thieves; but I care too little for these things ever to steal them." His system of thinning himself, which he had begun before he left England, was continued abroad. While at Athens, where he stayed at the Franciscan Convent, he took a Turkish bath three times a week, his usual drink being vinegar and water, and his food seldom more than a little rice. The result was that, when he returned to England, he weighed only 9 stone 11-1/2 lbs. (see page 127 [Letter 71], [Foot]note 1). Moore's account of the "cordial friendship" between Byron and Lady Hester Stanhope requires modification. Lady Hester (see page 302, note I) thus referred in after-life to her meeting with Byron, if her physician's recollection is to be trusted ('Memoirs', by Dr. Meryon, vol. iii. pp. 218, 219)-- "'I think he was a strange character: his generosity was for a motive, his avarice for a motive; one time he was mopish, and nobody was to speak to him; another, he was for being jocular with everybody. Then he was a sort of Don Quixote, fighting with the police for a woman of the town; and then he wanted to make himself something great ... At Athens I saw nothing in him but a well-bred man, like many others; for, as for poetry, it is easy enough to write verses; and as for the thoughts, who knows where he got them? ... He had a great deal of vice in his looks--his eyes set close together, and a contracted brow--so' (imitating it). 'Oh, Lord! I am sure he was not a liberal man, whatever else he might be. The only good thing about his looks was this part' (drawing her hand under the cheek down the front of her neck), 'and the curl on his forehead.'" Michael Bruce, with the help of Sir Robert Wilson and Capt. Hutchinson, assisted Count Lavallette to escape from Paris in January, 1816. For an account, see Wilson's intercepted letter to Lord Grey ('Memoires du Comte Lavallette', vol. ii. p. 132) and the story of their trial, conviction, and sentence before the Assize Court of the Department of the Seine (April 22-24, 1816), given in the 'Annual Register' for 1816, pp. 329-336.] 145.--To his Mother. Athens, July 27, 1810. Dear Mother,--I write again in case you have not received my letters. To-day I go into the Morea, which will, I trust, be colder than this place, where I have tarried in the expectation of obtaining rest. Sligo has very kindly proposed a union of our forces for the occasion, which will be perhaps as uncomfortable to him as to myself, judging from previous experience, which, however, may be explained by my own irritability and hurry. At Constantinople I visited the Mosques, plains, and grandees of that place, which, in my opinion, cannot be compared with Athens and its neighbourhood; indeed I know of no Turkish scenery to equal this, which would be civilised and Celtic enough with a little alteration in situation and inhabitants. An usual custom here, as at Cadiz, is to part with wives, daughters, etc., for a trifling present of gold or English arms (which the Greeks set a high value upon). The women are generally of the middle height, with Turkish eyes, straight hair, and clear olive complexion, but are not nearly so amorous as the Spanish belles, whom I have described to you in former letters. I have some feats to boast of when I return, which is undesired and undesirable--I always except you from my complaints, and hope you will expect me with the same delight that I anticipate meeting you. You can have no conception of Lord S.'s ecstasy when I informed him of my probable movements. The man is well enough and sensible enough by himself; but the swarm of attendants, Turks, Greeks, Englishmen that he carries with him, makes his society, or rather theirs, an intolerable annoyance. If you will read this letter to----, you may imagine in what capacity I believe you excel. Before I left England I promised to give my silver-mounted whip (in your chamber) to Charles. Present it to him, poor boy, for I should not like him to suppose me as unfaithful as his _amante_, who, by the way is no better than she should be, and no great loss to himself or his family. Hobhouse is silent, and has, I suppose, not yet returned; indeed, like myself, he appears to love the world better than England, and the Devil more than either, who I regret is not present to be informed of this. Do not fail, if you see him (Hobhouse, I mean), to repeat it, and the assurance that I am to him, with yourself, Ever affectionately, BYRON. 146.--To his Mother. Patras, July 30, 1810. DEAR MADAM,--In four days from Constantinople, with a favourable wind, I arrived in the frigate at the island of Teos, from whence I took a boat to Athens, where I met my friend the Marquis of Sligo, who expressed a wish to proceed with me as far as Corinth. At Corinth we separated, he for Tripolitza, I for Patras, where I had some business with the consul, Mr. Strané, in whose house I now write. He has rendered me every service in his power since I quitted Malta on my way to Constantinople, whence I have written to you twice or thrice. In a few days I visit the Pacha[1] at Tripolitza, make the tour of the Morea, and return again to Athens, which at present is my head-quarters. The heat is at present intense. In England, if it reaches 98° you are all on fire: the other day, in travelling between Athens and Megara, the thermometer was at 125°!!! Yet I feel no inconvenience; of course I am much bronzed, but I live temperately, and never enjoyed better health. Before I left Constantinople, I saw the Sultan (with Mr. Adair), and the interior of the mosques, things which rarely happen to travellers. Mr. Hobhouse is gone to England: I am in no hurry to return, but have no particular communications for your country, except my surprise at Mr. Hanson's silence, and my desire that he will remit regularly. I suppose some arrangement has been made with regard to Wymondham and Rochdale. Malta is my post-office, or to Mr. Strané, consul-general, Patras, Morea. You complain of my silence--I have written twenty or thirty times within the last year: never less than twice a month, and often more. If my letters do not arrive, you must not conclude that we are eaten, or that there is war, or a pestilence, or famine: neither must you credit silly reports, which I dare say you have in Notts., as usual. I am very well, and neither more nor less happy than I usually am; except that I am very glad to be once more alone, for I was sick of my companion,--not that he was a bad one, but because my nature leads me to solitude, and that every day adds to this disposition. If I chose, here are many men who would wish to join me--one wants me to go to Egypt, another to Asia, of which I have seen enough. The greater part of Greece is already my own, so that I shall only go over my old ground, and look upon my old seas and mountains, the only acquaintances I ever found improve upon me. I have a tolerable suite, a Tartar, two Albanians, an interpreter, besides Fletcher; but in this country these are easily maintained. Adair received me wonderfully well, and indeed I have no complaints against any one. Hospitality here is necessary, for inns are not. I have lived in the houses of Greeks, Turks, Italians, and English--to-day in a palace, to-morrow in a cow-house; this day with a Pacha, the next with a shepherd. I shall continue to write briefly, but frequently, and am glad to hear from you; but you fill your letters with things from the papers, as if English papers were not found all over the world. I have at this moment a dozen before me. Pray take care of my books, and believe me, my dear mother, Yours very faithfully, BYRON. [Footnote 1: For Veli Pasha, see page 248 [Letter 131], [Foot]note 1 [2].] 147.--To his Mother. Patras, October 2, 1810. DEAR MADAM,--It is now several months since I have received any communication from you; but at this I am not surprised, nor indeed have I any complaint to make, since you have written frequently, for which I thank you; but I very much condemn Mr. Hanson, who has not taken the smallest notice of my many letters, nor of my request before I left England, which I sailed from on this very day _fifteen_ months ago. Thus one year and a quarter have passed away, without my receiving the least intelligence on the state of my affairs, and they were not in a posture to admit of neglect; and I do conceive and declare that Mr. Hanson has acted negligently and culpably in not apprising me of his proceedings; I will also add uncivilly. His letters, were there any, could not easily miscarry; the communications with the Levant are slow, but tolerably secure, at least as far as Malta, and there I left directions which I know would be observed. I have written to you several times from Constantinople and Smyrna. You will perceive by my date I am returned into the Morea,[1] of which I have been making the tour, and visiting the Pacha, who gave me a fine horse, and paid me all possible honours and attention. I have now seen a good portion of Turkey in Europe, and Asia Minor, and shall remain at Athens, and in the vicinity, till I hear from England. I have punctually obeyed your injunctions of writing frequently, but I shall not pretend to describe countries which have been already amply treated of. I believe before this time Mr. Hobhouse will have arrived in England, and he brings letters from me, written at Constantinople. In these I mention having seen the Sultan and the mosques, and that I swam from Sestos to Abydos, an exploit of which I take care to boast. I am here on business at present, but Athens is my head-quarters, where I am very pleasantly situated in a Franciscan convent. Believe me to be, with great sincerity, yours very affectionately, BYRON. P.S.--Fletcher is well, and discontented as usual; his wife don't write, at least her scrawls have not arrived. You will address to Malta. Pray have you never received my picture in oil from Sanders, Vigo Lane, London? [Footnote 1: In a note upon the Advertisement prefixed to his 'Siege of Corinth', Byron says, "I visited all three (Tripolitza, Napoli, and Argos) in 1810-11, and, in the course of journeying through the country, from my first arrival in 1809, I crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way from Attica to the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other direction, when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that of Lepanto."] 148.--To Francis Hodgson. Patras, Morea, October 3, 1810. As I have just escaped from a physician and a fever, which confined me five days to bed, you won't expect much _allegrezza_ in the ensuing letter. In this place there is an indigenous distemper, which when the wind blows from the Gulf of Corinth (as it does five months out of six), attacks great and small, and makes woful work with visiters. Here be also two physicians, one of whom trusts to his genius (never having studied)--the other to a campaign of eighteen months against the sick of Otranto, which he made in his youth with great effect. When I was seized with my disorder, I protested against both these assassins;--but what can a helpless, feverish, toast-and-watered poor wretch do? In spite of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, Albanians, dragoman, forced a physician upon me, and in three days vomited and glystered me to the last gasp. In this state I made my epitaph--take it:-- Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, To keep my lamp _in_ strongly strove: But Romanelli was so stout, He beat all three--and _blew_ it _out_. But Nature and Jove, being piqued at my doubts, did, in fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here I am, well but weakly, at your service. Since I left Constantinople, I have made a tour of the Morea, and visited Veley Pacha, who paid me great honours, and gave me a pretty stallion. H. is doubtless in England before even the date of this letter:--he bears a despatch from me to your bardship. He writes to me from Malta, and requests my journal, if I keep one. I have none, or he should have it; but I have replied in a consolatory and exhortatory epistle, praying him to abate three and sixpence in the price of his next boke, seeing that half a guinea is a price not to be given for any thing save an opera ticket. As for England, it is long since I have heard from it. Every one at all connected with my concerns is asleep, and you are my only correspondent, agents excepted. I have really no friends in the world; though all my old school companions are gone forth into that world, and walk about there in monstrous disguises, in the garb of guardsmen, lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such other masquerade dresses. So, I here shake hands and cut with all these busy people, none of whom write to me. Indeed I ask it not;--and here I am, a poor traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath perambulated the greatest part of the Levant, and seen a great quantity of very improvable land and sea, and, after all, am no better than when I set out--Lord help me! I have been out fifteen months this very day, and I believe my concerns will draw me to England soon; but of this I will apprise you regularly from Malta. On all points Hobhouse will inform you, if you are curious as to our adventures. [1] I have seen some old English papers up to the 15th of May. I see the _Lady of the Lake_[2] advertised. Of course it is in his old ballad style, and pretty. After all, Scott is the best of them. The end of all scribblement is to amuse, and he certainly succeeds there. I long to read his new romance. And how does _Sir Edgar_? and your friend Bland? I suppose you are involved in some literary squabble. The only way is to despise all brothers of the quill. I suppose you won't allow me to be an author, but I contemn you all, you dogs!--I do. You don't know Dallas, do you? He had a farce [3] ready for the stage before I left England, and asked me for a prologue, which I promised, but sailed in such a hurry I never penned a couplet. I am afraid to ask after his drama, for fear it should be damned--Lord forgive me for using such a word! but the pit, Sir, you know the pit--they will do those things in spite of merit. I remember this farce from a curious circumstance. When Drury Lane [4] was burnt to the ground, by which accident Sheridan and his son lost the few remaining shillings they were worth, what doth my friend Dallas do? Why, before the fire was out, he writes a note to Tom Sheridan, [5] the manager of this combustible concern, to inquire whether this farce was not converted into fuel with about two thousand other unactable manuscripts, which of course were in great peril, if not actually consumed. Now was not this characteristic?--the ruling passions of Pope are nothing to it. Whilst the poor distracted manager was bewailing the loss of a building only worth £300,000., together with some twenty thousand pounds of rags and tinsel in the tiring rooms, Bluebeard's elephants, [6] and all that--in comes a note from a scorching author, requiring at his hands two acts and odd scenes of a farce!! Dear H., remind Drury that I am his well-wisher, and let Scrope Davies be well affected towards me. I look forward to meeting you at Newstead, and renewing our old champagne evenings with all the glee of anticipation. I have written by every opportunity, and expect responses as regular as those of the liturgy, and somewhat longer. As it is impossible for a man in his senses to hope for happy days, let us at least look forward to merry ones, which come nearest to the other in appearance, if not in reality; and in such expectations I remain, etc. [Footnote 1: Hobhouse, writing to Byron from Malta, July 31, 1810, says, "Mrs. Bruce picked out a pretty picture of a woman in a fashionable dress in Ackerman's 'Repository', and observed it was vastly like Lord Byron. I give you warning of this, for fear you should make another conquest and return to England without a curl upon your head. Surely the ladies copy Delilah when they crop their lovers after this fashion. 'Successful youth! why mourn thy ravish'd hair, Since each lost lock bespeaks a conquer'd fair, And young and old conspire to make thee bare?' This makes me think of my poor 'Miscellany', which is quite dead, if indeed that can be said to be dead which was never alive; not a soul knows, or knowing will speak of it." Again, July 15, 1811, he writes: "The 'Miscellany' is so damned that my friends make it a point of politeness not to mention it ever to me."] [Footnote 2: 'The Lady of the Lake' was published in May, 1810.] [Footnote 3: For Dallas, see page 168 [Letter 87], [Foot]note 1. His farce, entitled, 'Not at Home', was acted at the Lyceum, by the Drury Lane Company, in November, 1809. It was afterwards printed, with a prologue (intended to have been spoken) written by Walter Rodwell Wright, author of 'Horae Ionicae'.] [Footnote 4: Drury Lane Theatre, burned down in 1791, and reopened in 1794, was again destroyed by fire on February 24, 1809.] [Footnote 5: Thomas Sheridan (1775-1817), originally in the army, was at this time assisting his father, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, as manager of Drury Lane Theatre. His 'Bonduca' was played at Covent Garden in May, 1808. He married, in 1805, Caroline Henrietta Callender, who was "more beautiful than anybody but her daughters," afterwards Mrs. Norton, the Duchess of Somerset, and Lady Dufferin. He died at the Cape of Good Hope in 1817. "Tom Sheridan and his beautiful wife" were at Gibraltar in 1809, when Byron and Hobhouse landed on the Rock, and, as Galt states ('Life of Byron', p. 58), brought the news to Lady Westmorland of their arrival. (See 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 572, 573, and note 1.)] [Footnote 6: 'Bluebeard, or Female Curiosity', by George Colman the Younger (1762-1836), was being acted at Drury Lane in January, 1809. "Bluebeard's elephants" were wicker-work constructions. It was at Covent Garden that the first live elephant was introduced two years later. Johnstone, the machinist employed at Drury Lane, famous for the construction of wooden children, wicker-work lions, and paste-board swans, was present with a friend. "Among the attractions of this Christmas foolery, a _real_ elephant was introduced.... The friend, who sat close to Johnstone, jogged his elbow, whispering, 'This is a bitter bad job for Drury! Why, the elephant's _alive_! He'll carry all before him, and beat you hollow. What do you think on't, eh?' 'Think on't?' said Johnstone, in a tone of utmost contempt, 'I should be very sorry if I couldn't make a much better elephant than that, at any time'" (George Colman the Younger, 'Random Records', vol. i. pp. 228, 229).] 149.--To John Cam Hobhouse. Patras, Morea, October 4th, 1810. MY Dear Hobhouse,--I wrote to you two days ago, but the weather and my friend Strané's conversation being much the same, and my ally Nicola [1] in bed with a fever, I think I may as well talk to you, the rather, as you can't answer me, and excite my wrath with impertinent observations, at least for three months to come. I will try not to say the same things I have set down in my other letter of the 2nd, but I can't promise, as my poor head is still giddy with my late fever. I saw the Lady Hesther Stanhope [2] at Athens, and do not admire "that dangerous thing a female wit." She told me (take her own words) that she had given you a good set-down at Malta, in some disputation about the Navy; from this, of course, I readily inferred the contrary, or in the words of an _acquaintance_ of ours, that "you had the best of it." She evinced a similar disposition to _argufy_ with me, which I avoided by either laughing or yielding. I despise the sex too much to squabble with them, and I rather wonder you should allow a woman to draw you into a contest, in which, however, I am sure you had the advantage, she abuses you so bitterly. I have seen too little of the Lady to form any decisive opinion, but I have discovered nothing different from other she-things, except a great disregard of received notions in her conversation as well as conduct. I don't know whether this will recommend her to our sex, but I am sure it won't to her own. She is going on to Constantinople. Ali Pacha is in a scrape. Ibrahim Pacha and the Pacha of Scutari have come down upon him with 20,000 Gegdes and Albanians, retaken Berat, and threaten Tepaleni. Adam Bey is dead, Vely Pacha was on his way to the Danube, but has gone off suddenly to Yanina, and all Albania is in an uproar. The mountains we crossed last year are the scene of warfare, and there is nothing but carnage and cutting of throats. In my other letter I mentioned that Vely had given me a fine horse. On my late visit he received me with great pomp, standing, conducted me to the door with his arm round my waist, and a variety of civilities, invited me to meet him at Larissa and see his army, which I should have accepted, had not this rupture with Ibrahim taken place. Sultan Mahmout is in a phrenzy because Vely has not joined the army. We have a report here, that the Russians have beaten the Turks and taken Muchtar Pacha prisoner, but it is a Greek Bazaar rumour and not to be believed. I have now treated you with a dish of Turkish politics. You have by this time gotten into England, and your ears and mouth are full of "Reform Burdett, Gale Jones, [3] minority, last night's division, dissolution of Parliament, battle in Portugal," and all the cream of forty newspapers. In my t'other letter, to which I am perpetually obliged to refer, I have offered some moving topics on the head of your _Miscellany_, the neglect of which I attribute to the half guinea annexed as the indispensable equivalent for the said volume. Now I do hope, notwithstanding that exorbitant demand, that on your return you will find it selling, or, what is better, sold, in consequence of which you will be able to face the public with your new volume, if that intention still subsists. My journal, did I keep one, should be yours. As it is I can only offer my sincere wishes for your success, if you will believe it possible for a brother scribbler to be sincere on such an occasion. Will you execute a commission for me? Lord Sligo tells me it was the intention of Miller [4] in Albemarle Street to send by him a letter to me, which he stated to be of consequence. Now I have no concern with Mr. M. except a bill which I hope is paid before this time; will you visit the said M. and if it be a pecuniary matter, refer him to Hanson, and if not, tell me what he means, or forward his letter. I have just received an epistle from Galt, [5] with a Candist poem, which it seems I am to forward to you. This I would willingly do, but it is too large for a letter, and too small for a parcel, and besides appears to be damned nonsense, from all which considerations I will deliver it in person. It is entitled the "Fair Shepherdess," or rather "Herdswoman;" if you don't like the translation take the original title "[Greek (transliterated): hae boskopoula]." Galt also writes something not very intelligible about a "Spartan State paper" which by his account is everything but Laconic. Now the said Sparta having some years ceased to be a state, what the devil does he mean by a paper? he also adds mysteriously that the _affair_ not being concluded, he cannot at present apply for it. Now, Hobhouse, are you mad? or is he? Are these documents for Longman & Co.? Spartan state papers! and Cretan rhymes! indeed these circumstances super-added to his house at Mycone (whither I am invited) and his Levant wines, make me suspect his sanity. Athens is at present infested with English people, but they are moving, _Dio bendetto!_ I am returning to pass a month or two; I think the spring will see me in England, but do not let this transpire, nor cease to urge the most dilatory of mortals, Hanson. I have some idea of purchasing the Island of Ithaca; I suppose you will add me to the Levant lunatics. I shall be glad to hear from your Signoria of your welfare, politics, and literature. Your last letter closes pathetically with a postscript about a nosegay; [6] I advise you to introduce that into your next sentimental novel. I am sure I did not suspect you of any fine feelings, and I believe you were laughing, but you are welcome. _Vale_; "I can no more," like Lord Grizzle. [7] Yours, [Greek (transliterated): Mpair_on] [Footnote 1: Nicolo Giraud, from whom Byron was learning Italian.] [Footnote 2: Hobhouse had written to Byron, speaking of Lady Hester Stanhope "as the most superior woman, as Bruce says, of all the world." The daughter of Pitt's favourite sister, Lady Hester (1776-1839) was her uncle's constant companion (1803-6). In character she resembled her grandfather far more than her uncle, who owed his cool judgment to the Grenville blood. Lady Hester inherited the overweening pride, generosity, courage, and fervent heat of the "Great Commoner," as well as his indomitable will. Like him, she despised difficulties, and ignored the word "impossibility." Her romantic ideas were also combined with keen insight into character, and much practical sagacity. These were the qualities which made her for many years a power among the wild tribes of Lebanon, with whom she was in 1810 proceeding to take up her abode (1813-39).] [Footnote 3: Sir Francis Burdett (1770-1844), a lifelong friend of Lady Hester Stanhope, was afterwards Hobhouse's colleague as M.P. for Westminster (1820-33). He was committed to the Tower in 1810 for publishing a speech which he delivered in the House of Commons in defence of John Gale Jones, whom the House (February, 1810) had sent to Newgate for a breach of privilege. Sir Francis refused to obey the warrant, and told the sergeant-at-arms that he would not go unless taken by force. His refusal led to riots near his house (77, Piccadilly), in which the Horse Guards, or "Oxford Blues" as they were called, gained the name of "Piccadilly Butchers" (Lord Albemarle's 'Recollections', vol. i. pp. 317, 318).] [Footnote 4: See page 319, 'note 2.'] [Footnote 5: John Galt (1779-1839), the novelist, was at this time endeavouring to establish a place of business at Mycone, in the Greek Archipelago. He published in 1812 his 'Voyages and Travels in the Years' 1809, 1810, 1811. (For his meeting with Byron at Gibraltar, see page 243 [Letter 130], [Foot]note 1.)] [Footnote 6: Hobhouse's letter to Byron of July 31, 1810, ends with the following postscript:-- "I kept the half of your little nosegay till it withered entirely, and even then I could not bear to throw it away. I can't account for this, nor can you either, I dare say."] [Footnote 7: Lord Grizzle, in Fielding's 'Tom Thumb', is the first peer in the Court of King Arthur, who, jealous of Tom Thumb and in love with the Princess Huncamunca, turns traitor, and is run through the body by Tom Thumb. It is the ghost, not Grizzle, who says, "I can no more." (See page 226 [Letter 124], [Foot]note 1.)] 150.--To Francis Hodgson. Athens, November 14, 1810. MY DEAR HODGSON,--This will arrive with an English servant whom I send homewards with some papers of consequence. I have been journeying in different parts of Greece for these last four months, and you may expect me in England somewhere about April, but this is very dubious. Hobhouse you have doubtless seen; he went home in August to arrange materials for a tour he talks of publishing. You will find him well and scribbling--that is, scribbling if well, and well if scribbling. I suppose you have a score of new works, all of which I hope to see flourishing, with a hecatomb of reviews. _My_ works are likely to have a powerful effect with a vengeance, as I hear of divers angry people, whom it is proper I should shoot at, by way of satisfaction. Be it so, the same impulse which made "Otho a warrior" will make me one also. My domestic affairs being moreover considerably deranged, my appetite for travelling pretty well satiated with my late peregrinations, my various hopes in this world almost extinct, and not very brilliant in the next, I trust I shall go through the process with a creditable _sang froid_ and not disgrace a line of cut-throat ancestors. I regret in one of your letters to hear you talk of domestic embarrassments, [1] indeed I am at present very well calculated to sympathise with you on that point. I suppose I must take to dram-drinking as a _succedaneum_ for philosophy, though as I am happily not married, I have very little occasion for either just yet. Talking of marriage puts me in mind of Drury, who I suppose has a dozen children by this time, all fine fretful brats; I will never forgive Matrimony for having spoiled such an excellent Bachelor. If anybody honours my name with an inquiry tell them of "my whereabouts" and write if you like it. I am living alone in the Franciscan monastery with one "fri_ar_" (a Capuchin of course) and one "fri_er_" (a bandy-legged Turkish cook), two Albanian savages, a Tartar, and a Dragoman. My only Englishman departs with this and other letters. The day before yesterday the Waywode (or Governor of Athens) with the Mufti of Thebes (a sort of Mussulman Bishop) supped here and made themselves beastly with raw rum, and the Padré of the convent being as drunk as _we_, my _Attic_ feast went off with great _éclat_. I have had a present of a stallion from the Pacha of the Morea. I caught a fever going to Olympia. I was blown ashore on the Island of Salamis, in my way to Corinth through the Gulf of Ægina. I have kicked an Athenian postmaster, I have a friendship with the French consul [2] and an Italian painter, and am on good terms with five Teutones and Cimbri, Danes and Germans, [2] who are travelling for an Academy. Vale! Yours, [Greek: Mpair_on] [3] [Footnote 1: Hodgson's father, Rector of Barwick-in-Elmet, Yorkshire, died in October, 1810, heavily in debt. Francis Hodgson undertook to satisfy the claims of his father's creditors ('Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 147, 148).] [Footnote 2: M. Fauriel, the French Consul: Lusieri, an Italian artist employed by Lord Elgin; Nicolo Giraud, from whom Byron learned Italian, and to whose sister Lusieri proposed; Baron Haller, a Bavarian 'savant'; and Dr. Bronstett, of Copenhagen, were among his friends at Athens.] [Footnote 3: The signature represents "Byron" in modern Greek, [Greek: Mp] being the correct transliteration of 'B'.] 151.--To his Mother. Athens, January 14, 1811. My Dear Madam,--I seize an occasion to write as usual, shortly, but frequently, as the arrival of letters, where there exists no regular communication, is, of course, very precarious. I have lately made several small tours of some hundred or two miles about the Morea, Attica, etc., as I have finished my grand giro by the Troad, Constantinople, etc., and am returned down again to Athens. I believe I have mentioned to you more than once that I swam (in imitation of Leander, though without his lady) across the Hellespont, from Sestos to Abydos. Of this, and all other particulars, Fletcher, whom I have sent home with papers, etc., will apprise you. I cannot find that he is any loss; being tolerably master of the Italian and modern Greek languages, which last I am also studying with a master, I can order and discourse more than enough for a reasonable man. Besides, the perpetual lamentations after beef and beer, the stupid, bigoted contempt for every thing foreign, and insurmountable incapacity of acquiring even a few words of any language, rendered him, like all other English servants, an incumbrance. I do assure you, the plague of speaking for him, the comforts he required (more than myself by far), the pilaws (a Turkish dish of rice and meat) which he could not eat, the wines which he could not drink, the beds where he could not sleep, and the long list of calamities, such as stumbling horses, want of _tea!!!_ etc., which assailed him, would have made a lasting source of laughter to a spectator, and inconvenience to a master. After all, the man is honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable enough; but in Turkey, Lord forgive me! my Albanian soldiers, my Tartars and Jannissary, worked for him and us too, as my friend Hobhouse can testify. It is probable I may steer homewards in spring; but to enable me to do that, I must have remittances. My own funds would have lasted me very well; but I was obliged to assist a friend, who, I know, will pay me; but, in the mean time, I am out of pocket. At present, I do not care to venture a winter's voyage, even if I were otherwise tired of travelling; but I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us, to set our young men abroad, for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us. Here I see and have conversed with French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, etc., etc., etc.; and without losing sight of my own, I can judge of the countries and manners of others. Where I see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a good deal mistaken about in many things), I am pleased, and where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or fogged in your country, a century, without being sure of this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or amusing at home. I keep no journal, nor have I any intention of scribbling my travels. I have done with authorship, and if, in my last production, I have convinced the critics or the world I was something more than they took me for, I am satisfied; nor will I hazard _that reputation_ by a future effort. It is true I have some others in manuscript, but I leave them for those who come after me; and, if deemed worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my memory when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, etc., etc., for me. This will be better than scribbling, a disease I hope myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet, recluse life, but God knows and does best for us all; at least, so they say, and I have nothing to object, as, on the whole, I have no reason to complain of my lot. I am convinced, however, that men do more harm to themselves than ever the devil could do to them. I trust this will find you well, and as happy as we can be; you will, at least, be pleased to hear I am so, and Yours ever. 152.--To his Mother. Athens, February 28, 1811. DEAR MADAM,--As I have received a firman for Egypt, etc., I shall proceed to that quarter in the spring, and I beg you will state to Mr. Hanson that it is necessary to [send] further remittances. On the subject of Newstead, I answer as before, _No_. If it is necessary to sell, sell Rochdale. Fletcher will have arrived by this time with my letters to that purport. I will tell you fairly, I have, in the first place, no opinion of funded property; if, by any particular circumstances, I shall be led to adopt such a determination, I will, at all events, pass my life abroad, as my only tie to England is Newstead, and, that once gone, neither interest nor inclination lead me northward. Competence in your country is ample wealth in the East, such is the difference in the value of money and the abundance of the necessaries of life; and I feel myself so much a citizen of the world, that the spot where I can enjoy a delicious climate, and every luxury, at a less expense than a common college life in England, will always be a country to me; and such are in fact the shores of the Archipelago. This then is the alternative--if I preserve Newstead, I return; if I sell it, I stay away. I have had no letters since yours of June, but I have written several times, and shall continue, as usual, on the same plan. Believe me, yours ever, BYRON. P.S.--I shall most likely see you in the course of the summer, but, of course, at such a distance, I cannot specify any particular month. 153.--To his Mother. 'Volage' frigate, at sea, June 25, 1811. DEAR MOTHER,--This letter, which will be forwarded on our arrival at Portsmouth, probably about the 4th of July, is begun about twenty-three days after our departure from Malta. I have just been two years (to a day, on the 2d of July) absent from England, and I return to it with much the same feelings which prevailed on my departure, viz. indifference; but within that apathy I certainly do not comprise yourself, as I will prove by every means in my power. You will be good enough to get my apartments ready at Newstead; but don't disturb yourself, on any account, particularly mine, nor consider me in any other light than as a visiter. I must only inform you that for a long time I have been restricted to an entire vegetable diet, neither fish nor flesh coming within my regimen; so I expect a powerful stock of potatoes, greens, and biscuit; I drink no wine. I have two servants, middle-aged men, and both Greeks. It is my intention to proceed first to town, to see Mr. Hanson, and thence to Newstead, on my way to Rochdale. I have only to beg you will not forget my diet, which it is very necessary for me to observe. I am well in health, as I have generally been, with the exception of two agues, both of which I quickly got over. My plans will so much depend on circumstances, that I shall not venture to lay down an opinion on the subject. My prospects are not very promising, but I suppose we shall wrestle through life like our neighbours; indeed, by Hanson's last advices, I have some apprehension of finding Newstead dismantled by Messrs. Brothers,[1] etc., and he seems determined to force me into selling it, but he will be baffled. I don't suppose I shall be much pestered with visiters; but if I am, you must receive them, for I am determined to have nobody breaking in upon my retirement: you know that I never was fond of society, and I am less so than before. I have brought you a shawl, and a quantity of attar of roses, but these I must smuggle, if possible. I trust to find my library in tolerable order. Fletcher is no doubt arrived. I shall separate the mill from Mr. B--'s farm, for his son is too gay a deceiver to inherit both, and place Fletcher in it, who has served me faithfully, and whose wife is a good woman; besides, it is necessary to sober young Mr. B--, or he will people the parish with bastards. In a word, if he had seduced a dairy-maid, he might have found something like an apology; but the girl is his equal, and in high life or low life reparation is made in such circumstances. But I shall not interfere further than (like Buonaparte) by dismembering Mr. B.'s _kingdom_, and erecting part of it into a principality for field-marshal Fletcher! I hope you govern my little _empire_ and its sad load of national debt with a wary hand. To drop my metaphor, I beg leave to subscribe myself Yours ever, BYRON. P.S. July 14.--This letter was written to be sent from Portsmouth, but, on arriving there, the squadron was ordered to the Nore, from whence I shall forward it. This I have not done before, supposing you might be alarmed by the interval mentioned in the letter being longer than expected between our arrival in port and my appearance at Newstead. [Footnote 1: Brothers, an upholsterer of Nottingham, had put in an execution at Newstead for £1600.] 154.--To R. C. Dallas. _Volage_ Frigate, at sea, June 28, 1811. After two years' absence (to a day, on the 2d of July, before which we shall not arrive at Portsmouth), I am retracing my way to England. I have, as you know, spent the greater part of that period in Turkey, except two months in Spain and Portugal, which were then accessible. I have seen every thing most remarkable in Turkey, particularly the Troad, Greece, Constantinople, and Albania, into which last region very few have penetrated so high as Hobhouse and myself. I don't know that I have done anything to distinguish me from other voyagers, unless you will reckon my swimming from Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d, 1810, a tolerable feat for a _modern_. I am coming back with little prospect of pleasure at home, and with a body a little shaken by one or two smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet unbroken. My affairs, it seems, are considerably involved, and much business must be done with lawyers, colliers, farmers, and creditors. Now this, to a man who hates bustle as he hates a bishop, is a serious concern. But enough of my home department. I find I have been scolding Cawthorn without a cause, as I found two parcels with two letters from you on my return to Malta. By these it appears you have not received a letter from Constantinople, addressed to Longman's, but it was of no consequence. My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a success rather above the middling run, but not much for a production which, from its topics, must be temporary, and of course be successful at first, or not at all. At this period, when I can think and act more coolly, I regret that I have written it, though I shall probably find it forgotten by all except those whom it has offended. My friend Hobhouse's _Miscellany_ has not succeeded; but he himself writes so good-humouredly on the subject, I don't know whether to laugh or cry with him. He met with your son at Cadiz, of whom he speaks highly. Yours and Pratt's [1] _protégé_, Blacket, [2] the cobbler, is dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the instances where death has saved a man from damnation. You were the ruin of that poor fellow amongst you: had it not been for his patrons, he might now have been in very good plight, shoe- (not verse-) making; but you have made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this, supposing poetry, patronage, and strong waters, to have been the death of him. If you are in town in or about the beginning of July, you will find me at Dorant's, in Albemarle Street, glad to see you.[1] I have an imitation of Horace's _Art of Poetry_ ready for Cawthorn, but don't let that deter you, for I sha'n't inflict it upon you. You know I never read my rhymes to visiters. I shall quit town in a few days for Notts., and thence to Rochdale. I shall send this the moment we arrive in harbour, that is a week hence. Yours ever sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: For Pratt, see page 186, note 1.] [Footnote 2: Joseph Blacket (1786-1810) has his place in 'English Bards' (lines 765, 798) and 'Hints from Horace' (line 734). The son of a labourer, and himself by trade a cobbler, he wrote verses in which Pratt saw signs of genius. A volume of his poetry was published in 1809, under the title of 'Specimens', edited by Pratt. Among those who befriended him were Elliston the actor, Dallas, and Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron (see 'English Bards', lines 770, and note 1). His 'Remains' were collected and published by Pratt in 1811 for the benefit of Blacket's orphan daughter, with a dedication to "the Duchess of Leeds, Lady Milbanke and family" (see page 337, and 'Hints from Horace', line 734, and Byron's note). In the suppressed edition of Dallas's 'Correspondence of Lord Byron' (pp. 127, 128) occurs the following passage, from which, if Dallas's grammar is to be trusted, it seems that the famous epitaph on Blacket was not Byron's composition. Dallas "was persuaded by Mr. Pratt's warmth to see some sparkling of genius in the effusions of this young man (Blacket). It was upon this that Lord Byron and a young friend of his were sometimes playful in conversation, and in writing to me. 'I see,' says the latter, 'that Blacket the Son of Crispin and Apollo is dead.' Looking into Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' the other day, I saw, 'We were talking about the famous Mr. Wordsworth, the poetical Shoemaker.' Now, I never before heard that there had been a Mr. Wordsworth a Poet, a Shoemaker, or a famous man; and I dare say you have never heard of him. Thus it will be with Bloomfield and Blackett--their names two years after their death will be found neither on the rolls of Curriers' Hall nor of Parnassus. Who would think that anybody would be such a blockhead as to sin against an express proverb, 'Ne sutor ultra crepidam'? 'But spare him, ye Critics, his follies are past, For the Cobler is come, as he ought, to his 'last'.' Which two lines, with a scratch under 'last', to show where the joke lies, I beg that you will prevail on Miss Milbanke to have inserted on the tomb of her departed Blacket." It should be added that the shoemaking poet was not Wordsworth, but Woodhouse.] [Footnote 3: Dallas called on Byron at Reddish's Hotel, St. James's Street, July 15, 1811, and received from him the MS. of 'Hints from Horace'. Byron finished the work March 12, 1811, at the Franciscan Convent at Athens, where he found a copy of the 'De Arte Poeticâ'. ('Hints from Horace' were not, however, published till 1831.) On July 16 Dallas called again, and expressed surprise that Byron had written nothing else. Byron then produced out of his trunk 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', saying, "They are not worth troubling you with, but you shall have them all with you if you like." He was as reluctant to publish 'Childe Harold' as he was eager to publish 'Hints from Horace'.] 155.--To Francis Hodgson. 'Volage' Frigate, at sea, June 29, 1811. In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at Portsmouth, and on the 2d of July I shall have completed (to a day) two years of peregrination, from which I am returning with as little emotion as I set out. I think, upon the whole, I was more grieved at leaving Greece than England, which I am impatient to see, simply because I am tired of a long voyage. Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Embarrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to public, solitary without the wish to be social, with a body a little enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit I trust, yet unbroken, I am returning _home_ without a hope, and almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to encounter will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to estates out of repair, and contested coal-pits. In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little repaired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either to campaign in Spain, or back again to the East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation from impertinence. I trust to meet, or see you, in town, or at Newstead, whenever you can make it convenient--I suppose you are in love and in poetry as usual. That husband, H. Drury, has never written to me, albeit I have sent him more than one letter;--but I dare say the poor man has a family, and of course all his cares are confined to his circle. "For children fresh expenses yet, And Dicky now for school is fit." WARTON. [1] If you see him, tell him I have a letter for him from Tucker, a regimental chirurgeon and friend of his, who prescribed for me,---- and is a very worthy man, but too fond of hard words. I should be too late for a speech-day, or I should probably go down to Harrow. I regretted very much in Greece having omitted to carry the _Anthology_ with me--I mean Bland and Merivale's.--What has _Sir Edgar_ done? And the _Imitations and Translations_--where are they? I suppose you don't mean to let the public off so easily, but charge them home with a quarto. For me, I am "sick of fops, and poesy, and prate," and shall leave the "whole Castalian state" to Bufo, or any body else. [2] But you are a sentimental and sensibilitous person, and will rhyme to the end of the chapter. Howbeit, I have written some 4000 lines, of one kind or another, on my travels. I need not repeat that I shall be happy to see you. I shall be in town about the 8th, at Dorant's Hotel, in Albemarle Street, and proceed in a few days to Notts., and thence to Rochdale on business. I am, here and there, yours, etc. [Footnote 1: Warton's 'Progress of Discontent', lines 109, 110.] [Footnote 2: "But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state." Pope, 'Prologue to the Satires', lines 229, 230.] 156.--To Henry Drury. 'Volage' frigate, off Ushant, July 17, 1811. My Dear Drury,--After two years' absence (on the 2d) and some odd days, I am approaching your country. The day of our arrival you will see by the outside date of my letter. At present, we are becalmed comfortably, close to Brest Harbour;--I have never been so near it since I left Duck Puddle. [1] We left Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a tedious passage of it. You will either see or hear from or of me, soon after the receipt of this, as I pass through town to repair my irreparable affairs; and thence I want to go to Notts. and raise rents, and to Lanes. and sell collieries, and back to London and pay debts,--for it seems I shall neither have coals nor comfort till I go down to Rochdale in person. I have brought home some marbles for Hobhouse;--for myself, four ancient Athenian skulls, [2] dug out of sarcophagi--a phial of Attic hemlock [3]--four live tortoises--a greyhound (died on the passage)--two live Greek servants, one an Athenian, t'other a _Yaniote_, who can speak nothing but Romaic and Italian--and _myself_, as Moses in the _Vicar of Wakefield_ says, _slily_ [4] and I may say it too, for I have as little cause to boast of my expedition as he had of his to the fair. I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks to tell you I had swam from Sestos to Abydos--have you received my letter? Hobhouse went to England to fish up his _Miscellany,_ which foundered (so he tells me) in the Gulph of Lethe. I daresay it capsized with the vile goods of his contributory friends, for his own share was very portable. However, I hope he will either weigh up or set sail with a fresh cargo, and a luckier vessel. Hodgson, I suppose, is four deep by this time. What would he have given to have seen, like me, the _real Parnassus,_ where I robbed the Bishop of Chrisso of a book of geography!--but this I only call plagiarism, as it was done within an hour's ride of Delphi. [Footnote 1: The swimming-bath at Harrow.] [Footnote 2: Given afterwards to Sir Walter Scott.] [Footnote 3: At present in the possession of Mr. Murray.] [Footnote 4: "'Welcome, welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?' 'I have brought you _myself_,' cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser." 'Vicar of Wakefield', ch. xii.] 157.-To his Mother. Reddish's Hotel, St. James's Street, London, July 23, 1811. MY DEAR MADAM,--I am only detained by Mr. Hanson to sign some copyhold papers, and will give you timely notice of my approach. It is with great reluctance I remain in town. [1] I shall pay a short visit as we go on to Lancashire on Rochdale business. I shall attend to your directions, of course, and am, with great respect, yours ever, BYRON. P.S.--You will consider Newstead as your house, not mine; and me only as a visiter. [Footnote 1: On his way to London, Byron paid a visit, at Sittingbourne, to Hobhouse, who was with his Militia Regiment, and under orders for Ireland. He also stayed with H. Drury, at Harrow, for two or three days.] 158.--To William Miller. [1] Reddish's Hotel, July 30th, 1811. SIR,--I am perfectly aware of the justice of your remarks, and am convinced that, if ever the poem is published, the same objections will be made in much stronger terms. But as it was intended to be a poem on _Ariosto's plan,_ that _is_ to _say_ on _no plan_ at all, and, as is usual in similar cases, having a predilection for the worst passages, I shall retain those parts, though I cannot venture to defend them. Under these circumstances I regret that you decline the publication, on my own account, as I think the book would have done better in your hands; the pecuniary part, you know, I have nothing to do with. But I can perfectly conceive, and indeed _approve_ your reasons, and assure you my sensations are not _Archiepiscopal_ [2] enough as yet to regard the rejection of my Homilies. I am, Sir, your very obed't humble serv't, BYRON. [Footnote 1: William Miller (1769-1844), son of Thomas Miller, bookseller, of Bungay (see Beloe's 'Sexagenarian,' 2nd edit., vol. ii. pp. 253, 254), served his apprenticeship in Hookham's publishing house. In 1790 he set up for himself as a bookselling publisher in Bond Street. From 1804 onwards his place of business was at 50, Albemarle Street. But in September, 1812, he sold his stock, copyrights, good will, and lease to John Murray, and retired to a country farm in Hertfordshire. He declined to publish 'Childe Harold,' on the grounds that it contained "sceptical stanzas," and attacked Lord Elgin as a plunderer. But on the latter point, Byron, who was in serious earnest, was not likely to give way. In Beloe's 'Sexagenarian' (vol. ii. pp. 270, 271), Miller is described as "the splendid bookseller," who "was enabled to retire to tranquillity and independence long before the decline of life, or infirmities of age, rendered it necessary to do so. He was highly respectable, but could drive a hard bargain with a poor author, as well as any of his fraternity." [Footnote 2: Alluding to Gil Blas and the Archbishop of Grenada (see page 121 [Letter 67], [Foot]note 3 [4]).] 159.--To John M. B. Pigot. Newport Pagnell, August 2, 1811. MY DEAR DOCTOR,--My poor mother died yesterday! and I am on my way from town to attend her to the family vault. I heard _one_ day of her illness, the _next_ of her death. [1] Thank God her last moments were most tranquil. I am told she was in little pain, and not aware of her situation. I now feel the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, "That we can only have _one_ mother." [2] Peace be with her! I have to thank you for your expressions of regard; and as in six weeks I shall be in Lancashire on business, I may extend to Liverpool and Chester,--at least I shall endeavour. If it will be any satisfaction, I have to inform you that in November next the Editor of the _Scourge_ [3] will be tried for two different libels on the late Mrs. B. and myself (the decease of Mrs. B. makes no difference in the proceedings); and as he is guilty, by his very foolish and unfounded assertion of a breach of privilege, he will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour. I inform you of this, as you seem interested in the affair, which is now in the hands of the Attorney-general. I shall remain at Newstead the greater part of this month, where I shall be happy to hear from you, after my two years' absence in the East. I am, dear Pigot, yours very truly, BYRON. [Footnote 1: On the night after his arrival at Newstead, Mrs. Byron's maid, passing the room where the body lay, heard a heavy sigh from within. Entering the room, she found Byron sitting in the dark beside the bed. When she spoke to him, he burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh, Mrs. By, I had but one friend in the world, and she is gone!" On the day of the funeral he refused to follow the corpse to the grave, but watched the procession move away from the door of Newstead; then, turning to Rushton, bade him bring the gloves, and began his usual sparring exercise. Only his silence, abstraction, and unusual violence betrayed to his antagonist, says Moore ('Life', p. 128), the state of his feelings.] [Footnote 2: "I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that in one's whole life one can never have more than a single mother. You may think this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite observation. You are a green gosling! I was at the same age (very near) as wise as you, and yet I never discovered this (with full evidence and conviction, I mean) till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, ... and every day I live it sinks deeper into my heart." Gray to Nicholls, 'Works', vol. i. p. 482.] [Footnote 3: One of Byron's first acts on returning to England was to buy a copy of the 'Scourge', In Ridgway's bill for books supplied from Piccadilly to Byron on July 24, 1811, is a copy of the 'Scourge' at 2's'. 6'd'. Hewson Clarke (1787-1832) was entered at Emanuel College, Cambridge, apparently as a sizar, in 1806. Obliged to leave the University before he had taken his degree, he supported himself in London by his pen. He wrote two historical works--a continuation of Hume's 'History of England' (1832), and an 'Impartial History of the Naval, etc., Events in Europe' from the French Revolution to the Peace of 1815. It was, however, as a journalist that he came into collision with Byron. In the 'Satirist', a monthly magazine, illustrated with coloured cartoons, three attacks were made on Byron, which he attributed to Clarke: (1) October, 1807 (vol. i pp. 77-81), a review of 'Hours of Idleness'; (2) June, 1808 (vol. ii p. 368), verses on "Lord B--n to his Bear. To the tune of 'Lo chin y gair;'" (3) August, 1808 (vol. iii pp. 78-86), a review of 'Poems Original and Translated'. Byron's reply was the passage in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' (lines 973-980; see also the notes), where Clarke is described as "A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon," etc.; and also the Postscript to the second edition (see 'Poems', vol. i. p. 382). In the 'Scourge' for March, 1811 (vol. i. pp. 191, 'et seqq'.), appeared an article headed "Lord Byron," in which the alleged libel occurred. "We are unacquainted," says the article, "with any act of cowardice that can be compared with that of keeping a libel 'ready cut and dried' till some favourable opportunity enable its author to disperse it without the hazard of personal responsibility, and under circumstances which deprive the injured party of every means of reparation ... He confined the knowledge of his lampoon, therefore, to the circle of his own immediate friends, and left it to be given to the public as soon as he should have bid adieu to the shores of Britain. Whether his voyage was in reality no further than to Paris, in search of the proofs of his own legitimacy, or, as he asserts, to 'Afric's coasts, and Calpe's adverse height', was of little consequence to Mr. Clarke, who felt that to recriminate during his absence would be unworthy of his character ... Considering the two parties not as writers, but as men, Mr. Clarke might confidently appeal to the knowledge and opinion of the whole university; but a character like his disdains comparison with that of his noble calumniator; a temper unruffled by malignant passions, a mind superior to vicissitude, are gifts for which the pride of doubtful birth, and the temporary possession of Newstead Abbey are contemptible equivalents ... "It may be reasonably asked whether to be a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed be more disgraceful than to be the illegitimate descendant of a murderer; whether to labour in an honourable profession for the peace and competence of maturer age be less worthy of praise than to waste the property of others in vulgar debauchery; whether to be the offspring of parents whose only crime is their want of title, be not as honourable as to be the son of a profligate father, and a mother whose days and nights are spent in the delirium of drunkenness; and, finally, whether to deserve the kindness of his own college, to obtain its prizes, and to prepare himself for any examination that might entitle him to share the highest honours which the university can bestow, be less indicative of talent and virtue than to be held up to the derision and contempt of his fellow-students, as a scribbler of doggerel and a bear-leader; to be hated for malignity of temper and repulsiveness of manners, and shunned by every man who did not want to be considered a profligate without wit, and trifling without elegance. ... We ... shall neither expose the infamy of his uncle, the indiscretions of his mother, nor his personal follies and embarrassments. But let him not again obtrude himself on our attention as a moralist, etc." The Attorney-General, Sir Vicary Gibbs, gave his opinion against legal proceedings, on the two grounds that a considerable time had elapsed since the publication, and Byron himself had provoked the attack.] 160.--To John Hanson. Newstead Abbey, August 4th, 1811. MY DEAR SIR,--The _Earl_ of Huntley and the Lady _Jean_ Stewart, daughter of James 1st, of Scotland were the progenitors of Mrs. Byron. I think it would be as well to be correct in the statement. Every thing is doing that can be done, plainly yet decently, for the interment. When you favour me with your company, be kind enough to bring down my carriage from Messrs. Baxter's & Co., Long Acre. I have written to them, and beg you will come down in it, as I cannot travel conveniently or properly without it. I trust that the decease of Mrs. B. will not interrupt the prosecution of the Editor of the Magazine, less for the mere punishment of the rascal, than to set the question at rest, which, with the ignorant & weak-minded, might leave a wrong impression. I will have no stain on the Memory of my Mother; with a very large portion of foibles and irritability, she was without a _vice_ (and in these days that is much). The laws of my country shall do her and me justice in the first instance; but, if they were deficient, the laws of modern Honour should decide. Cost what it may, Gold or blood, I will pursue to the last the cowardly calumniator of an absent man and a defenceless woman. The effects of the deceased are sealed and untouched. I have sent for her agent, Mr. Bolton, to ascertain the proper steps and nothing shall be done precipitately. I understand her jewels and clothes are of considerable value. I shall write to you again soon, and in the meantime, with my most particular remembrance to Mrs. Hanson, my regards to Charles, and my _respects_ to the young ladies, I am, Dear Sir, Your very sincere and obliged servant, BYRON. 161.--To Scrope Berdmore Davies. Newstead Abbey, August 7, 1811. MY DEAREST DAVIES,--Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch. [1] What can I say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come down to me--I want a friend. Matthews's last letter was written on _Friday._--on Saturday he was not. In ability, who was like Matthews? How did we all shrink before him? You do me but justice in saying, I would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. God forgive----for his apathy! What will our poor Hobhouse feel? His letters breathe but of Matthews. Come to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate--left almost alone in the world [2]--I had but you, and H., and M., and let me enjoy the survivors whilst I can. Poor M., in his letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cambridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or come, but come if you can, or one or both. Yours ever. [Footnote 1: Charles Skinner Matthews (see page 150 [Letter 84], [Foot]note 3 [2]).] [Footnote 2: In 1811 Byron had lost, besides his mother and Matthews (August), his Harrow friend Wingfield (see page 180, note 1), Hargreaves Hanson (see page 54 [Letter 18], [Foot]note 1), and Edleston (see page 130 [Letter 74], [Foot]note 3 [2]).] 162.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Notts., August 12, 1811. Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake them. With a sigh to the departed, let us resume the dull business of life, in the certainty that we also shall have our repose. Besides her who gave me being, I have lost more than one who made that being tolerable.--The best friend of my friend Hobhouse, Matthews, a man of the first talents, and also not the worst of my narrow circle, has perished miserably in the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal to genius:--my poor school-fellow, Wingfield, at Coimbra--within a month; and whilst I had heard from _all three,_ but not seen _one._ Matthews wrote to me the very day before his death; and though I feel for his fate, I am still more anxious for Hobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain his senses: his letters to me since the event have been most incoherent. [1] But let this pass; we shall all one day pass along with the rest--the world is too full of such things, and our very sorrow is selfish. I received a letter from you, which my late occupations prevented me from duly noticing. [2]--I hope your friends and family will long hold together. I shall be glad to hear from you, on business, on commonplace, or any thing, or nothing--but death--I am already too familiar with the dead. It is strange that I look on the skulls which stand beside me (I have always had _four_ in my study) without emotion, but I cannot strip the features of those I have known of their fleshy covering, even in idea, without a hideous sensation; but the worms are less ceremonious.--Surely, the Romans did well when they burned the dead.--I shall be happy to hear from you, and am, Yours, etc. [Footnote 1: "Just," writes Hobhouse to Byron, in an undated letter from Dover, "as I was preparing to condole with you on your severe misfortune, an event has taken place, the details of which you will find in the enclosed letter from S. Davies. I am totally unable to say one word on the subject. He was my oldest friend, and, though quite unworthy of his attachment, I believe that I was an object of his regard. "I now fear that I have not been sufficiently at all times just and kind to him. Return me this fatal letter, and pray add, if it is but one line, a few words of your own." A second letter, dated August 8, 1811, is as follows:-- "MY DEAR BYRON,--To-morrow morning we sail for Cork. It is with difficulty I bring myself to talk of my paltry concerns, but I cannot refuse giving you such information as may enable me to hear from one of the friends that I have still left. Pray do give me a line; nothing is more selfish than sorrow. His great and unrivalled talents were observable by all, his kindness was known to his friends. You recollect how affectionately he shook my hand at parting. It was the last time you ever saw him--did you think it would be the last? But three days before his death he told me in a letter that he had heard from you. On Friday he wrote to me again, and on Saturday--alas, alas! we are not stocks or stones,--every word of our friend Davies' letter still pierces me to the soul--such a man and such a death! I would that he had not been so minute in his horrid details. Oh, my dear Byron, do write to me; I am very, very sick at heart indeed, and, after various efforts to write upon my own concerns, I still revert to the same melancholy subject. I wrote to Cawthorn to-day, but knew not what I said to him; half my incitement to finish that task is for ever gone. I can neither have his assistance during my labour, his comfort if I should fail, nor his congratulation if I should succeed. Forgive me, I do not forget you--but I cannot but remember him. Ever your obliged and faithful, JOHN C. HOBHOUSE." Byron had apparently suggested that Hobhouse should write some brief record of his friend. Hobhouse replies from Enniscorthy, September 13, 1811:-- "The melancholy subject of your last, in spite of every effort, perpetually recurs to me. It is indeed a hard science to forget, though I cannot but think that it is the wisest and indeed the only remedy for grief. I should be quite incapable every way of doing what you mention, and I could not even set about such a melancholy task with spirit or prospect of success. The thing may be better done by a person less interested than myself in so cruel a catastrophe. Whatever you say in your book will be well said, and do credit both to your heart and head; how much would it have gratified him who shall ne'er hear it!"] [Footnote 2: Dallas had written on July 29 to protest, on six grounds which he gives ('Correspondence of Lord Byron', pp. 151-153), "against the sceptical stanzas" of 'Childe Harold'.] 163.--To----Bolton. Newstead Abbey, August 12, 1811. Sir,--I enclose a rough draught of my intended will which I beg to have drawn up as soon as possible, in the firmest manner. The alterations are principally made in consequence of the death of Mrs. Byron. I have only to request that it may be got ready in a short time, and have the honour to be, Your most obedient, humble servant, BYRON. 163. To----Bolton. Newstead Abbey, August 12, 1811. DIRECTIONS FOR THE CONTENTS OF A WILL TO BE DRAWN UP IMMEDIATELY. The estate of Newstead to be entailed (subject to certain deductions) on George Anson Byron, heir-at-law, or whoever may be the heir-at-law on the death of Lord B. The Rochdale property to be sold in part or the whole, according to the debts and legacies of the present Lord B. To Nicolo Giraud of Athens, subject of France, but born in Greece, the sum of seven thousand pounds sterling, to be paid from the sale of such parts of Rochdale, Newstead, or elsewhere, as may enable the said Nicolo Giraud (resident at Athens and Malta in the year 1810) to receive the above sum on his attaining the age of twenty-one years. To William Fletcher, Joseph Murray, and Demetrius Zograffo [1] (native of Greece), servants, the sum of fifty pounds pr. ann. each, for their natural lives. To Wm. Fletcher, the Mill at Newstead, on condition that he payeth rent, but not subject to the caprice of the landlord. To Rt. Rushton the sum of fifty pounds per ann. for life, and a further sum of one thousand pounds on attaining the age of twenty-five years. To Jn. Hanson, Esq. the sum of two thousand pounds sterling. The claims of S. B. Davies, Esq. to be satisfied on proving the amount of the same. The body of Lord B. to be buried in the vault of the garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or burial-service whatever, or any inscription, save his name and age. His dog not to be removed from the said vault. My library and furniture of every description to my friends Jn. Cam Hobhouse, Esq., and S. B. Davies, Esq., my executors. In case of their decease, the Rev. J. Becher, of Southwell, Notts., and R. C. Dallas, Esq., of Mortlake, Surrey, to be executors. [2] The produce of the sale of Wymondham in Norfolk, and the late Mrs. B.'s Scotch property, [3] to be appropriated in aid of the payment of debts and legacies. This is the last will and testament of me, the Rt. Honble George Gordon, Lord Byron, Baron Byron of Rochdale, in the county of Lancaster.--I desire that my body may be buried in the vault of the garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or burial-service whatever, and that no inscription, save my name and age, be written on the tomb or tablet; and it is my will that my faithful dog may not be removed from the said vault. To the performance of this my particular desire, I rely on the attention of my executors hereinafter named. ==It is submitted to Lord Byron whether this clause relative to the funeral had not better be omitted. The substance of it can be given in a letter from his Lordship to the executors, and accompany the will; and the will may state that the funeral shall be performed in such manner as his Lordship may by letter direct, and, in default of any such letter, then at the discretion of his executors== [4]. It must stand. B. I do hereby specifically order and direct that all the claims of the said S. B. Davies upon me shall be fully paid and satisfied as soon as conveniently may be after my decease, on his proving {by vouchers, or otherwise, to the satisfaction of my executors hereinafter named} [5] the amount thereof, and the correctness of the same. ==If Mr, Davies has any unsettled claims upon Lord Byron, that circumstance is a reason for his not being appointed executor; each executor having an opportunity of paying himself his own debt without consulting his co-executors.== So much the better--if possible, let him be an executor. B. [Footnote 1: "If the papers lie not (which they generally do), Demetrius Zograffo of Athens is at the head of the Athenian part of the Greek insurrection. He was my servant in 1809, 1810, 1811, 1812, at different intervals of those years (for I left him in Greece when I went to Constantinople), and accompanied me to England in 1811: he returned to Greece, spring, 1812. He was a clever, but not _apparently_ an enterprising man; but circumstances make men. His two sons (_then_ infants) were named Miltiades and Alcibiades: may the omen be happy!" Byron's MS. Journal, quoted by Moore, 'Life', p. 131.] [Footnote 2: In the clause enumerating the names and places of abode of the executors, the solicitor had left blanks for the Christian names of these gentlemen, and Lord Byron, having filled up all but that of Dallas, writes in the margin, "I forget the Christian name of Dallas --cut him out."] [Footnote 3: On the death of Mrs. Byron, the sum of £4200, the remains of the price of the estate of Gight were paid over to Byron by her trustee.] [Footnote 4: The passages printed ==thus== are suggestions made by the solicitors.] [Footnote 5: Over the words placed {between brackets}, Byron drew his pen.] 164.--To----Bolton. Newstead Abbey, August 16, 1811. SIR,--I have answered the queries on the margin. I wish Mr. Davies's claims to be most fully allowed, and, further, that he be one of my executors. I wish the will to be made in a manner to prevent all discussion, if possible, after my decease; and this I leave to you as a professional gentleman. With regard to the few and simple directions for the disposal of my _carcass_, I must have them implicitly fulfilled, as they will, at least, prevent trouble and expense;--and (what would be of little consequence to me, but may quiet the conscience of the survivors) the garden is _consecrated_ ground. These directions are copied verbatim from my former will; the alterations in other parts have arisen from the death of Mrs. B. I have the honour to be, Your most obedient, humble servant, BYRON. 165.--To--Bolton. Newstead Abbey, August 20, 1811. Sir,--The witnesses shall be provided from amongst my tenants, and I shall be happy to see you on any day most convenient to yourself. I forgot to mention, that it must be specified by codicil, or otherwise, that my body is on no account to be removed from the vault where I have directed it to be placed; and in case any of my successors within the entail (from bigotry, or otherwise) might think proper to remove the carcass, such proceeding shall be attended by forfeiture of the estate, which in such case shall go to my sister, the Hon'ble Augusta Leigh and her heirs on similar conditions. I have the honour to be, sir, Your very obedient, humble servant, BYRON. 166.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. Newstead Abbey, August 21st, 1811. My Dear Sister,--I ought to have answered your letter before, but when did I ever do any-thing that I ought? I am losing my relatives & you are adding to the number of yours; but which is best, God knows;--besides poor Mrs. Byron, I have been deprived by death of two most particular friends within little more than a month; but as all observations on such subjects are superfluous and unavailing, I leave the dead to their rest, and return to the dull business of life, which however presents nothing very pleasant to me either in prospect or retrospection. I hear you have been increasing his Majesty's Subjects, which in these times of War and tribulation is really patriotic. Notwithstanding Malthus [1] tells us that, were it not for Battle, Murder, and Sudden death, we should be overstocked, I think we have latterly had a redundance of these national benefits, and therefore I give you all credit for your matronly behaviour. I believe you know that for upwards of two years I have been rambling round the Archipelago, and am returned just in time to know that I might as well have staid away for any good I ever have done, or am likely to do at home, and so, as soon as I have somewhat _repaired_ my _irreparable_ affairs I shall een go abroad again, for I am heartily sick of your climate and every thing it _rains_ upon, always save and except _yourself_ as in _duty bound_. I should be glad to see you here (as I think you have never seen the place) if you could make it convenient. Murray is still like a Rock, and will probably outlast some six Lords Byron, though in his 75th Autumn. I took him with me to Portugal & sent him round by sea to Gibraltar whilst I rode through the Interior of Spain, which was then (1809) accessible. You say you have much to communicate to me, let us have it by all means, as I am utterly at a loss to guess; whatever it may be it will meet with due attention. Your trusty and well beloved cousin F. Howard [2] is married to a Miss Somebody, I wish him joy on your account, and on his own, though speaking generally I do not affect that Brood. By the bye, I shall marry, if I can find any thing inclined to barter money for rank within six months; after which I shall return to my friends the Turks. In the interim I am, Dear Madam, [Signature cut out.] [Footnote 1: The Rev. T. R. Malthus (1766-1834) published, in 1798, his 'Essay on the Principle of Population'.] [Footnote 2: The Hon. Frederick Howard (see page 55 [Letter 19], [Foot]note 1) married, August 6, 1811, Frances Susan Lambton, only daughter of William Lambton, formerly M.P. for Durham.] 167.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead, August 21, 1811. Your letter gives me credit for more acute feelings than I possess; for though I feel tolerably miserable, yet I am at the same time subject to a kind of hysterical merriment, or rather laughter without merriment, which I can neither account for nor conquer, and yet I do not feel relieved by it; but an indifferent person would think me in excellent spirits. "We must forget these things," and have recourse to our old selfish comforts, or rather comfortable selfishness. I do not think I shall return to London immediately, and shall therefore accept freely what is offered courteously--your mediation between me and Murray. [1] I don't think my name will answer the purpose, and you must be aware that my plaguy Satire will bring the north and south Grub Streets down upon the _Pilgrimage_;--but, nevertheless, if Murray makes a point of it, and you coincide with him, I will do it daringly; so let it be entitled "_By the author of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." My remarks on the Romaic, etc., once intended to accompany the _Hints from Horace_, shall go along with the other, as being indeed more appropriate; also the smaller poems now in my possession, with a few selected from those published in Hobhouse's _Miscellany_. I have found amongst my poor mother's papers all my letters from the East, and one in particular of some length from Albania. From this, if necessary, I can work up a note or two on that subject. As I kept no journal, the letters written on the spot are the best. But of this anon, when we have definitively arranged. Has Murray shown the work to any one? He may--but I will have no traps for applause. Of course there are little things I would wish to alter, and perhaps the two stanzas of a buffooning cast on London's Sunday are as well left out. I much wish to avoid identifying Childe Harold's character with mine, and that, in sooth, is my second objection to my name appearing in the title-page. When you have made arrangements as to time, size, type, etc., favour me with a reply. I am giving you an universe of trouble, which thanks cannot atone for. I made a kind of prose apology for my scepticism at the head of the MS., which, on recollection, is so much more like an attack than a defence, that, haply, it might better be omitted--perpend, pronounce. After all, I fear Murray will be in a scrape with the orthodox; but I cannot help it, though I wish him well through it. As for me, "I have supped full of criticism," and I don't think that the "most dismal treatise" will stir and rouse my "fell of hair" till "Birnam wood do come to Dunsinane." I shall continue to write at intervals, and hope you will pay me in kind. How does Pratt get on, or rather get off, Joe Blackett's posthumous stock? You killed that poor man amongst you, in spite of your Ionian friend [2] and myself, who would have saved him from Pratt, poetry, present poverty, and posthumous oblivion. Cruel patronage! to ruin a man at his calling; but then he is a divine subject for subscription and biography; and Pratt, who makes the most of his dedications, has inscribed the volume to no less than five families of distinction. I am sorry you don't like Harry White: [3] with a great deal of cant, which in him was sincere (indeed it killed him as you killed Joe Blackett), certes there is poesy and genius. I don't say this on account of my simile and rhymes; but surely he was beyond all the Bloomfields [4] and Blacketts, and their collateral cobblers, whom Lofft [5] and Pratt have or may kidnap from their calling into the service of the trade. You must excuse my flippancy, for I am writing I know not what, to escape from myself. Hobhouse is gone to Ireland. Mr. Davies has been here on his way to Harrowgate. You did not know Matthews: he was a man of the most astonishing powers, as he sufficiently proved at Cambridge, by carrying off more prizes and fellowships, against the ablest candidates, than any other graduate on record; but a most decided atheist, indeed noxiously so, for he proclaimed his principles in all societies. I knew him well, and feel a loss not easily to be supplied to myself--to Hobhouse never. Let me hear from you, and Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: In 1793 John Murray the first (born 1745) died, leaving a widow, two daughters, and one son, John Murray the second (1778-1843), then a boy of fifteen. The bookselling and publishing business at 32, Fleet Street, which the first John Murray had purchased in 1768 from William Sandby, was for two years carried on by the chief assistant, Samuel Highley. From 1795, when John Murray the second joined it, it was conducted as a partnership, under the title of Murray and Highley. But in 1803 John Murray cancelled the partnership, and started for himself at 32, Fleet Street. Relieved from a timorous partner, he at once displayed his shrewdness, energy, and literary enthusiasm. He rapidly became, as Byron called him, "the [Greek (transliterated): Anax] of Publishers," or, as he was nicknamed, "The Emperor of the West." In February, 1809, he had launched the 'Quarterly Review'; in March, 1812, he published 'Childe Harold'; in the following September, he moved to 50, Albemarle Street, the lease of which, with the stock, good will, and copyrights, he purchased from William Miller (see page 319 [Letter 158], [Foot]note 2 [1]). The remarkable position which the second John Murray created for himself, has two aspects, one commercial, the other social. He was not only the publisher, but the friend, of the most distinguished men of the day; and he was both by reason, partly of his honourable character, partly of his personal attractiveness. Sir Walter Scott, writing, October 30, 1828, to Lockhart, speaks of Murray in words which sum up his character: "By all means do what the Emperor says. He is what Emperor Nap was not, 'much a gentleman.'" Murray was the first to divorce the business of publishing from that of selling books; the first to see, as he wrote to Sir Walter Scott, October 13, 1825 ('A Publisher and his Friends', vol. ii. p. 199), that "the business of a publishing bookseller is not in his shop, or even his connection, but in his brains." Quick-tempered and warm-hearted, he was endowed with a strong sense of humour, and a gift of felicitous expression, which made him at once an admirable talker and an excellent letter-writer, and enabled him to hold his own among the noted wits and brilliant men of letters whom he gathered under his roof. A man of ideas more than a man of business, of enterprise rather than of calculation, he was always on the watch for new writers and new openings. But his imagination and impulsive temperament were checked by his fine taste for sound literature, and controlled by high principles in matters of trade. Thus he was saved from those disastrous speculations which involved Scott in ruin, and might otherwise have appealed with fatal force to his own sanguine nature. His close relations with Byron, which began in 1811, and lasted till the poet's death, are set forth in the numerous letters which follow, and were never embittered even when he refused to continue the publication of 'Don Juan'. Their names are inseparably associated in the history of literature. A generous paymaster, he was also an hospitable host. Round him gathers much of the literary history of a half-century which includes such names as those of Scott, Byron, Southey, Coleridge, Hallam, Milman, Mahon, Carlyle, Grote, Benjamin Disraeli, Sir Robert Peel, Canning, and Mr. Gladstone. His literary dinners were famous, and his drawing-room was the rallying-place of all that was witty and agreeable in society. At the same time, he was the acknowledged head of the publishing trade, unswerving in the rectitude of his commercial dealings, and in the maintenance of the honourable traditions of his most distinguished predecessors, as well as sincere in his enthusiasm for English letters.] [Footnote 2: Walter Rodwell Wright, author of 'Horae Ionicae, a Poem descriptive of the Ionian Islands, and part of the adjacent coast of Greece,' (1809), had been Consul-General of the Seven Islands. On his return he became Recorder of Bury St. Edmund's. He was subsequently President of the Court of Appeals in Malta, where he died in 1826. (See Byron's address to him in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 877-880.)] [Footnote 3: Henry Kirke White (1785-1806) published 'Clifton Grove' and other poems in 1803. He died at Cambridge in 1806. His 'Remains' were published by Southey in 1807. (See 'English Bards', and Scotch Reviewers', lines 831-848, and note 2.)] [Footnote 4: The three brothers, George Bloomfield, a shoemaker, Nathaniel, a tailor, and Robert, also a shoemaker, were the sons of a tailor at Honington, in Suffolk, whose wife kept the village school. (For further details as to George and Nathaniel, see 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 765-798, and 'notes'.) Robert Bloomfield (1766-1823) achieved a success with his 'Farmer's Boy' (1800), of which thousands of copies were sold in England, and which was translated into French and Italian. But however creditable the lines may have been to the author, Byron's opinion of the merits of the poet was the true one. Bloomfield's subsequent volumes, of which there were seven, were inferior to 'The Farmer's Boy'. 'Good Tidings, or News from the Farm' (1804), is perhaps the best known. A collected edition of Bloomfield's 'Works' was published in 1824.] [Footnote 5: Capel Lofft (1751-1824), educated at Eton and Cambridge, was called to the Bar in 1775. Succeeding in 1781 to the family estates near Bury St. Edmund's, he lived for some years at Troston Hall. Crabb Robinson ('Diary', vol. i. p. 29) describes him, in 1795, as "a gentleman of good family and estate--an author on an infinity of subjects; his books were on Law, History, Poetry, Antiquities, Divinity, and Politics. He was then an acting magistrate, having abandoned the profession of the Bar. He was one of the numerous answerers of Burke; and, in spite of a feeble voice and other disadvantages, was an eloquent speaker." His boyish figure, slovenly dress, and involved sentences were well known on the platforms where he advocated parliamentary reform. On May 17, 1784, Johnson dined at Mr. Dilly's. Among the guests was "Mr. Capel Lofft, who, though a most zealous Whig, has a mind so full of learning and knowledge, and so much in exercise in various exertions, and withal so much liberality, that the stupendous powers of the literary Goliath, though they did not frighten this little David of popular spirit, could not but excite his admiration." Lofft held strong opinions in favour of the French Revolution, which he admired. He, "Godwin, and Thelwall are the only three persons I know (except Hazlitt) who grieve at the late events;" so writes Crabb Robinson, after the battle of Waterloo ('Diary', vol. i. p. 491). He published numerous works on law and politics, besides four volumes of poetry: 'The Praises of Poetry, a Poem' (1775); 'Eudosia, or a Poem on the Universe' (1781); 'The first and second Georgics of Virgil' (in blank verse, 1803); 'Laura, or an Anthology of Sonnets' (1814). He also edited Milton's 'Paradise Lost'. In November, 1798, Lofft read the manuscript of 'The Farmer's Boy', written by Robert Bloomfield in a London garret, where he worked as a shoemaker. Interested in the poem and the Suffolk poet, Lofft had it published in 1800, with cuts by Bewick, and a preface by himself.] 168.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, August 22, 1811. You may have heard of the sudden death of my mother, and poor Matthews, which, with that of Wingfield (of which I was not fully aware till just before I left town, and indeed hardly believed it,) has made a sad chasm in my connections. Indeed the blows followed each other so rapidly that I am yet stupid from the shock; and though I do eat, and drink, and talk, and even laugh, at times, yet I can hardly persuade myself that I am awake, did not every morning convince me mournfully to the contrary.--I shall now wave the subject,--the dead are at rest, and none but the dead can be so. You will feel for poor Hobhouse,--Matthews was the "god of his idolatry;" and if intellect could exalt a man above his fellows, no one could refuse him preeminence. I knew him most intimately, and valued him proportionably; but I am recurring--so let us talk of life and the living. If you should feel a disposition to come here, you will find "beef and a sea-coal fire," and not ungenerous wine. Whether Otway's two other requisites for an Englishman or not, I cannot tell, but probably one of them [1].--Let me know when I may expect you, that I may tell you when I go and when return. I have not yet been to Lancs. Davies has been here, and has invited me to Cambridge for a week in October, so that, peradventure, we may encounter glass to glass. His gaiety (death cannot mar it) has done me service; but, after all, ours was a hollow laughter. You will write to me? I am solitary, and I never felt solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about the critique on----'s book is amusing; as it was anonymous, certes it was of little consequence: I wish it had produced a little more confusion, being a lover of literary malice. Are you doing nothing? writing nothing? printing nothing? why not your Satire on Methodism? the subject (supposing the public to be blind to merit) would do wonders. Besides, it would be as well for a destined deacon to prove his orthodoxy.--It really would give me pleasure to see you properly appreciated. I say _really_, as, being an author, my humanity might be suspected. Believe me, dear H., yours always. [Footnote 1: "Give but an Englishman his whore and ease, Beef and a sea-coal fire, he's yours for ever." 'Venice Preserved', act ii. sc. 3] APPENDIX I. REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 2 VOLS. 1807. (From 'Monthly Literary Recreations' for July, 1807.) The volumes before us are by the author of Lyric Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly met with a considerable share of public applause. The characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth's muse are simple and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious verse; strong, and sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments. Though the present work may not equal his former efforts, many of the poems possess a native elegance, natural and unaffected, totally devoid of the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyperboles of several contemporary sonneteers. The last sonnet in the first volume, p. 152, is perhaps the best, without any novelty in the sentiments, which we hope are common to every Briton at the present crisis; the force and expression is that of a genuine poet, feeling as he writes-- Another year! another deadly blow! Another mighty empire overthrown! And we are left, or shall be left, alone-- The last that dares to struggle with the foe. 'Tis well!--from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought, That by our own right-hands it must be wrought; That we must stand unprop'd, or be laid low. O dastard! whom such foretaste doth not cheer! We shall exult, if they who rule the land Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant, not a venal band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand. The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the Seven Sisters, the Affliction of Margaret----of----, possess all the beauties, and few of the defects, of the writer: the following lines from the last are in his first style:-- "Ah! little doth the young one dream, When full of play and childish cares, What power hath e'en his wildest scream, Heard by his mother unawares: He knows it not, he cannot guess: Years to a mother bring distress, But do not make her love the less." The pieces least worthy of the author are those entitled "Moods of my own Mind." We certainly wish these "Moods" had been less frequent, or not permitted to occupy a place near works which only make their deformity more obvious; when Mr. W. ceases to please, it is by "abandoning" his mind to the most commonplace ideas, at the same time clothing them in language not simple, but puerile. What will any reader or auditor, out of the nursery, say to such namby-pamby as "Lines written at the Foot of Brother's Bridge"? "The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest, Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising, There are forty feeding like one. Like an army defeated, The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill, On the top of the bare hill." "The ploughboy is whooping anon, anon," etc., etc., is in the same exquisite measure. This appears to us neither more nor less than an imitation of such minstrelsy as soothed our cries in the cradle, with the shrill ditty of "Hey de diddle, The cat and the fiddle: The cow jump'd over the moon, The little dog laugh'd to see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon." On the whole, however, with the exception of the above, and other INNOCENT odes of the same cast, we think these volumes display a genius worthy of higher pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines his muse to such trifling subjects. We trust his motto will be in future "Paulo majora canamus." Many, with inferior abilities, have acquired a loftier seat on Parnassus, merely by attempting strains in which Wordsworth is more qualified to excel. APPENDIX II. ARTICLE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, FOR JANUARY, 1808. 'Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and translated.' By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo, pp. 200. Newark, 1807. The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his 'style'. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken, were he to deliver 'for poetry' the contents of this volume. To this he might plead 'minority'; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point; and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, "See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!" But, alas! We all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestry--sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and, while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account. With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet,--nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers,--is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it;-- "Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. "Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation; The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. "That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own." Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume. Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious. Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas "On a distant View of the Village and School of Harrow." "Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied, How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, "On a Tear," might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following:-- "Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. "The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave, which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear." And so of instances in which former poets have failed. Thus we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his nonage, "Adrian's Address to his Soul," when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it. "Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79 (see p. 380) a translation, where 'two' words [Gr.]('thel_o legein') of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81 (see 'ibid'.) where [Gr.] 'mesonuktiais poth h_orais' is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticizing some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a "Song of Bards" is by his lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. "What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He "was," etc. After detaining this "brown chief" some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to "raise his fair locks;" then to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow;" and to "smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than _nine_ pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should "use it as not abusing it;" and particularly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) on being "an infant bard,"--("The artless Helicon I boast is youth")--should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, "he certainly had no intention of inserting it," but really "the particular request of some friends," etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the last and youngest of a noble line." There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume to immortalise his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called "Granta," we have the following magnificent stanzas:-- There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes, Sits poring by the midnight lamp, Goes late to bed, yet early rises. Who reads false quantities in Sele, Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, Deprived of many a wholesome meal, In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage, The square of the hypothenuse. Still harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent." We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college psalmody as is contained in the following Attic stanzas:-- "Our choir would scarcely be excused Even as a band of raw beginners; All mercy now must be refused To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended: In furious mood he would have tore 'em!" But, whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus: he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred 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 hereafter," 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 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. APPENDIX III. REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA', AND 'ITINERARY OF GREECE'. (From the Monthly Review for August, 1811.) That laudable curiosity concerning the remains of classical antiquity, which has of late years increased among our countrymen, is in no traveller or author more conspicuous than in Mr. Gell. Whatever difference of opinion may yet exist with regard to the success of the several disputants in the famous Trojan controversy [1], or, indeed, relating to the present author's merits as an inspector of the Troad, it must universally be acknowledged that any work, which more forcibly impresses on our imaginations the scenes of heroic action, and the subjects of immortal song, possesses claims on the attention of every scholar. Of the two works which now demand our report, we conceive the former to be by far the most interesting to the reader, as the latter is indisputably the most serviceable to the traveller. Excepting, indeed, the running commentary which it contains on a number of extracts from Pausanias and Strabo, it is, as the title imports, a mere itinerary of Greece, or rather of Argolis only, in its present circumstances. This being the case, surely it would have answered every purpose of utility much better by being printed as a pocket road-book of that part of the Morea; for a quarto is a very unmanageable travelling companion. The maps [2] and drawings, we shall be told, would not permit such an arrangement; but as to the drawings, they are not in general to be admired as specimens of the art; and several of them, as we have been assured by eye-witnesses of the scenes which they describe, do not compensate for their mediocrity in point of execution, by any extraordinary fidelity of representation. Others, indeed, are more faithful, according to our informants. The true reason, however, for this costly mode of publication is in course to be found in a desire of gratifying the public passion for large margins, and all the luxury of typography; and we have before expressed our dissatisfaction with Mr. Gell's aristocratical mode of communicating a species of knowledge, which ought to be accessible to a much greater portion of classical students than can at present acquire it by his means:--but, as such expostulations are generally useless, we shall be thankful for what we can obtain, and that in the manner in which Mr. Gell has chosen to present it. The former of these volumes, we have observed, is the most attractive in the closet. It comprehends a very full survey of the far-famed island which the hero of the 'Odyssey' has immortalized; for we really are inclined to think that the author has established the identity of the modern 'Theaki' with the 'Ithaca' of Homer. At all events, if it be an illusion, it is a very agreeable deception, and is effected by an ingenious interpretation of the passages in Homer that are supposed to be descriptive of the scenes which our traveller has visited. We shall extract some of these adaptations of the ancient picture to the modern scene, marking the points of resemblance which appear to be strained and forced, as well as those which are more easy and natural; but we must first insert some preliminary matter from the opening chapter. The following passage conveys a sort of general sketch of the book, which may give our readers a tolerably adequate notion of its contents:-- "The present work may adduce, by a simple and correct survey of the island, coincidences in its geography, in its natural productions, and moral state, before unnoticed. Some will be directly pointed out; the fancy or ingenuity of the reader may be employed in tracing others; the mind familiar with the imagery of the 'Odyssey' will recognise with satisfaction the scenes themselves; and this volume is offered to the public, not entirely without hopes of vindicating the poem of Homer from the scepticism of those critics who imagine that the 'Odyssey' is a mere poetical composition, unsupported by history, and unconnected with the localities of any particular situation. "Some have asserted that, in the comparison of places now existing with the descriptions of Homer, we ought not to expect coincidence in minute details; yet it seems only by these that the kingdom of Ulysses, or any other, can be identified, as, if such an idea be admitted, every small and rocky island in the Ionian Sea, containing a good port, might, with equal plausibility, assume the appellation of Ithaca. "The Venetian geographers have in a great degree contributed to raise those doubts which have existed on the identity of the modern with the ancient Ithaca, by giving, in their charts, the name of Val di Compare to the island. That name is, however, totally unknown in the country, where the isle is invariably called Ithaca by the upper ranks, and Theaki by the vulgar. The Venetians have equally corrupted the name of almost every place in Greece; yet, as the natives of Epactos or Naupactos never heard of Lepanto, those of Zacynthos of Zante, or the Athenians of Settines, it would be as unfair to rob Ithaca of its name, on such authority, as it would be to assert that no such island existed, because no tolerable representation of its form can be found in the Venetian surveys. "The rare medals of the Island, of which three are represented in the title-page, might be adduced as a proof that the name of Ithaca was not lost during the reigns of the Roman emperors. They have the head of Ulysses, recognised by the pileum, or pointed cap, while the reverse of one presents the figure of a cock, the emblem of his vigilance, with the legend [Greek:IThAK_ON]. A few of these medals are preserved in the cabinets of the curious, and one also, with the cock, found in the island, is in the possession of Signor Zavo, of Bathi. The uppermost coin is in the collection of Dr. Hunter; the second is copied from Newman; and the third is the property of R.P. Knight, Esq. "Several inscriptions, which will be hereafter produced, will tend to the confirmation of the idea that Ithaca was inhabited about the time when the Romans were masters of Greece; yet there is every reason to believe that few, if any, of the present proprietors of the soil are descended from ancestors who had long resided successively in the island. Even those who lived, at the time of Ulysses, in Ithaca, seem to have been on the point of emigrating to Argos, and no chief remained, after the second in descent from that hero, worthy of being recorded in history. It appears that the isle has been twice colonised from Cephalonia in modern times, and I was informed that a grant had been made by the Venetians, entitling each settler in Ithaca to as much land as his circumstances would enable him to cultivate." Mr. Gell then proceeds to invalidate the authority of previous writers on the subject of Ithaca. Sir George Wheeler and M. le Chevalier fall under his severe animadversion; and, indeed, according to his account, neither of these gentlemen had visited the island, and the description of the latter is "absolutely too absurd for refutation." In another place, he speaks of M. le C. "disgracing a work of such merit by the introduction of such fabrications;" again, of the inaccuracy of the author's maps; and, lastly, of his inserting an island at the southern entry of the channel between Cephalonia and Ithaca, which has no existence. This observation very nearly approaches to the use of that monosyllable which Gibbon [3], without expressing it, so adroitly applied to some assertion of his antagonist, Mr. Davies. In truth, our traveller's words are rather bitter towards his brother tourist; but we must conclude that their justice warrants their severity. In the second chapter, the author describes his landing in Ithaca, and arrival at the rock Korax and the fountain Arethusa, as he designates it with sufficient positiveness.--This rock, now known by the name of Korax, or Koraka Petra, he contends to be the same with that which Homer mentions as contiguous to the habitation of Eumæus, the faithful swineherd of Ulysses.--We shall take the liberty of adding to our extracts from Mr. Gell some of the passages in Homer to which he _refers_ only, conceiving this to be the fairest method of exhibiting the strength or the weakness of his argument. "Ulysses," he observes, "came to the extremity of the isle to visit Eumæus, and that extremity was the most southern; for Telemachus, coming from Pylos, touched at the first south-eastern part of Ithaca with the same intention." [Greek: Kai tote dae r Odysaea kakos pothen aegage daim_on Agrou ep eschatiaen, hothi d_omata naie sub_otaes Enth aelthen philos uhios Odyssaeos theioio, Ek Pylon aemathoentos i_on sun naei melainae. Odyssei _O. Autar epaen pr_otaen aktaen Ithakaes aphikaeai, Naea men es polin otrunai kai pantas etairous Autos de pr_otista sub_otaen eisaphikesthai, k.t.l. Odyssei O.] These citations, we think, appear to justify the author in his attempt to identify the situation of his rock and fountain with the place of those mentioned by Homer. But let us now follow him in the closer description of the scene.--After some account of the subjects in the plate affixed, Mr. Gell remarks: "It is impossible to visit this sequestered spot without being struck with the recollection of the Fount of Arethusa and the rock Korax, which the poet mentions in the same line, adding, that there the swine ate the _sweet_ [4] acorns, and drank the black water." [Greek: Daeeis ton ge suessi paraemenon ai de nemontai Par Korakos petrae, epi te kraenae Arethousae, Esthousai balanon menoeikea, kai melan hud_or Pinousai. Odyssei N.] "Having passed some time at the fountain, taken a drawing, and made the necessary observations on the situation of the place, we proceeded to an examination of the precipice, climbing over the terraces above the source among shady fig-trees, which, however, did not prevent us from feeling the powerful effects of the mid-day sun. After a short but fatiguing ascent, we arrived at the rock, which extends in a vast perpendicular semicircle, beautifully fringed with trees, facing to the south-east. Under the crag we found two caves of inconsiderable extent, the entrance of one of which, not difficult of access, is seen in the view of the fount. They are still the resort of sheep and goats, and in one of them are small natural receptacles for the water, covered by a stalagmatic incrustation. "These caves, being at the extremity of the curve formed by the precipice, open toward the south, and present us with another accompaniment of the fount of Arethusa, mentioned by the poet, who informs us that the swineherd Eumæus left his guests in the house, whilst he, putting on a thick garment, went to sleep near the herd, under the hollow of the rock, which sheltered him from the northern blast. Now we know that the herd fed near the fount; for Minerva tells Ulysses that he is to go first to Eumæus, whom he should find with the swine, near the rock Korax and the fount of Arethusa. As the swine then fed at the fountain, so it is necessary that a cavern should be found in its vicinity; and this seems to coincide, in distance and situation, with that of the poem. Near the fount also was the fold or stathmos of Eumæus; for the goddess informs Ulysses that he should find his faithful servant at or above the fount. "Now the hero meets the swineherd close to the fold, which was consequently very near that source. At the top of the rock, and just above the spot where the waterfall shoots down the precipice, is at this day a stagni, or pastoral dwelling, which the herdsmen of Ithaca still inhabit, on account of the water necessary for their cattle. One of these people walked on the verge of the precipice at the time of our visit to the place, and seemed so anxious to know how we had been conveyed to the spot, that his inquiries reminded us of a question probably not uncommon in the days of Homer, who more than once represents the Ithacences demanding of strangers what ship had brought them to the island, it being evident they could not come on foot. He told us that there was, on the summit where he stood, a small cistern of water, and a kalybea, or shepherd's hut. There are also vestiges of ancient habitations, and the place is now called Amarâthia. "Convenience, as well as safety, seems to have pointed out the lofty situation of Amarâthia as a fit place for the residence of the herdsmen of this part of the island from the earliest ages. A small source of water is a treasure in these climates; and if the inhabitants of Ithaca now select a rugged and elevated spot, to secure them from the robbers of the Echinades, it is to be recollected that the Taphian pirates were not less formidable, even in the days of Ulysses, and that a residence in a solitary part of the island, far from the fortress, and close to a celebrated fountain, must at all times have been dangerous, without some such security as the rocks of Korax. Indeed, there can be no doubt that the house of Eumæus was on the top of the precipice; for Ulysses, in order to evince the truth of his story to the swineherd, desires to be thrown from the summit if his narration does not prove correct. "Near the bottom of the precipice is a curious natural gallery, about seven feet high, which is expressed in the plate. It may be fairly presumed, from the very remarkable coincidence between this place and the Homeric account, that this was the scene designated by the poet as the fountain of Arethusa, and the residence of Eumæus; and, perhaps, it would be impossible to find another spot which bears, at this day, so strong a resemblance to a poetic description composed at a period so very remote. There is no other fountain in this part of the island, nor any rock which bears the slightest resemblance to the Korax of Homer. "The stathmos of the good Eumæus appears to have been little different, either in use or construction, from the stagni and kalybea of the present day. The poet expressly mentions that other herdsmen drove their flocks into the city at sunset,--a custom which still prevails throughout Greece during the winter, and that was the season in which Ulysses visited Eumæus. Yet Homer accounts for this deviation from the prevailing custom, by observing that he had retired from the city to avoid the suitors of Penelope. These trifling occurrences afford a strong presumption that the Ithaca of Homer was something more than the creature of his own fancy, as some have supposed it; for though the grand outline of a fable may be easily imagined, yet the consistent adaptation of minute incidents to a long and elaborate falsehood is a task of the most arduous and complicated nature." After this long extract, by which we have endeavoured to do justice to Mr. Gell's argument, we cannot allow room for any farther quotations of such extent; and we must offer a brief and imperfect analysis of the remainder of the work. In the third chapter the traveller arrives at the capital, and in the fourth he describes it in an agreeable manner. We select his account of the mode of celebrating a Christian festival in the Greek Church:-- "We were present at the celebration of the feast of the Ascension, when the citizens appeared in their gayest dresses, and saluted each other in the streets with demonstrations of pleasure. As we sate at breakfast in the house of Signer Zavo, we were suddenly roused by the discharge of a gun, succeeded by a tremendous crash of pottery, which fell on the tiles, steps, and pavements, in every direction. The bells of the numerous churches commenced a most discordant jingle; colours were hoisted on every mast in the port, and a general shout of joy announced some great event. Our host informed us that the feast of the Ascension was annually commemorated in this manner at Bathi, the populace exclaiming [Greek: anestae o Christos, alaethinos o Theos], Christ is risen, the true God." In another passage, he continues this account as follows:-- "In the evening of the festival, the inhabitants danced before their houses; and at one we saw the figure which is said to have been first used by the youths and virgins of Delos, at the happy return of Theseus from the expedition of the Cretan Labyrinth. It has now lost much of that intricacy which was supposed to allude to the windings of the habitation of the Minotaur," etc., etc. This is rather too much for even the inflexible gravity of our censorial muscles. When the author talks, with all the 'reality' (if we may use the expression) of a Lemprière, on the stories of the fabulous ages, we cannot refrain from indulging a momentary smile; nor can we seriously accompany him in the learned architectural detail by which he endeavours to give us, from the 'Odyssey', the ground-plot of the house of Ulysses,--of which he actually offers a plan in drawing! "showing how the description of the house of Ulysses in the 'Odyssey' may be supposed to correspond with the foundations yet visible on the hill of Aito!"--Oh, Foote! Foote! why are you lost to such inviting subjects for your ludicrous pencil!--In his account of this celebrated mansion, Mr. Gell says, one side of the court seems to have been occupied by the Thalamos, or sleeping apartments of the men, etc., etc.; and, in confirmation of this hypothesis, he refers to the 10th 'Odyssey', line 340. On examining his reference, we read-- [Greek: 'Es thalamon t' ienai, kai saes epibaemenai eunaes'] where Ulysses records an invitation which he received from Circe to take a part of her bed. How this illustrates the above conjecture, we are at a loss to divine: but we suppose that some numerical error has occurred in the reference, as we have detected a trifling mistake or two of the same nature. Mr. G. labours hard to identify the cave of Dexia near Bathi (the capital of the island), with the grotto of the Nymphs described in the 13th 'Odyssey'. We are disposed to grant that he has succeeded; but we cannot here enter into the proofs by which he supports his opinion; and we can only extract one of the concluding sentences of the chapter, which appears to us candid and judicious:-- "Whatever opinion may be formed as to the identity of the cave of Dexia with the grotto of the Nymphs, it is fair to state, that Strabo positively asserts that no such cave as that described by Homer existed in his time, and that geographer thought it better to assign a physical change, rather than ignorance in Homer, to account for a difference which he imagined to exist between the Ithaca of his time and that of the poet. But Strabo, who was an uncommonly accurate observer with respect to countries surveyed by himself, appears to have been wretchedly misled by his informers on many occasions. "That Strabo had never visited this country is evident, not only from his inaccurate account of it, but from his citation of Apollodorus and Scepsius, whose relations are in direct opposition to each other on the subject of Ithaca, as will be demonstrated on a future opportunity." We must, however, observe that "demonstration" is a strong term.--In his description of the Leucadian Promontory (of which we have a pleasing representation in the plate), the author remarks that it is "celebrated for the _leap_ of Sappho, and the _death_ of Artemisia." From this variety in the expression, a reader would hardly conceive that both the ladies perished in the same manner; in fact, the sentence is as proper as it would be to talk of the decapitation of Russell, and the death of Sidney. The view from this promontory includes the island of Corfu; and the name suggests to Mr. Gell the following note, which, though rather irrelevant, is of a curious nature, and we therefore conclude our citations by transcribing it:-- "It has been generally supposed that Corfu, or Corcyra, was the Phæacia of Homer; but Sir Henry Englefield thinks the position of that island inconsistent with the voyage of Ulysses as described in the 'Odyssey'. That gentleman has also observed a number of such remarkable coincidences between the courts of Alcinous and Solomon, that they may be thought curious and interesting. Homer was familiar with the names of Tyre, Sidon, and Egypt; and, as he lived about the time of Solomon, it would not have been extraordinary if he had introduced some account of the magnificence of that prince into his poem. As Solomon was famous for wisdom, so the name of Alcinous signifies strength of knowledge; as the gardens of Solomon were celebrated, so are those of Alcinous ('Od'. 7. 112); as the kingdom of Solomon was distinguished by twelve tribes under twelve princes (1 Kings ch. 4), so that of Alcinous ('Od'. 8. 390) was ruled by an equal number: as the throne of Solomon was supported by lions of gold (1 Kings ch. 10), so that of Alcinous was placed on dogs of silver and gold ('Od'. 7. 91); as the fleets of Solomon were famous, so were those of Alcinous. It is perhaps worthy of remark, that Neptune sate on the mountains of the SOLYMI, as he returned from Æthiopia to Ægæ, while he raised the tempest which threw Ulysses on the coast of Phæacia; and that the Solymi of Pamphylia are very considerably distant from the route.--The suspicious character, also, which Nausicaa attributes to her countryman agrees precisely with that which the Greeks and Romans gave of the Jews." The seventh chapter contains a description of the Monastery of Kathara, and several adjacent places. The eighth, among other curiosities, fixes on an imaginary site for the Farm of Laertes; but this is the agony of conjecture indeed!--and the ninth chapter mentions another Monastery, and a rock still called the School of Homer. Some sepulchral inscriptions of a very simple nature are included.--The tenth and last chapter brings us round to the Port of Schoenus, near Bathi; after we have completed, seemingly in a very minute and accurate manner, the tour of the island. We can certainly recommend a perusal of this volume to every lover of classical scene and story. If we may indulge the pleasing belief that Homer sang of a real kingdom, and that Ulysses governed it, though we discern many feeble links in Mr. Gell's chain of evidence, we are on the whole induced to fancy that this is the Ithaca of the bard and of the monarch. At all events, Mr. Gell has enabled every future traveller to form a clearer judgment on the question than he could have established without such a "Vade-mecum to Ithaca," or a "Have with you, to the House of Ulysses," as the present. With Homer in his pocket, and Gell on his sumpter-horse or mule, the Odyssean tourist may now make a very classical and delightful excursion; and we doubt not that the advantages accruing to the Ithacences, from the increased number of travellers who will visit them in consequence of Mr. Gell's account of their country, will induce them to confer on that gentleman any heraldic honours which they may have to bestow, should he ever look in upon them again.--'Baron Bathi' would be a pretty title:-- "'Hoc' Ithacus 'velit, et magno mercentur Atridae'." VIRGIL. For ourselves, we confess that all our old Grecian feelings would be alive on approaching the fountain of Melainudros, where, as the tradition runs, or as the priests relate, Homer was restored to sight. We now come to the "Grecian Patterson," or "Cary," which Mr. Gell has begun to publish; and really he has carried the epic rule of concealing the person of the author to as great a length as either of the above-mentioned heroes of itinerary writ. We hear nothing of his "hair-breadth 'scapes" by sea or land; and we do not even know, for the greater part of his journey through Argolis, whether he relates what he has seen or what he has heard. From other parts of the book, we find the former to be the case; but, though there have been tourists and "strangers" in other countries, who have kindly permitted their readers to learn rather too much of their sweet selves, yet it is possible to carry delicacy, or cautious silence, or whatever it may be called, to the contrary extreme. We think that Mr. Gell has fallen into this error, so opposite to that of his numerous brethren. It is offensive, indeed, to be told what a man has eaten for dinner, or how pathetic he was on certain occasions; but we like to know that there is a being yet living who describes the scenes to which he introduces us; and that it is not a mere translation from Strabo or Pausanias which we are reading, or a commentary on those authors. This reflection leads us to the concluding remark in Mr. Gell's preface (by much the most interesting part of his book) to his 'Itinerary of Greece', in which he thus expresses himself:-- "The confusion of the modern with the ancient names of places in this volume is absolutely unavoidable; they are, however, mentioned in such a manner, that the reader will soon be accustomed to the indiscriminate use of them. The necessity of applying the ancient appellations to the different routes, will be evident from the total ignorance of the public on the subject of the modern names, which, having never appeared in print, are only known to the few individuals who have visited the country. "What could appear less intelligible to the reader, or less useful to the traveller, than a route from Chione and Zaracca to Kutchukmadi, from thence by Krabata to Schoenochorio, and by the mills of Peali, while every one is in some degree acquainted with the names of Stymphalus, Nemea, Mycenæ, Lyrceia, Lerna, and Tegea?" Although this may be very true inasmuch as it relates to the reader, yet to the traveller we must observe, in opposition to Mr. Gell, that nothing can be less useful than the designation of his route according to the ancient names. We might as well, and with as much chance of arriving at the place of our destination, talk to a Hounslow post-boy about making haste to 'Augusta', as apply to our Turkish guide in modern Greece for a direction to Stymphalus, Nemea, Mycenæ, etc., etc. This is neither more nor less than classical affectation; and it renders Mr. Gell's book of much more confined use than it would otherwise have been:--but we have some other and more important remarks to make on his general directions to Grecian tourists; and we beg leave to assure our readers that they are derived from travellers who have lately visited Greece. In the first place, Mr. Cell is absolutely incautious enough to recommend an interference on the part of English travellers with the Minister at the Porte, in behalf of the Greeks. "The folly of such neglect (page 16, preface), in many instances, where the emancipation of a district might often be obtained by the present of a snuff-box or a watch, at Constantinople, _and without the smallest danger of exciting the jealousy of such a court as that of Turkey_, will be acknowledged when we are no longer able to rectify the error." We have every reason to believe, on the contrary, that the folly of half a dozen travellers, taking this advice, might bring us into a war. "Never interfere with any thing of the kind," is a much sounder and more political suggestion to all English travellers in Greece. Mr. Gell apologizes for the introduction of "his panoramic designs," as he calls them, on the score of the great difficulty of giving any tolerable idea of the face of a country in writing, and the ease with which a very accurate knowledge of it may be acquired by maps and panoramic designs. We are informed that this is not the case with many of these designs. The small scale of the single map we have already censured; and we have hinted that some of the drawings are not remarkable for correct resemblance of their originals. The two nearer views of the Gate of the Lions at Mycenæ are indeed good likenesses of their subject, and the first of them is unusually well executed; but the general view of Mycenæ is not more than tolerable in any respect; and the prospect of Larissa, etc., is barely equal to the former. The view _from_ this last place is also indifferent; and we are positively assured that there are no windows at Nauplia which look like a box of dominos,--the idea suggested by Mr. Gell's plate. We must not, however, be too severe on these picturesque bagatelles, which, probably, were very hasty sketches; and the circumstances of weather, etc., may have occasioned some difference in the appearance of the same objects to different spectators. We shall therefore return to Mr. Gell's preface; endeavouring to set him right in his directions to travellers, where we think that he is erroneous, and adding what appears to have been omitted. In his first sentence, he makes an assertion which is by no means correct. He says, "_We_ are at present as ignorant of Greece, as of the interior of Africa." Surely not quite so ignorant; or several of our Grecian _Mungo Parks_ have travelled in vain, and some very sumptuous works have been published to no purpose! As we proceed, we find the author observing that "Athens is 'now' the most polished city of "Greece," when we believe it to be the most barbarous, even to a proverb-- [Greek: _O Athaena, pr_otae ch_ora, Ti gaidarous trepheis t_ora;] [5] is a couplet of reproach _now_ applied to this once famous city; whose inhabitants seem little worthy of the inspiring call which was addressed to them within these twenty years, by the celebrated Riga:-- [Greek: Deute paides t_on Hellaen_on, k.t.l.] Iannina, the capital of Epirus, and the seat of Ali Pacha's government, 'is' in truth deserving of the honours which Mr. Gell has improperly bestowed on degraded Athens. As to the correctness of the remark concerning the fashion of wearing the hair cropped in 'Molossia', as Mr. Gell informs us, our authorities cannot depose; but why will he use the classical term of Eleuthero-Lacones, when that people are so much better known by their modern name of Mainotes? "The court of the Pacha of Tripolizza" is said "to realise the splendid visions of the Arabian Nights." This is true with regard to the 'court'; but surely the traveller ought to have added that the city and palace are most miserable, and form an extraordinary contrast to the splendour of the court.--Mr. Gell mentions 'gold' mines in Greece: he should have specified their situation, as it certainly is not universally known. When, also, he remarks that "the first article of necessity 'in Greece' is a firman, or order from the Sultan, permitting the traveller to pass unmolested," we are much misinformed if he be right. On the contrary, we believe this to be almost the only part of the Turkish dominions in which a firman is not necessary; since the passport of the Pacha is absolute within his territory (according to Mr. G.'s own admission), and much more effectual than a firman.-- "Money," he remarks, "is easily procured at Salonica, or Patrass, where the English have consuls." It is much better procured, we understand, from the Turkish governors, who never charge discount. The consuls for the English are not of the most magnanimous order of Greeks, and far from being so liberal, generally speaking; although there are, in course, some exceptions, and Strané of Patras has been more honourably mentioned.--After having observed that "horses seem the best mode of conveyance in Greece," Mr. Gell proceeds: "Some travellers would prefer an English saddle; but a saddle of this sort is always objected to by the owner of the horse, _and not without reason_," etc. This, we learn, is far from being the case; and, indeed, for a very simple reason, an English saddle must seem to be preferable to one of the country, because it is much lighter. When, too, Mr. Gell calls the _postillion_ "Menzilgi," he mistakes him for his betters; _Serrugees_ are postillions; _Menzilgis_ are postmasters.--Our traveller was fortunate in his Turks, who are hired to walk by the side of the baggage-horses. They "are certain," he says, "of performing their engagement without grumbling." We apprehend that this is by no means certain:--but Mr. Gell is perfectly right in preferring a Turk to a Greek for this purpose; and in his general recommendation to take a Janissary on the tour: who, we may add, should be suffered to act as he pleases, since nothing is to be done by gentle means, or even by offers of money, at the places of accommodation. A courier, to be sent on before to the place at which the traveller intends to sleep, is indispensable to comfort; but no tourist should be misled by the author's advice to suffer the Greeks to gratify their curiosity, in permitting them to remain for some time about him on his arrival at an inn. They should be removed as soon as possible; for, as to the remark that "no stranger would think of intruding when a room is pre-occupied," our informants were not so well convinced of that fact. Though we have made the above exceptions to the accuracy of Mr. Gell's information, we are most ready to do justice to the general utility of his directions, and can certainly concede the praise which he is desirous of obtaining,--namely, "of having facilitated the researches of future travellers, by affording that local information which it was before impossible to obtain." This book, indeed, is absolutely necessary to any person who wishes to explore the Morea advantageously; and we hope that Mr. Gell will continue his Itinerary over that and over every other part of Greece. He allows that his volume "is only calculated to become a book of reference, and not of general entertainment;" but we do not see any reason against the compatibility of both objects in a survey of the most celebrated country of the ancient world. To that country, we trust, the attention not only of our travellers, but of our legislators, will hereafter be directed. The greatest caution will, indeed, be required, as we have premised, in touching on so delicate a subject as the amelioration of the possessions of an ally: but the field for the exercise of political sagacity is wide and inviting in this portion of the globe; and Mr. Gell, and all other writers who interest us, however remotely, in its extraordinary _capabilities_, deserve well of the British empire. We shall conclude by an extract from the author's work: which, even if it fails of exciting that general interest which we hope most earnestly it may attract towards its important subject, cannot, as he justly observes, "be entirely uninteresting to the scholar;" since it is a work "which gives him a faithful description of the remains of cities, the very existence of which was doubtful, as they perished before the æra of authentic history." The subjoined quotation is a good specimen of the author's minuteness of research as a topographer; and we trust that the credit which must accrue to him from the present performance will ensure the completion of his _Itinerary_:-- "The inaccuracies of the maps of Anacharsis are in many respects very glaring. The situation of Phlius is marked by Strabo as surrounded by the territories of Sicyon, Argos, Cleonæ, and Stymphalus. Mr. Hawkins observed, that Phlius, the ruins of which still exist near Agios Giorgios, lies in a direct line between Cleonæ and Stymphalus, and another from Sicyon to Argos; so that Strabo was correct in saying that it lay between those four towns; yet we see Phlius, in the map of Argolis by M. Barbie du Bocage, placed ten miles to the north of Stymphalus, contradicting both history and fact. D'Anville is guilty of the same error. "M. du Bocage places a town named Phlius, and by him Phlionte, on the point of land which forms the port of Drepano; there are not at present any ruins there. The maps of D'Anville are generally more correct than any others where ancient geography is concerned. A mistake occurs on the subject of Tiryns, and a place named by him Vathia, but of which nothing can be understood. It is possible that Vathi, or the profound valley, may be a name sometimes used for the valley of Barbitsa, and that the place named by D'Anville Claustra may be the outlet of that valley called Kleisoura, which has a corresponding signification. "The city of Tiryns is also placed in two different positions, once by its Greek name, and again as Tirynthus. The mistake between the islands of Sphæria and Calaura has been noticed in page 135. The Pontinus, which D'Anville represents as a river, and the Erasinus, are equally ill placed in his map. There was a place called Creopolis, somewhere toward Cynouria; but its situation is not easily fixed. The ports called Bucephalium and Piræus seem to have been nothing more than little bays in the country between Corinth and Epidaurus. The town called Athenæ, in Cynouria, by Pausanias, is called Anthena by 'Thucydides', book 5. 41. "In general, the map of D'Anville will be found more accurate than those which have been published since his time; indeed, the mistakes of that geographer are in general such as could not be avoided without visiting the country. Two errors of D'Anville may be mentioned, lest the opportunity of publishing the itinerary of Arcadia should never occur. The first is, that the rivers Malætas and Mylaon, near Methydrium, are represented as running toward the south, whereas they flow northwards to the Ladon; and the second is, that the Aroanius, which falls into the Erymanthus at Psophis, is represented as flowing from the lake of Pheneos; a mistake which arises from the ignorance of the ancients themselves who have written on the subject. The fact is that the Ladon receives the waters of the lakes of Orchomenos and Pheneos; but the Aroanius rises at a spot not two hours distant from Psophis." In furtherance of our principal object in this critique, we have only to add a wish that some of our Grecian tourists, among the fresh articles of information concerning Greece which they have lately imported, would turn their minds to the language of the country. So strikingly similar to the ancient Greek is the modern Romaic as a written language, and so dissimilar in sound, that even a few general rules concerning pronunciation would be of most extensive use. END OF VOL. I. 
9921	----	THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON. A NEW, REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. Letters and Journals. Vol. II. EDITED BY ROWLAND E. PROTHERO, M.A., FORMERLY FELLOW OF ALL SOULS COLLEGE, OXFORD. PREFACE The second volume of Mr. Murray's edition of Byron's 'Letters and Journals' carries the autobiographical record of the poet's life from August, 1811, to April, 1814. Between these dates were published 'Childe Harold' (Cantos I., II.), 'The Waltz', 'The Giaour', 'The Bride of Abydos', the 'Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte'. At the beginning of this period Byron had suddenly become the idol of society; towards its close his personal popularity almost as rapidly declined before a storm of political vituperation. Three great collections of Byron's letters, as was noted in the Preface [1] to the previous volume, are in existence. The first is contained in Moore's 'Life' (1830); the second was published in America, in FitzGreene Halleck's edition of Byron's 'Works' (1847); of the third, edited by Mr. W.E. Henley, only the first volume has yet appeared. A comparison between the letters contained in these three collections and in that of Mr. Murray, down to December, 1813, shows the following results: Moore prints 152 letters; Halleck, 192; Mr. Henley, 231. Mr. Murray's edition adds 236 letters to Moore, 196 to Halleck, and to Mr. Henley 157. It should also be noticed that the material added to Moore's 'Life' in the second and third collections consists almost entirely of letters which were already in print, and had been, for the most part, seen and rejected by the biographer. The material added in Mr. Murray's edition, on the contrary, consists mainly of letters which have never before been published, and were inaccessible to Moore when he wrote his 'Life' of Byron. These necessary comparisons suggest some further remarks. It would have been easy, not only to indicate what letters or portions of letters are new, but also to state the sources whence they are derived. But, in the circumstances, such a course, at all events for the present, is so impolitic as to be impossible. On the other hand, anxiety has been expressed as to the authority for the text which is adopted in these volumes. To satisfy this anxiety, so far as circumstances allow, the following details are given. The material contained in these two volumes consists partly of letters now for the first time printed; partly of letters already published by Moore, Dallas, and Leigh Hunt, or in such books as Galt's 'Life of Lord Byron', and the 'Memoirs of Francis Hodgson'. Speaking generally, it may be said that the text of the new matter, with the few exceptions noted below, has been prepared from the original letters, and that it has proved impossible to authenticate the text of most of the old material by any such process. The point may be treated in greater detail. Out of the 388 letters contained in these two volumes, 220 have been printed from the original letters. In these 220 are included practically the whole of the new material. Among the letters thus collated with the originals are those to Mrs. Byron (with four exceptions), all those to the Hon. Augusta Byron, to the Hanson family, to James Wedderburn Webster, and to John Murray, twelve of those to Francis Hodgson, those to the younger Rushton, William Gifford, John Cam Hobhouse, Lady Caroline Lamb, Mrs. Parker, Bernard Barton, and others. The two letters to Charles Gordon (30, 33), the three to Captain Leacroft (62, 63, 64), and the one to Ensign Long (vol. ii. p. 19, 'note'), are printed from copies only. The old material stands in a different position. Efforts have been made to discover the original letters, and sometimes with success. But it still remains true that, speaking generally, the printed text of the letters published by Moore, Dallas, Leigh Hunt, and others, has not been collated with the originals. The fact is important. Moore, who, it is believed, destroyed not only his own letters from Byron, but also many of those entrusted to him for the preparation of the 'Life', allowed himself unusual liberties as an editor. The examples of this licence given in Mr. Clayden's 'Rogers and his Contemporaries' throw suspicion on his text, even where no apparent motive exists for his suppressions. But, as Byron's letters became more bitter in tone, and his criticisms of his contemporaries more outspoken, Moore felt himself more justified in omitting passages which referred to persons who were still living in 1830. From 1816 onwards, it will be found that he has transferred passages from one letter to another, or printed two letters as one, and 'vice versâ', or made such large omissions as to shorten letters, in some instances, by a third or even a half. No collation with the originals has ever been attempted, and the garbled text which Moore printed is the only text at present available for an edition of the most important of Byron's letters. But the originals of the majority of the letters published in the 'Life', from 1816 to 1824, are in the possession or control of Mr. Murray, and in his edition they will be for the first time printed as they were written. If any passages are omitted, the omissions will be indicated. Besides the new letters contained in this volume, passages have been restored from Byron's manuscript notes ('Detached Thoughts', 1821). To these have been added Sir Walter Scott's comments, collated with the originals, and, in several instances, now for the first time published. Appendix VII. contains a collection of the attacks made upon him in the Tory press for February and March, 1814, which led him, for the moment, to resolve on abandoning his literary work. In conclusion, I wish to repeat my acknowledgment of the invaluable aid of the 'National Dictionary of Biography', both in the facts which it supplies and the sources of information which it suggests. R.E. PROTHERO. September, 1898. [Footnote 1: Also available from Project Gutenberg in text and html form.] * * * * * LIST OF LETTERS. 1811. 169. Aug. 23. To John Murray 170. Aug. 24. To James Wedderburn Webster 171. Aug. 25. To R.C. Dallas 172. Aug. 27. " " 173. Aug. 30. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 174. Aug. 30. " " " 175. Aug. 31. To James Wedderburn Webster 176. Sept. 2. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 177. Sept. 3. To Francis Hodgson 178. Sept. 4. To R.C. Dallas 179. Sept. 5. To John Murray 180. Sept. 7. To R.C. Dallas 181. Sept. 9. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 182. Sept. 9. To Francis Hodgson 183. Sept. 10. To R.C. Dallas 184. Sept. 13. To Francis Hodgson 185. Sept. 14. To John Murray 186. Sept. 15. To R.C. Dallas 187. Sept. 16. To John Murray 188. Sept. 16. To R.C. Dallas 189. Sept. 17. " " 190. Sept. 17. " " 191. Sept. 21. " " 192. Sept. 23. " " 193. Sept. 25. To Francis Hodgson 194. Sept. 26. To R.C. Dallas 195. Oct. 10. To James Wedderburn Webster 196. Oct. 10. To R.C. Dallas 197. Oct. 11. " " 198. Oct. 13. To Francis Hodgson 199. Oct. 14. To R.C. Dallas 200. Oct. 16. " " 201. Oct. 25. " " 202. Oct. 27. To Thomas Moore 203. Oct. 29. To R.C. Dallas 204. Oct. 29. To Thomas Moore 205. Oct. 30. " " 206. Oct. 31. To R.C. Dallas 207. Nov. 1. To Thomas Moore 208. Nov. 17. To Francis Hodgson 209. Dec. 4. " " 210. Dec. 6. To William Harness 211. Dec. 7. To James Wedderburn Webster 212. Dec. 8. To William Harness 213. Dec. 8. To Francis Hodgson 214. Dec. 11. To Thomas Moore 215. Dec. 12. To Francis Hodgson 216. Undated. R.C. Dallas 217. Dec. 15. To William Harness 1812. 218. Jan. 21. To Robert Rushton 219. Jan. 25. " " 220. Jan. 29. To Thomas Moore 221. Feb. 1. To Francis Hodgson 222. Feb. 4. To Samuel Rogers 223. Feb. 12. To Master John Cowell 224. Feb. 16. To Francis Hodgson 225. Feb. 21. " " 226. Feb. 25. To Lord Holland 227. March 5. To Francis Hodgson 228. March 5. To Lord Holland 229. Undated. To Thomas Moore 230. Undated. To William Bankes 231. March 25. To Thomas Moore 232. Undated. To Lady Caroline Lamb 233. April 20. To William Bankes 234. Undated. To Thomas Moore 235. May 1. To Lady Caroline Lamb 236. May 8. To Thomas Moore 237. May 20. " " 238. June 1. To Bernard Barton 239. June 25. To Lord Holland 240. June 26. To Professor Clarke 241. July 6. To Walter Scott 242. Undated. To Lady Caroline Lamb 243. Sept. 5. To John Murray 244. Sept. 10. To Lord Holland 245. Sept. 14. To John Murray 246. Sept. 22. To Lord Holland 247. Sept. 23. " " 248. Sept. 24. " " 249. Sept. 25. " " 250. Sept. 26. " " 251. Sept. 27. " " 252. Sept. 27. " " 253. Sept. 27. To John Murray 254. Sept. 28. To Lord Holland 255. Sept. 28. " " 256. Sept. 28. To William Bankes 257. Sept. 29. To Lord Holland 258. Sept. 30. " " 259. Sept. 30. " " 260. Oct. 2. " " 261. Oct. 12. To John Murray 262. Oct. 14. To Lord Holland 263. Oct. 18. To John Hanson 264. Oct. 18. To John Murray 265. Oct. 18. To Robert Rushton 266. Oct. 19. To John Murray 267. Oct. 22. To John Hanson 268. Oct. 23. To John Murray 269. Oct. 31. To John Hanson 270. Nov. 8. " " 271. Nov. 16. " " 272. Nov. 22. To John Murray 273. Dec. 26. To William Bankes 1813. 274. Jan. 8. To John Murray 275. Feb. 3. To Francis Hodgson 276. Feb. 3. To John Hanson 277. Feb. 20. To John Murray 278. Feb. 24. To Robert Rushton 279. Feb. 27. To John Hanson 280. March 1. " " 281. March 5. To ____ Corbet 282. March 6. To John Hanson 283. March 24. To Charles Hanson 284. March 25. To Samuel Rogers 285. March 26. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 286. March 29. To John Murray 287. April 15. To John Hanson 288. April 17. " " 289. April 21. To John Murray 290. May 13. " " 291. May 19. To Thomas Moore 292. May 22. To John Murray 293. May 23. " " 294. June 2. " " 295. Undated. To Thomas Moore 296. June 3. To John Hanson 297. June 6. To Francis Hodgson 298. June 8. " " 299. June 9. To John Murray 300. June 12. " " 301. June 13. " " 302. June 18. " " 303. June 18. To W. Gifford 304. June 22. To John Murray 305. June 22. To Thomas Moore 306. June 26. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 307. Undated. " " " 308. June 27. " " " 309. July 1. To John Murray 310. July 8. To Thomas Moore 311. July 13. " " 312. July 18. To John Hanson 313. July 22. To John Murray 314. July 25. To Thomas Moore 315. July 27. " " 316. July 28. " " 317. July 31 To John Murray 318. Aug. 2. To John Wilson Croker 319. Undated. To John Murray 320. Aug. 10. " " 321. Aug. 12. To James Wedderburn Webster 322. Aug. 22. To Thomas Moore 323. Aug. 26. To John Murray 324. Aug. 28. To Thomas Moore 325. Sept. 1. " " 326. Sept. 2. To James Wedderburn Webster 327. Sept. 5. To Thomas Moore 328. Sept. 8. " " 329. Sept. 9. " " 330. Sept. 15. To James Wedderburn Webster 331. Sept. 15. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 332. Sept. 15. To John Murray 333. Sept. 25. To James Wedderburn Webster 334. Sept. 27. To Sir James Mackintosh 335. Sept. 27. To Thomas Moore 336. Sept. 29. To John Murray 337. Sept. 30. To James Wedderburn Webster 338. Oct. 1. To Francis Hodgson 339. Oct. 2. To Thomas Moore 340. Oct. 3. To John Murray 341. Oct. 10. To John Hanson 342. Oct. 10. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 343. Oct. 12. To John Murray 344. Nov. 8. To the Hon. Augusta Leigh 345. Nov. 12. To John Murray 346. Nov. 12. To William Gifford 347. Nov. 12. To John Murray 348. Nov. 13. " " 349. Undated. " " 350. Nov. 13. " " 351. Nov. 14. " " 352. Nov. 15. " " 353. Nov. 17. " " 354. Nov. 20. " " 355. Nov. 22. " " 356. Nov. 23. " " 357. Nov. 24. " " 358. Nov. 27. " " 359. Nov. 28. " " 360. Nov. 29. To John Murray 361. Nov. 29. " " 362. Nov. 29 " " 363. Nov. 30. " " 364. Dec. 1. To Thomas Moore 365. Dec. 1. To Francis Hodgson 366. Dec. 2. To John Murray 367. Dec. 2. To Leigh Hunt 368. Dec. 3. To John Murray 369. Dec. 3. " " 370. Undated. " " 371. Dec. 4. " " 372. Dec. 6. " " 373. Dec. 8. To Thomas Moore 374. Dec. 11. To John Galt 375. Dec. 14. To John Murray 376. Dec. 14. To Thomas Ashe 377. Dec. 15. To Professor Clarke 378. Dec. 22. To Leigh Hunt 379. Dec. 27. To John Murray * * * * * CONTENTS V. CHILDE HAROLD, CANTOS I., II. VI. THE IDOL OF SOCIETY--THE DRURY LANE ADDRESS--SECOND SPEECH IN PARLIAMENT VII. THE 'GIAOUR' AND 'BRIDE OF ABYDOS' VIII. JOURNAL: NOVEMBER, 14, 1813--APRIL 19, 1814 APPENDIX I. ARTICLES FROM 'THE MONTHLY REVIEW' " II. PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES " III. LADY CAROLINE LAMB AND BYRON " IV. LETTERS OF BERNARD BARTON " V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH WALTER SCOTT " VI. "THE GIANT AND THE DWARF" " VII. ATTACKS UPON BYRON IN THE NEWSPAPERS FOR FEBRUARY AND MARCH, 1814 * * * * * CHAPTER V. AUGUST, 1811-MARCH, 1812. 'CHILDE HAROLD', CANTOS I., II. 169.--To John Murray. [1] Newstead Abbey, Notts., August 23, 1811. Sir,--A domestic calamity in the death of a near relation [2] has hitherto prevented my addressing you on the subject of this letter. My friend, Mr. Dallas, [3] has placed in your hands a manuscript poem written by me in Greece, which he tells me you do not object to publishing. But he also informed me in London that you wished to send the MS. to Mr. Gifford. [4] Now, though no one would feel more gratified by the chance of obtaining his observations on a work than myself, there is in such a proceeding a kind of petition for praise, that neither my pride--or whatever you please to call it--will admit. Mr. G. is not only the first satirist of the day, but editor of one of the principal reviews. As such, he is the last man whose censure (however eager to avoid it) I would deprecate by clandestine means. You will therefore retain the manuscript in your own care, or, if it must needs be shown, send it to another. Though not very patient of censure, I would fain obtain fairly any little praise my rhymes might deserve, at all events not by extortion, and the humble solicitations of a bandied-about MS. I am sure a little consideration will convince you it would be wrong. If you determine on publication, I have some smaller poems (never published), a few notes, and a short dissertation on the literature of the modern Greeks (written at Athens), which will come in at the end of the volume.--And, if the present poem should succeed, it is my intention, at some subsequent period, to publish some selections from my first work,--my Satire,--another nearly the same length, and a few other things, with the MS. now in your hands, in two volumes.--But of these hereafter. You will apprize me of your determination. I am, Sir, your very obedient, humble servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: For John Murray, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 334, note 1 [Footnote 1 to Letter 167].] [Footnote 2: Mrs. Byron died August I, 1811.] [Footnote 3: For R. C. Dallas, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 168, note 1. [Footnote 1 to Letter 87]] [Footnote 4: For Gifford, the editor of the 'Quarterly Review', see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 198, note 2. [Footnote 4 of Letter 102]] * * * * * 170.--To James Wedderburn Webster. [1] Newstead Abbey, August 24th, 1811. MY DEAR W.,--Conceiving your wrath to be somewhat evaporated, and your Dignity recovered from the _Hysterics_ into which my innocent note from London had thrown it, I should feel happy to be informed how you have determined on the disposal of this accursed Coach, [2] which has driven us out of our Good humour and Good manners to a complete Standstill, from which I begin to apprehend that I am to lose altogether your valuable correspondence. Your angry letter arrived at a moment, to which I shall not allude further, as my happiness is best consulted in forgetting it. [3] You have perhaps heard also of the death of poor Matthews, whom you recollect to have met at Newstead. He was one whom his friends will find it difficult to replace, nor will Cambridge ever see his equal. I trust you are on the point of adding to your relatives instead of losing them, and of _friends_ a man of fortune will always have a plentiful stock--at his Table. I dare say now you are gay, and connubial, and popular, so that in the next parliament we shall be having you a County Member. But beware your Tutor, for I am sure he Germanized that sanguinary letter; you must not write such another to your Constituents; for myself (as the mildest of men) I shall say no more about it. Seriously, _mio Caro W._, if you can spare a moment from Matrimony, I shall be glad to hear that you have recovered from the pucker into which this _Vis_ (one would think it had been a _Sulky_) has thrown you; you know I wish you well, and if I have not inflicted my society upon you according to your own Invitation, it is only because I am not a social animal, and should feel sadly at a loss amongst Countesses and Maids of Honour, particularly being just come from a far Country, where Ladies are neither carved for, or fought for, or danced after, or mixed at all (publicly) with the Men-folks, so that you must make allowances for my natural _diffidence_ and two years travel. But (God and yourself willing) I shall certes pay my promised visit, as I shall be in town, if Parliament meets, in October. In the mean time let me hear from you (without a privy Council), and believe me in sober sadness, Yours very sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: James Wedderburn Webster (1789-1840), grandson of Sir A. Wedderburn, Bart., whose third son, David, assumed the additional name of Webster, was the author of 'Waterloo, and other Poems' (1816), and 'A Genealogical Account of the Wedderburn Family' (privately printed, 1819). He was with Byron, possibly at Cambridge, certainly at Athens in 1810. He married, in 1810, Lady Frances Caroline Annesley, daughter of Arthur, first Earl of Mountnorris and eighth Viscount Valencia. He was knighted in 1822. Byron, in 1813, lent him £1000. Lady Frances died in 1837, and her husband in 1840. Moore ('Memoirs, Journals, etc.', vol. iii. p. 112) mentions dining with Webster at Paris in 1820. "He told me," writes Moore, "that, one day, travelling from Newstead to town with Lord Byron in his vis-a-vis, the latter kept his pistols beside him, and continued silent for hours, with the most ferocious expression possible on his countenance. 'For God's sake, my dear B.,' said W----at last, 'what are you thinking of? Are you about to commit murder? or what other dreadful thing are you meditating?' To which Byron answered that he always had a sort of presentiment that his own life would be attacked some time or other; and that this was the reason of his always going armed, as it was also the subject of his thoughts at that moment." Moore also adds ('ibid'., p. 292), "W. W. owes Lord Byron, he says, £1000, and does not seem to have the slightest intention of paying him." Lady Frances was the lady to whom Byron seriously devoted himself in 1813-4. Subsequently she was practically separated from her husband, and Byron, in 1823, endeavoured to reconcile them. Moore ('Memoirs, Journals, etc'., vol. ii. p. 249) writes, "To the Devizes ball in the evening; Lady Frances W. there; introduced to her, and had much conversation, chiefly about our friend Lord B. Several of those beautiful things, published (if I remember right) with the 'Bride', were addressed to her. She must have been very pretty when she had more of the freshness of youth, though she is still but five or six and twenty; but she looks faded already" (1819). In the Court of Common Pleas, February 16, 1816, the libel action of 'Webster v. Baldwin' was heard. The plaintiff obtained £2000 in damages for a libel charging Lady Frances and the Duke of Wellington with adultery.] [Footnote 2: On his return to London in July, 1811, Byron ordered a 'vis-a-vis' to be built by Goodall. This he exchanged for a carriage belonging to Webster, who, within a few weeks, resold the 'vis-a-vis' to Byron. The two following letters from Byron to Webster explain the transaction:-- "Reddish's Hotel, 29th July, 1811. "MY DEAR WEBSTER,--As this eternal 'vis-a-vis' seems to sit heavy on your soul, I beg leave to apprize you that I have arranged with Goodall: you are to give me the promised Wheels, and the lining, with 'the Box at Brighton,' and I am to pay the stipulated sum. I am obliged to you for your favourable opinion, and trust that the happiness you talk so much of will be stationary, and not take those freaks to which the felicity of common mortals is subject. I do very sincerely wish you well, and am so convinced of the justice of your matrimonial arguments, that I shall follow your example as soon as I can get a sufficient price for my coronet. In the mean time I should be happy to drill for my new situation under your auspices; but business, inexorable business, keeps me here. Your letters are forwarded. If I can serve you in any way, command me. I will endeavour to fulfil your requests as awkwardly as another. I shall pay you a visit, perhaps, in the autumn. Believe me, dear W., Yours unintelligibly, B." "Reddish's Hotel, July 31st, 1811. MY DEAR W. W.,--I always understood that the 'lining' was to accompany the 'carriage'; if not, the 'carriage' may accompany the 'lining', for I will have neither the one nor the other. In short, to prevent squabbling, this is my determination, so decide;--if you leave it to my 'feelings' (as you say) they are very strongly in favour of the said lining. Two hundred guineas for a carriage with ancient lining!!! Rags and rubbish! You must write another pamphlet, my dear W., before; but pray do not waste your time and eloquence in expostulation, because it will do neither of us any good, but decide--content or 'not' content. The best thing you can do for the Tutor you speak of will be to send him in your Vis (with the lining) to 'the U--Niversity of Göttingen.' How can you suppose (now that my own Bear is dead) that I have any situation for a German genius of this kind, till I get another, or some children? I am infinitely obliged by your invitations, but I can't pay so high for a second-hand chaise to make my friends a visit. The coronet will not 'grace' the 'pretty Vis,' till your tattered lining ceases to 'dis'grace it. Pray favour me with an answer, as we must finish the affair one way or another immediately,--before next week. Believe me, yours truly, BYRON." "Byron," says Webster, in a note, "was more than strict about trifles."] [Footnote 3: The death of Mrs. Byron, August 1, 1811.] * * * * * 171.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, August 25, 1811. Being fortunately enabled to frank, I do not spare scribbling, having sent you packets within the last ten days. I am passing solitary, and do not expect my agent to accompany me to Rochdale [1] before the second week in September; a delay which perplexes me, as I wish the business over, and should at present welcome employment. I sent you exordiums, annotations, etc., for the forthcoming quarto, if quarto it is to be: and I also have written to Mr. Murray my objection to sending the MS. to Juvenal, [2] but allowing him to show it to any others of the calling. Hobhouse [3] is amongst the types already: so, between his prose and my verse, the world will be decently drawn upon for its paper-money and patience. Besides all this, my 'Imitation of Horace' [4] is gasping for the press at Cawthorn's, but I am hesitating as to the how and the when, the single or the double, the present or the future. You must excuse all this, for I have nothing to say in this lone mansion but of myself, and yet I would willingly talk or think of aught else. What are you about to do? Do you think of perching in Cumberland, as you opined when I was in the metropolis? If you mean to retire, why not occupy Miss Milbanke's "Cottage of Friendship," late the seat of Cobbler Joe, [5] for whose death you and others are answerable? His "Orphan Daughter" (pathetic Pratt!) will, certes, turn out a shoemaking Sappho. Have you no remorse? I think that elegant address to Miss Dallas should be inscribed on the cenotaph which Miss Milbanke means to stitch to his memory. The newspapers seem much disappointed at his Majesty's not dying, or doing something better. [6] I presume it is almost over. If parliament meets in October, I shall be in town to attend. I am also invited to Cambridge for the beginning of that month, but am first to jaunt to Rochdale. Now Matthews [7] is gone, and Hobhouse in Ireland, I have hardly one left there to bid me welcome, except my inviter. At three-and-twenty I am left alone, and what more can we be at seventy? It is true I am young enough to begin again, but with whom can I retrace the laughing part of life? It is odd how few of my friends have died a quiet death,--I mean, in their beds. But a quiet life is of more consequence. Yet one loves squabbling and jostling better than yawning. This 'last word' admonishes me to relieve you from Yours very truly, etc. [Footnote 1: For Byron's Rochdale property, which was supposed to contain a quantity of coal, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 78, 'note' 2. [Footnote 2 of Letter 34]] [Footnote 2: Gifford.] [Footnote 3: For John Cam Hobhouse, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 163, 'note' 1. [Footnote 1 of Letter 86]] [Footnote 4: The poem remained unpublished till after Byron's death. (See 'note', p. 23, and 'Poems', ed. 1898, vol. i. pp. 385-450.) ] [Footnote 5: "In Seaham churchyard, without any memorial," says Mr. Surtees, "rest the remains of Joseph Blacket, an unfortunate child of genius, whose last days were soothed by the generous attention of the family of Milbanke." 'Hist. of Durham', vol. i. p. 272. (See also 'Letters', vol. i. p. 314, 'note' 2 [Footnote 2 of Letter 154]. For Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron, see p. 118, 'note' 4.) [Footnote 1 of Letter 7]] [Footnote 6: On July 28, 1811, Lord Grenville wrote to Lord Auckland, "It is, I believe, certainly true that the King has taken for the last three days scarcely any food at all, and that, unless a change takes place very shortly in that respect, he cannot survive many days" ('Auckland Correspondence', vol. iv. p. 366). It was, however, the mind, and not the physical strength that failed. "The King, I should suppose," wrote Lord Buckinghamshire, on August 13, "is not likely to die soon, but I fear his mental recovery is hardly to be expected." ('ibid'., vol. iv. p. 367). George III. never, except for brief intervals, recovered his reason.] [Footnote 7: For C. S. Matthews, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 150, 'note' 3. [Footnote 2 of Letter 84]] * * * * * 172.--To R. C. Dallas. [1] Newstead Abbey, Aug. 27, 1811. I was so sincere in my note on the late Charles Matthews, and do feel myself so totally unable to do justice to his talents, that the passage must stand for the very reason you bring against it. To him all the men I ever knew were pigmies. He was an intellectual giant. It is true I loved Wingfield [2] better; he was the earliest and the dearest, and one of the few one could never repent of having loved: but in ability--ah! you did not know Matthews! 'Childe Harold' may wait and welcome--books are never the worse for delay in the publication. So you have got our heir, George Anson Byron, [3] and his sister, with you. You may say what you please, but you are one of the 'murderers' of Blackett, and yet you won't allow Harry White's genius. [4] Setting aside his bigotry, he surely ranks next Chatterton. It is astonishing how little he was known; and at Cambridge no one thought or heard of such a man till his death rendered all notice useless. For my own part, I should have been most proud of such an acquaintance: his very prejudices were respectable. There is a sucking epic poet at Granta, a Mr. Townsend, [5] 'protégé' of the late Cumberland. Did you ever hear of him and his 'Armageddon'? I think his plan (the man I don't know) borders on the sublime: though, perhaps, the anticipation of the "Last Day" (according to you Nazarenes) is a little too daring: at least, it looks like telling the Lord what he is to do, and might remind an ill-natured person of the line, "And fools rush in where angels fear to tread." But I don't mean to cavil, only other folks will, and he may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen about his ears. However, I hope he will bring it to a conclusion, though Milton is in his way. Write to me--I dote on gossip--and make a bow to Ju--, and shake George by the hand for me; but, take care, for he has a sad sea paw. P.S.--I would ask George here, but I don't know how to amuse him--all my horses were sold when I left England, and I have not had time to replace them. Nevertheless, if he will come down and shoot in September, he will be very welcome: but he must bring a gun, for I gave away all mine to Ali Pacha, and other Turks. Dogs, a keeper, and plenty of game, with a very large manor, I have--a lake, a boat, houseroom, and _neat wines_. [Footnote 1: Dallas, writing to Byron, August 18, 1811, had said, "I have been reading the 'Remains' of Kirke White, and find that you have to answer for misleading me. He does not, in my opinion, merit the high praise you have bestowed upon him." Writing again, August 26, he objected to the 'note' on Matthews in 'Childe Harold': "In your note, as it stands, it strikes me that the eulogy on Matthews is a 'little' at the expense of Wingfield and others whom you 'have' commemorated. I should think it quite enough to say that his Powers and Attainments were above all praise, without expressly admitting them to be above that of a Muse who soars high in the praise of others."] [Footnote 2: For Wingfield, see 'Letters', vol. i, p. 180, 'note' 1. [Footnote 2 of Letter 92]] [Footnote: For George Anson Byron, afterwards Lord Byron, and his sister Julia, see 'Letters', vol. i, p. 188, 'note' 1.[Footnote 1 of Letter 96]] [Footnote 4: For H. K. White, see 'Letters', vol. i, p. 336, 'note' 2. [Footnote 3 of Letter 167]] [Footnote 5: The Rev. George Townsend (1788-1857) of Trinity College, Cambridge, published 'Poems' in 1810, and eight books of his 'Armageddon' in 1815. The remaining four books were never published. Townsend became a Canon of Durham in 1825, and held the stall till his death in 1857. Richard Cumberland, dramatist, novelist, and essayist (1732-1811), the "Sir Fretful Plagiary" of 'The Critic', announced the forthcoming poem in the 'London Review'; but, as Townsend says, in the Preface to 'Armageddon', praised him "too abundantly and prematurely." "My talents," he adds, "were neither equal to my own ambition, nor his zeal to serve me." (See 'Hints from Horace', lines 191-212, and Byron's 'note' to line 191, 'Poems', ed. 1898, vol. i. p. 403.)] * * * * * 173.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [1] Newstead Abbey, August 30th, 1811. My Dear Augusta,--The embarrassments you mention in your last letter I never heard of before, but that disease is epidemic in our family. Neither have I been apprised of any of the changes at which you hint, indeed how should I? On the borders of the Black Sea, we heard only of the Russians. So you have much to tell, and all will be novelty. I don't know what Scrope Davies [2] meant by telling you I liked Children, I abominate the sight of them so much that I have always had the greatest respect for the character of Herod. But, as my house here is large enough for us all, we should go on very well, and I need not tell you that I long to see _you_. I really do not perceive any thing so formidable in a Journey hither of two days, but all this comes of Matrimony, you have a Nurse and all the etceteras of a family. Well, I must marry to repair the ravages of myself and prodigal ancestry, but if I am ever so unfortunate as to be presented with an Heir, instead of a _Rattle_ he shall be provided with a _Gag_. I shall perhaps be able to accept D's invitation to Cambridge, but I fear my stay in Lancashire will be prolonged, I proceed there in the 2d week in Septr to arrange my coal concerns, & then if I can't persuade some wealthy dowdy to ennoble the dirty puddle of her mercantile Blood,--why--I shall leave England and all it's clouds for the East again; I am very sick of it already. Joe [3] has been getting well of a disease that would have killed a troop of horse; he promises to bear away the palm of longevity from old Parr. As you won't come, you will write; I long to hear all those unutterable things, being utterly unable to guess at any of them, unless they concern _your_ relative the Thane of Carlisle, [4] though I had great hopes we had done with him. I have little to add that you do not already know, and being quite alone, have no great variety of incident to gossip with; I am but rarely pestered with visiters, and the few I have I get rid of as soon as possible. I will now take leave of you in the Jargon of 1794. "Health & _Fraternity!"_ Yours always, B. [Footnote 1: For the Hon. Augusta Leigh, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 18, 'note' 1. [Footnote 1 of Letter 7] Byron's letter is in answer to the following from his half-sister: "6 Mile Bottom, Aug. 27th. "My Dearest Brother,--Your letter was stupidly sent to Town to me on Sunday, from whence I arrived at home yesterday; consequently I have not received it so soon as I ought to have done. I feel so very happy to have the pleasure of hearing from you that I will not delay a moment answering it, altho' I am in all the delights of 'unpacking', and afraid of being too late for the Post. "I have been a fortnight in Town, and went up on my 'eldest' little girl's account. She had been very unwell for some time, and I could not feel happy till I had better advice than this neighbourhood affords. She is, thank Heaven! much better, and I hope in a fair way to be quite 'herself' again. Mr. Davies flattered me by saying she was exactly the sort of child 'you' would delight in. I am determined not to say another word in her praise for fear you should accuse me of partiality and expect too much. The youngest ('little' Augusta) is just 6 months old, and has no particular merit at present but a very sweet placid temper. "Oh! that I could immediately set out to Newstead and shew them to you. I can't tell you 'half' the happiness it would give me to see it and 'you'; but, my dearest B., it is a long journey and serious undertaking all things considered. Mr. Davies writes me word you promise to make him a visit bye and bye; 'pray do', you can then so easily come here. I have set my heart upon it. Consider how very long it is since I've seen you. "I have indeed 'much' to tell you; but it is more easily 'said' than 'written'. Probably you have heard of many changes in our situation since you left England; in a 'pecuniary' point of view it is materially altered for the worse; perhaps in other respects better. Col. Leigh has been in Dorsetshire and Sussex during my stay in Town. I expect him at home towards the end of this week, and hope to make him acquainted with you ere long. "I have not time to write half I have to say, for my letter must go; but I prefer writing in a hurry to not writing at all. You can't think how much I feel for your griefs and losses, or how much and constantly I have thought of you lately. I began a letter to you in Town, but destroyed it, from the fear of appearing troublesome. There are times, I know, when one cannot write with any degree of comfort or satisfaction. I intend to do so again shortly, so I hope yon won't think me a bore. "Remember me most kindly to Old Joe. I rejoice to hear of his health and prosperity. Your letter (some parts of it at least) made me laugh. I am so very glad to hear you have sufficiently overcome your prejudices against the 'fair sex' to have determined upon marrying; but I shall be most anxious that my future 'Belle Soeur' should have more attractions than merely money, though to be sure 'that' is somewhat necessary. I have not another moment, dearest B., so forgive me if I write again very soon, and believe me, "Your most affec'tn Sister, A. L. "Do write if you can."] [Footnote 2: For Scrope Berdmore Davies, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 165, 'note' 2. [Footnote 2 of Letter 86] The following story is told of him by Byron, in a passage of his 'Detached Thoughts' (Ravenna, 1821): "One night Scrope Davies at a Gaming house (before I was of age), being tipsy as he usually was at the Midnight hour, and having lost monies, was in vain intreated by his friends, one degree less intoxicated than himself, to come or go home. In despair, he was left to himself and to the demons of the dice-box. "Next day, being visited about two of the Clock, by some friends just risen with a severe headache and empty pockets (who had left him losing at four or five in the morning), he was found in a sound sleep, without a night-cap, and not particularly encumbered with bed-cloathes: a Chamber-pot stood by his bed-side, brim-full of---'Bank Notes!', all won, God knows how, and crammed, Scrope knew not where; but THERE they were, all good legitimate notes, and to the amount of some thousand pounds."] [Footnote 3: For Joe Murray, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 21, 'note' 3. [Footnote 4 of Letter 7]] [Footnote 4: For the Earl of Carlisle, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 36, 'note' 2. [Footnote 3 of Letter 13]] * * * * * 174.-To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. Newstead Abbey, Aug'st 30th, 1811. MY DEAR AUGUSTA,--I wrote to you yesterday, and as you will not be very sorry to hear from me again, considering our long separation, I shall fill up this sheet before I go to bed. I have heard something of a quarrel between your spouse and the Prince, I don't wish to pry into family secrets or to hear anything more of the matter, but I can't help regretting on your account that so long an intimacy should be dissolved at the very moment when your husband might have derived some advantage from his R. H.'s friendship. However, at all events, and in all Situations, you have a brother in me, and a home here. I am led into this train of thinking by a part of your letter which hints at pecuniary losses. I know how delicate one ought to be on such subjects, but you are probably the only being on Earth _now_ interested in my welfare, certainly the only relative, and I should be very ungrateful if I did not feel the obligation. You must excuse my being a little cynical, knowing how my _temper_ was tried in my Non-age; the manner in which I was brought up must necessarily have broken a meek Spirit, or rendered a fiery one ungovernable; the effect it has had on mine I need not state. However, buffeting with the World has brought me a little to reason, and two years travel in distant and barbarous countries has accustomed me to bear privations, and consequently to laugh at many things which would have made me angry before. But I am wandering--in short I only want to assure you that I love you, and that you must not think I am indifferent, because I don't shew my affection in the usual way. Pray can't you contrive to pay me a visit between this and Xmas? or shall I carry you down with me from Cambridge, supposing it practicable for me to come? You will do what you please, without our interfering with each other; the premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting,--but I can't feel the comfort of this till I marry. In short it would be the most amiable matrimonial mansion, and that is another great inducement to my plan,--my wife and I shall be so happy,--one in each Wing. If this description won't make you come, I can't tell what will, you must please yourself. Good night, I have to walk half a mile to my Bed chamber. Yours ever, BYRON. * * * * * 175.--To James Wedderburn Webster. Newstead Abbey, Notts., Aug'st 31st, 1811. MY DEAR W.,--I send you back your friend's letter, and, though I don't agree with his Canons of Criticism, they are not the worse for that. My friend Hodgson [1] is not much honoured by the comparison to the 'Pursuits of L.', which is notoriously, as far as the 'poetry' goes, the worst written of its kind; the World has been long but of one opinion, viz. that it's sole merit lies in the Notes, which are indisputably excellent. Had Hodgson's "Alterative" been placed with the 'Baviad' the compliment had been higher to both; for, surely, the 'Baviad' is as much superior to H.'s poem, as I do firmly believe H.'s poem to be to the 'Pursuits of Literature'. Your correspondent talks for talking's sake when he says "Lady J. Grey" is neither "Epic, dramatic, or legendary." Who ever said it was "epic" or "dramatic"? he might as well say his letter was neither "epic or dramatic;" the poem makes no pretensions to either character. "Legendary" it certainly is, but what has that to do with its merits? All stories of that kind founded on facts are in a certain degree legendary, but they may be well or ill written without the smallest alteration in that respect. When Mr. Hare prattles about the "Economy," etc., he sinks sadly;--all such expressions are the mere cant of a schoolboy hovering round the Skirts of Criticism. Hodgson's tale is one of the best efforts of his Muse, and Mr. H.'s approbation must be of more consequence, before any body will reduce it to a "Scale," or be much affected by "the place" he "assigns" to the productions of a man like Hodgson. But I have said more than I intended and only beg you never to allow yourself to be imposed upon by such "common place" as the 6th form letter you sent me. Judge for yourself. I know the Mr. Bankes [2] you mention though not to that "extreme" you seem to think, but I am flattered by his "boasting" on such a subject (as you say), for I never thought him likely to "boast" of any thing which was not his own. I am not "'melancholish'"--pray what "'folk'" dare to say any such thing? I must contradict them by being 'merry' at their expence. I shall invade you in the course of the winter, out of envy, as Lucifer looked at Adam and Eve. Pray be as happy as you can, and write to me that I may catch the infection. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Webster had sent Byron a letter from Naylor Hare, in which the latter criticized Hodgson's poems, 'Lady Jane Grey, a Tale; and other Poems (1809)' (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 195, 'note 1' [Footnote 1 of Letter 102]). In the volume (pp. 56-77) was printed his "Gentle Alterative prepared for the Reviewers," which Hare apparently compared to 'The Pursuits of Literature (1794-97)', by T. J. Mathias. To this criticism Byron objected, saying that the "Alterative" might be more fairly compared to Gifford's 'Baviad' (1794).] [Footnote 2: For William John Bankes, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 120, 'note' 1. [Footnote 1 of Letter 67]] * * * * * 176.---To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [1] Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2d, 1811. My dear Augusta,--I wrote you a vastly dutiful letter since my answer to your second epistle, and I now write you a third, for which you have to thank Silence and Solitude. Mr. Hanson [2] comes hither on the 14th, and I am going to Rochdale on business, but that need not prevent you from coming here, you will find Joe, and the house and the cellar and all therein very much at your Service. As to Lady B., when I discover one rich enough to suit me and foolish enough to have me, I will give her leave to make me miserable if she can. Money is the magnet; as to Women, one is as well as another, the older the better, we have then a chance of getting her to Heaven. So, your Spouse does not like brats better than myself; now those who beget them have no right to find fault, but _I_ may rail with great propriety. My "Satire!"--I am glad it made you laugh for Somebody told me in Greece that you was angry, and I was sorry, as you were perhaps the only person whom I did _not_ want to _make angry_. But how you will make _me laugh_ I don't know, for it is a vastly _serious_ subject to me I assure you; therefore take care, or I shall hitch _you_ into the next Edition to make up our family party. Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what _I_ am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way;--all this comes of Authorship, but now I am in for it, and shall be at war with Grubstreet, till I find some better amusement. You will write to me your Intentions and may almost depend on my being at Cambridge in October. You say you mean to be etc. in the _Autumn_; I should be glad to know what you call this present Season, it would be Winter in every other Country which I have seen. If we meet in October we will travel in my _Vis_. and can have a cage for the children and a cart for the Nurse. Or perhaps we can forward them by the Canal. Do let us know all about it, your "_bright thought_" is a little clouded, like the Moon in this preposterous climate. Good even, Child. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: The following is Mrs. Leigh's letter, to which the above is an answer: "6 Mile Bottom, Saturday, 31 Aug. "My dearest brother,--I hope you don't dislike receiving letters so much as writing them, for you would in that case pronounce me a great torment. But as I prepared you in my last for its being followed very soon by another, I hope you will have reconciled your mind to the impending toil. I really wrote in such a hurry that I did not say half I wished; but I did not like to delay telling you how happy you made me by writing. I have been dwelling constantly upon the idea of going to Newstead ever since I had your wish to see me there. At last a _bright thought_ struck me. "We intend, I believe, to go to Yorkshire in the autumn. Now, if I could contrive to pay you a visit _en passant_, it would be delightful, and give me the greatest pleasure. But I fear you would be obliged to make up your mind to receive my _Brats_ too. As for my husband, he prefers the _outside of the Mail_ to _the inside of a Post-Chaise_, particularly when partly occupied by Nurse and Children, so that we always travel _independent_ of each other. "So much for this, my dear B. I can only say I should _much_ like to see you at Newstead. The former I hope I shall at all events, as you must not be shabby, but come to Cambridge as you promised. Are you staying at Newstead now for any time? I saw George Byron in Town for one day, and he promised to call or write again, but has not done either, so I begin to think he has gone back to Lisbon. I think it is impossible not to like him; he is so good-natured and natural. We talked much of you; he told me you were grown very thin; as you don't complain, I hope you are not the worse for being so, and I remember you used to wish it. Don't you think _it a great shame_ that George B. is not promoted? I wish there was any possibility of assisting him about it; but all I know who _could_ do any good with you _present_ Ministers, I don't for many reasons like to ask. Perhaps there may be a change bye and bye. "Fred Howard is married to Miss _Lambton_. I saw them in town in their way to Castle Howard. I hope he will be happy with all my heart; his kindness and friendship to us last year, when Col. _Leigh_ was placed in one of the most perplexing situations that I think anybody could be in, is never to be forgotten. I think he used to be a greater favourite with you than some others of his family. _Mrs. F.H._ is very pretty, _very_ young (not quite 17), and appears gentle and pleasing, which is all one can expect [to discover from] a very slight acquaintance. "Now, my dearest Byron, pray let me hear from you. I shall be daily expecting to hear of a _Lady Byron_, since you have confided to me your determination of marrying, in which I really hope you are serious, being convinced such an event would contribute greatly to your happiness, PROVIDED _her Ladyship_ was the sort of person that would suit you; and you won't be angry with me for saying that it is not EVERY _one_ who would; therefore don't be too _precipitate_. You will _wish me hanged_, I fear, for boring you so unmercifully, so God bless you, my dearest Bro.; and, when you have time, do write. Are you going to amuse us with any more _Satires_? Oh, _English Bards!_ I shall make you laugh (when we meet) about it. "Ever your most affectionate Sis. and Friend, "A. L."] [Footnote 2: For John Hanson, see Letters, vol. i. p. 8, note 2. [Footnote 1 of Letter 3]] * * * * * 177.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 3, 1811. MY DEAR HODGSON,--I will have nothing to do with your immortality; [1] we are miserable enough in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon another. If men are to live, why die at all? and if they die, why disturb the sweet and sound sleep that "knows no waking"? "Post Mortem nihil est, ipsaque Mors nihil ... quæris quo jaceas post obitum loco? Quo _non_ Nata jacent." [2] As to revealed religion, Christ came to save men; but a good Pagan will go to heaven, and a bad Nazarene to hell; "Argal" (I argue like the gravedigger) why are not all men Christians? or why are any? If mankind may be saved who never heard or dreamt, at Timbuctoo, Otaheite, Terra Incognita, etc., of Galilee and its Prophet, Christianity is of no avail: if they cannot be saved without, why are not all orthodox? It is a little hard to send a man preaching to Judaea, and leave the rest of the world--Negers and what not--_dark_ as their complexions, without a ray of light for so many years to lead them on high; and who will believe that God will damn men for not knowing what they were never taught? I hope I am sincere; I was so at least on a bed of sickness in a far-distant country, when I had neither friend, nor comforter, nor hope, to sustain me. I looked to death as a relief from pain, without a wish for an after-life, but a confidence that the God who punishes in this existence had left that last asylum for the weary. [Greek: Hon ho theòs agapáei apothnáeskei néos.] [3] I am no Platonist, I am nothing at all; but I would sooner be a Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, than one of the seventy-two villainous sects who are tearing each other to pieces for the love of the Lord and hatred of each other. Talk of Galileeism? Show me the effects--are you better, wiser, kinder by your precepts? I will bring you ten Mussulmans shall shame you in all goodwill towards men, prayer to God, and duty to their neighbours. And is there a Talapoin, [4] or a Bonze, who is not superior to a fox-hunting curate? But I will say no more on this endless theme; let me live, well if possible, and die without pain. The rest is with God, who assuredly, had He _come_ or _sent_, would have made Himself manifest to nations, and intelligible to all. I shall rejoice to see you. My present intention is to accept Scrope Davies's invitation; and then, if you accept mine, we shall meet _here_ and _there_. Did you know poor Matthews? I shall miss him much at Cambridge. [Footnote 1: The religious discussion arose out of the opening stanzas of 'Childe Harold', Canto II., which Hodgson was helping to correct for the press. Byron's opinions were not newly formed, as is shown by the following letter to Ensign Long (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 73, 'note 2' [Footnote 2 of Letter 31]), which reached the Editor too late for insertion in its proper place: Southwell, Ap: 16th, 1807. "Your Epistle, my dear Standard Bearer, augurs not much in favour of your new life, particularly the latter part, where you say your happiest Days are over. I most sincerely hope not. The past has certainly in some parts been pleasant, but I trust will be equalled, if not exceeded by the future. You hope it is not so with me. "To be plain with Regard to myself. Nature stampt me in the Die of Indifference. I consider myself as destined never to be happy, although in some instances fortunate. I am an isolated Being on the Earth, without a Tie to attach me to life, except a few School-fellows, and a 'score of females.' Let me but 'hear my fame on the winds' and the song of the Bards in my Norman house, I ask no more and don't expect so much. Of Religion I know nothing, at least in its 'favour'. We have 'fools' in all sects and Impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one understands, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for Inspiration, and style themselves 'Evangelicals?' However enough on this subject. Your 'piety' will be 'aghast,' and I wish for no proselytes. This much I will venture to affirm, that all the virtues and pious 'Deeds' performed on Earth can never entitle a man to Everlasting happiness in a future State; nor on the other hand can such a Scene as a Seat of eternal punishment exist, it is incompatible with the benign attributes of a Deity to suppose so. "I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but, as you will see, not infected with the mania. I have lived a 'Deist', what I shall die I know not; however, come what may, 'ridens moriar'. "Nothing detains me here but the publication, which will not be complete till June. About 20 of the present pieces will be cut out, and a number of new things added. Amongst them a complete Episode of Nisus and Euryalus from Virgil, some Odes from Anacreon, and several original Odes, the whole will cover 170 pages. My last production has been a poem in imitation of Ossian, which I shall not publish, having enough without it. Many of the present poems are enlarged and altered, in short you will behold an 'Old friend with a new face.' Were I to publish all I have written in Rhyme, I should fill a decent Quarto; however, half is quite enough at present. You shall have 'all' when we meet. "I grow thin daily; since the commencement of my System I have lost 23 lbs. in my weight '(i.e.)' 1 st. and 9 lbs. When I began I weighed 14 st. 6 lbs., and on Tuesday I found myself reduced to 12 st. 11 lb. What sayest thou, Ned? do you not envy? I shall still proceed till I arrive at 12 st. and then stop, at least if I am not too fat, but shall always live temperately and take much exercise. "If there is a possibility we shall meet in June. I shall be in Town, before I proceed to Granta, and if the 'mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the mountain.' I don't mean, by comparing you to the mountain, to insinuate anything on the Subject of your Size. Xerxes, it is said, formed Mount Athos into the Shape of a Woman; had he lived now, and taken a peep at Chatham, he would have spared himself the trouble and made it unnecessary by finding a 'Hill' ready cut to his wishes. "Adieu, dear Mont Blanc, or rather 'Mont Rouge'; don't, for Heaven's sake, turn Volcanic, at least roll the Lava of your indignation in any other Channel, and not consume Your's ever, "BYRON. "_Write Immediately_." Byron lived to modify these opinions, as is shown by the following passages from his 'Detached Thoughts': "If I were to live over again, I do not know what I would change in my life, unless it were 'for--not to have lived at all'. All history and experience, and the rest, teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally balanced in this existence, and that what is most to be desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it give us but years? and those have little of good but their ending. "Of the immortality of the soul it appears to me that there can be little doubt, if we attend for a moment to the action of mind; it is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt of it, but reflection has taught me better. It acts also so very independent of body--in dreams, for instance;--incoherently and 'madly', I grant you, but still it is mind, and much more mind than when we are awake. Now that this should not act 'separately', as well as jointly, who can pronounce? The stoics, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, call the present state 'a soul which drags a carcass,'--a heavy chain, to be sure; but all chains being material may be shaken off. How far our future life will be 'individual', or, rather, how far it will at all resemble our 'present' existence, is another question; but that the mind is eternal seems as probable as that the body is not so. Of course I here venture upon the question without recurring to Revelation, which, however, is at least as rational a solution of it as any other. A 'material' resurrection seems strange, and even absurd, except for purposes of punishment; and all punishment which is to 'revenge' rather than 'correct' must be 'morally wrong'; and 'when the world is at an end', what moral or warning purpose 'can' eternal tortures answer? Human passions have probably disfigured the divine doctrines here;--but the whole thing is inscrutable." "It is useless to tell me 'not' to 'reason', but to 'believe'. You might as well tell a man not to wake, but 'sleep'. And then to 'bully' with torments, and all that! I cannot help thinking that the 'menace' of hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains." "Man is born 'passionate' of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of good in his main-spring of mind. But, God help us all! it is at present a sad jar of atoms."] [Footnote 2: The lines are quoted from Seneca's 'Troades' (act ii. et seqq.): "Post mortem nihil est, ipsaque mors nihil. ........ ........ Quæris, quo jaceas post obitum loco? Quo non nata jacent."] [Footnote 3: The sentiment is found in one of the [Greek: monóstichoi] of Menander ('Menandri et Philemonis reliquiæ,' edidit Augustus Meineke, p. 48). It is thus quoted by Stobæus ('Florilegium', cxx. 8) as an iambic: [Greek: Hon oi theoì philoûsin apothnáeskei néos.] In the 'Comicorum Græcorum Sententiæ, id est' [Greek: gnômai](p. 219, ed, Henricus Stephanus, MDLXIX.) it is quoted as a leonine verse: [Greek: Hon gàr philei theòs apothnáeskei néos.] Plautus gives it thus ('Bacchides', iv. 7): "Quem di diligunt adolescens moritur."] [Footnote 4: The word is said to be illegible, and the conclusion of the letter to be lost ('Memoir of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. p. 196). Only the latter statement is correct. The word is perfectly legible. Talapoin (Yule's 'Glossary of Anglo-Indian Words, sub voce') is the name used by the Portuguese, and after them by the French writers, and by English travellers of the seventeenth century (Hakluyt, ed. 1807, vol. ii. p. 93; and Purchas, ed. 1645, vol. ii. p. 1747), to designate the Buddhist monks of Ceylon and the Indo-Chinese countries. Pallegoix ('Description du Royaume Thai ou Siam', vol. ii. p. 23) says, "Les Européens les ont appelés 'talapoins', probablement du nom de l'éventail qu'ils tiennent à la main, lequel s'appelle 'talapat', qui signifie 'feuille de palmier'." Possibly Byron knew the word through Voltaire ('Dial.' xxii., 'André des Couches à Siam'); "'A. des C.': Combien avez-vous de soldats? 'Croutef.': Quatre-vingt mille, fort médiocrement payés. 'A. des C.': Et de talapoins? 'Cr.': Cent vingt-mille, tous fainéans et trés riches," etc.] * * * * * 178.--To R.C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, September 4th, 1811. My dear Sir,--I am at present anxious, as Cawthorn seems to wish it, to have a small edition of the 'Hints from Horace' [1] published immediately, but the Latin (the most difficult poem in the language) renders it necessary to be very particular not only in correcting the proofs with Horace open, but in adapting the parallel passages of the imitation in such places to the original as may enable the reader not to lose sight of the allusion. I don't know whether I ought to ask you to do this, but I am too far off to do it for myself; and if you condescend to my school-boy erudition, you will oblige me by setting this thing going, though you will smile at the importance I attach to it. Believe me, ever yours, BYRON. [Footnote 1: 'Hints from Horace', written during Byron's second stay at Athens, March 11-14, 1811, and subsequently added to, had been placed in the hands of Cawthorn, the publisher of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', for publication. Byron afterwards changed his mind, and the poem remained unpublished till after his death. The following letter from Cawthorn shows that considerable progress had been made with the printing of the poem, and that Byron also contemplated another edition of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The advice of his friends led him to abandon both plans; but his letter to Cawthorn, printed below, is evidence that in September he was still at work on 'Hints from Horace': "24, Cockspur Street, Aug. 22'd, 1811. "My Lord,--Mr. Green the Amanuensis has finished the Latin of the Horace, and I shall be happy to do with it as your Lordship may direct, either to forward it to Newstead, or keep it in Town. Would it not be better to print a small edition seperate ('sic'), and afterwards print the two satires together? This I leave to your Lordship's consideration. Four Sheets of the 'Travels' are already printed, and one of the plates (Albanian Solain) is executed. I sent it Capt. H[obhouse] yesterday to Cork, to see if it meets his approbation. The work is printed in quarto, for which I may be in some measure indebted to your Lordship, as I urged it so strongly. I shall be extremely sorry if Capt. H. is not pleased with it, but I think he will. Your Lordship's goodness will excuse me for saying how much the very sudden and melancholy events that have lately transpired--I regret--Capt. Hobhouse has written me since the decease of Mr. Mathews. I am told Capt. H. is very much affected at it. I have received some drawings of costumes from him, which I am to deliver to your Lordship. Is it likely we shall see your Lordship in Town soon? "I have the honour to be your Lordship's "Most respectful and greatly obliged Servt., "JAMES CAWTHORN. "If a small edition is printed of 'Horace' for the first" [words erased] "that, and I think in all probability the 'E. Bards' will want reprinting about March next, when both could be done together. Do not think me too sanguine." A few days later, Byron writes to Cawthom as follows: "Newstead Abbey, September 4th, 1811. "More notes for the 'Hints'! You mistake me much by thinking me inattentive to this publication. If I had a friend willing and able to correct the press, it should be out with my good will immediately. Pray attend to annexing additional notes in their proper places, and let them be added immediately. "Yours, etc., "BYRON."] * * * * * 179.--To John Murray. [1] Newstead Abbey, Notts., Sept. 5, 1811. SIR,--The time seems to be past when (as Dr. Johnson said) a man was certain to "hear the truth from his bookseller," for you have paid me so many compliments, that, if I was not the veriest scribbler on earth, I should feel affronted. As I accept your compliments, it is but fair I should give equal or greater credit to your objections, the more so as I believe them to be well founded. With regard to the political and metaphysical parts, I am afraid I can alter nothing; but I have high authority for my Errors in that point, for even the 'Æneid' was a _political_ poem, and written for a _political_ purpose; and as to my unlucky opinions on Subjects of more importance, I am too sincere in them for recantation. On Spanish affairs I have said what I saw, and every day confirms me in that notion of the result formed on the Spot; and I rather think honest John Bull is beginning to come round again to that Sobriety which Massena's retreat [2] had begun to reel from its centre--the usual consequence of _un_usual success. So you perceive I cannot alter the Sentiments; but if there are any alterations in the structure of the versification you would wish to be made, I will tag rhymes and turn stanzas as much as you please. As for the "_Orthodox_," let us hope they will buy, on purpose to abuse--you will forgive the one, if they will do the other. You are aware that any thing from my pen must expect no quarter, on many accounts; and as the present publication is of a nature very different from the former, we must not be sanguine. You have given me no answer to my question--tell me fairly, did you show the MS. to some of your corps? [3] I sent an introductory stanza to Mr. Dallas, that it might be forwarded to you; the poem else will open too abruptly. The Stanzas had better be numbered in Roman characters, there is a disquisition on the literature of the modern Greeks, and some smaller poems to come in at the close. These are now at Newstead, but will be sent in time. If Mr. D. has lost the Stanza and note annexed to it, write, and I will send it myself.--You tell me to add two cantos, but I am about to visit my _Collieries_ in Lancashire on the 15th instant, which is so _unpoetical_ an employment that I need say no more. I am, sir, your most obedient, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: The following is Murray's letter, to which Byron replies: "London, Sept. 4, 1811, Wednesday. "MY LORD,--An absence of some days, passed in the country, has prevented me from writing earlier in answer to your obliging letter. I have now, however, the pleasure of sending under a separate cover, the first proof sheet of your Lordship's 'Poem', which is so good as to be entitled to all your care to render perfect. Besides its general merit, there are parts, which, I am tempted to believe, far excel anything that your Lordship has hitherto published, and it were therefore grievous indeed, if you do not condescend to bestow upon it all the improvement of which your Lordship's mind is so capable; every correction already made is valuable, and this circumstance renders me more confident in soliciting for it your further attention. "There are some expressions, too, concerning Spain and Portugal, which, however just, and particularly so at the time they were conceived, yet as they do not harmonize with the general feeling, would so greatly interfere with the popularity which the poem is, in other respects, so certainly calculated to excite, that, in compassion to your publisher, who does not presume to reason upon the subject, otherwise than as a mere matter of business, I hope your Lordship's goodness will induce you to obviate them, and, with them, perhaps, some religious feelings which may deprive me of some customers amongst the 'Orthodox'. "Could I flatter myself that these suggestions were not obtrusive, I would hazard another, in an earnest solicitation that your Lordship would add the two promised Cantos, and complete the 'Poem'. It were cruel indeed not to perfect a work which contains so much that is excellent; your Fame, my Lord, demands it; you are raising a Monument that will outlive your present feelings, and it should therefore be so constructed as to excite no other associations than those of respect and admiration for your Lordship's Character and Genius. "I trust that you will pardon the warmth of this address when I assure your Lordship that it arises, in the greatest degree, in a sincere regard for your lasting reputation, with, however, some view to that portion of it, which must attend the Publisher of so beautiful a Poem, as your Lordship is capable of rendering "'The Romaunt of Childe Harold'. "I have the honour to be, My Lord, "Your Lordship's "Obedient and faithful servant, "JOHN MURRAY."] [Footnote 2: On the night of March 5, 1811, Massena retreated from his camp at Santarem, whence he had watched Wellington at Torres Vedras, and on April 4 he crossed the Coa into Spain.] [Footnote 3: Murray had shown the MS. to Gifford for advice as to its publication. Byron seems to have resented this on the ground that it might look like an attempt to propitiate the 'Quarterly Review'.] * * * * * 180.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, September 7, 1811. As Gifford has been ever my "Magnus Apollo," any approbation, such as you mention, would, of course, be more welcome than "all Bocara's vaunted gold", than all "the gems of Samarcand." [1] But I am sorry the MS. was shown to him in such a manner, and had written to Murray to say as much, before I was aware that it was too late. Your objection to the expression "central line" I can only meet by saying that, before Childe Harold left England, it was his full intention to traverse Persia, and return by India, which he could not have done without passing the equinoctial. The other errors you mention, I must correct in the progress through the press. I feel honoured by the wish of such men that the poem should be continued, but to do that I must return to Greece and Asia; I must have a warm sun, a blue sky; I cannot describe scenes so dear to me by a sea-coal fire. I had projected an additional canto when I was in the Troad and Constantinople, and if I saw them again, it would go on; but under existing circumstances and 'sensations', I have neither harp, "heart, nor voice" to proceed, I feel that 'you are all right' as to the metaphysical part; but I also feel that I am sincere, and that if I am only to write "ad captandum vulgus," I might as well edit a magazine at once, or spin canzonettas for Vauxhall. [2] My work must make its way as well as it can; I know I have every thing against me, angry poets and prejudices; but if the poem is a 'poem', it will surmount these obstacles, and if 'not', it deserves its fate. Your friend's Ode [3] I have read--it is no great compliment to pronounce it far superior to Smythe's on the same subject, or to the merits of the new Chancellor. It is evidently the production of a man of taste, and a poet, though I should not be willing to say it was fully equal to what might be expected from the author of "'Horae Ionicae'." [4] I thank you for it, and that is more than I would do for any other Ode of the present day. I am very sensible of your good wishes, and, indeed, I have need of them. My whole life has been at variance with propriety, not to say decency; my circumstances are become involved; my friends are dead or estranged, and my existence a dreary void. In Matthews I have lost my "guide, philosopher, and friend;" in Wingfield a friend only, but one whom I could have wished to have preceded in his long journey. Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man; it has not entered into the heart of a stranger to conceive such a man: there was the stamp of immortality in all he said or did;--and now what is he? When we see such men pass away and be no more--men, who seem created to display what the Creator 'could make' his creatures, gathered into corruption, before the maturity of minds that might have been the pride of posterity, what are we to conclude? For my own part, I am bewildered. To me he was much, to Hobhouse every thing. My poor Hobhouse doted on Matthews. For me, I did not love quite so much as I honoured him; I was indeed so sensible of his infinite superiority, that though I did not envy, I stood in awe of it. He, Hobhouse, Davies, and myself, formed a coterie of our own at Cambridge and elsewhere. Davies is a wit and man of the world, and feels as much as such a character can do; but not as Hobhouse has been affected. Davies, who is not a scribbler, has always beaten us all in the war of words, and by his colloquial powers at once delighted and kept us in order. Hobhouse and myself always had the worst of it with the other two; and even Matthews yielded to the dashing vivacity of Scrope Davies. But I am talking to you of men, or boys, as if you cared about such beings. I expect mine agent down on the 14th to proceed to Lancashire, where I hear from all quarters that I have a very valuable property in coals, etc. I then intend to accept an invitation to Cambridge in October, and shall, perhaps, run up to town. I have four invitations--to Wales, Dorset, Cambridge, and Chester; but I must be a man of business. I am quite alone, as these long letters sadly testify. I perceive, by referring to your letter, that the Ode is from the author; make my thanks acceptable to him. His muse is worthy a nobler theme. You will write as usual, I hope. I wish you good evening, and am, etc. [Footnote 1: The lines, which are parodied in Byron's unpublished 'Barmaid', are from Sir W. Jones's translation of a song by Hafiz ('Works, vol. x. p. 251): "Sweet maid, if thou would'st charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck infold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight, Than all Bocara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand."] [Footnote 2: Vauxhall Gardens (1661 to July 25, 1859) were still not only a popular but a fashionable resort, though fireworks and masquerades threatened to expel musicians and vocalists. At this time the principal singers were Charles Dignum (1765-1827); Maria Theresa Bland (1769-1838), a famous ballad-singer; Rosoman Mountain, 'née' Wilkinson (1768-1841), whose husband was a violinist and leader at Vauxhall.--('The London Pleasure Gardens', pp. 286-326.)] [Footnote 3: On June 29, 1811, the Duke of Gloucester was installed as Chancellor of the University of Cambridge. The Installation Ode, written by W. Smyth, of Peterhouse (1765-1849), Professor of Modern History at Cambridge, and author of 'English Lyrics' (1797) and other works, was set to music by Hague, and performed in the Senate House, Braham and Ashe, it is said, particularly distinguishing themselves among the performers. The Ode is given in the 'Annual Register' for 1811, pp. 593-596. The rival Ode, which Byron preferred, was by Walter Rodwell Wright.] [Footnote 4: For Walter Rodwell Wright, author of 'Horæ Ionicæ' (1809), see Letters, vol. i. p. 336, 'note' 1. [Footnote 2 of Letter 167]] * * * * * 181.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Six Mile Bottom, Newmarket.] Newstead Abbey, Sept. 9th, 1811. My Dear Augusta,--My Rochdale affairs are understood to be settled as far as the Law can settle them, and indeed I am told that the most valuable part is that which was never disputed; but I have never reaped any advantage from them, and God knows if I ever shall. Mr. H., my agent, is a good man and able, but the most dilatory in the world. I expect him down on the 14th to accompany me to Rochdale, where something will be decided as to selling or working the Collieries. I am Lord of the Manor (a most extensive one), and they want to enclose, which cannot be done without me; but I go there in the worst humour possible and am afraid I shall do or say something not very conciliatory. In short all my affairs are going on as badly as possible, and I have no hopes or plans to better them as I long ago pledged myself never to sell Newstead, which I mean to hold in defiance of the Devil and Man. I am quite alone and never see strangers without being sick, but I am nevertheless on good terms with my neighbours, for I neither ride or shoot or move over my Garden walls, but I fence and box and swim and run a good deal to keep me in exercise and get me to sleep. Poor Murray is ill again, and one of my Greek servants is ill too, and my valet has got a pestilent cough, so that we are in a peck of troubles; my family Surgeon sent an Emetic this morning for _one_ of them, I did not very well know _which_, but I swore _Somebody_ should take it, so after a deal of discussion the Greek swallowed it with tears in his eyes, and by the blessing of it, and the _Virgin_ whom he invoked to assist _it_ and _him_, I suppose he'll be well tomorrow, if not, _another_ shall have the _next_. So your Spouse likes children, _that_ is lucky as he will have to bring them up; for my part (since I lost my Newfoundland dog,) I like nobody except his successor a Dutch Mastiff and three land Tortoises brought with me from Greece. I thank you for your letters and am always glad to hear from you, but if you won't come here before Xmas, I very much fear we shall not meet _here_ at all, for I shall be off somewhere or other very soon out of this land of Paper credit (or rather no credit at all, for every body seems on the high road to Bankruptcy), and if I quit it again I shall not be back in a hurry. However, I shall endeavour to see you somewhere, and make my bow with decorum before I return to the Ottomans, I believe I shall turn Mussulman in the end. You ask after my health; I am in tolerable leanness, which I promote by exercise and abstinence. I don't know that I have acquired any thing by my travels but a smattering of two languages and a habit of chewing Tobacco. [1] Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: To appease the pangs of hunger, and keep down his fat, Byron was in the habit of chewing gum-mastic and tobacco. For the same reason, at a later date, he took opium. The mistake which he makes in his letter to Hodgson (December 8,1811), "I do nothing but eschew tobacco," is repeated in 'Don Juan' (Canto XII. stanza xiiii.)-- "In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve, As that abominable tittle-tattle, Which is the cud eschewed by human cattle."] * * * * * 182.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 9, 1811. Dear Hodgson,--I have been a good deal in your company lately, for I have been reading 'Juvenal' and 'Lady Jane', [1] etc., for the first time since my return. The Tenth Sat'e has always been my favourite, as I suppose indeed of everybody's. It is the finest recipe for making one miserable with his life, and content to walk out of it, in any language. I should think it might be redde with great effect to a man dying without much pain, in preference to all the stuff that ever was said or sung in churches. But you are a deacon, and I say no more. Ah! you will marry and become lethargic, like poor Hal of Harrow, [2] who yawns at 10 o' nights, and orders caudle annually. I wrote an answer to yours fully some days ago, and, being quite alone and able to frank, you must excuse this subsequent epistle, which will cost nothing but the trouble of deciphering. I am expectant of agents to accompany me to Rochdale, a journey not to be anticipated with pleasure; though I feel very restless where I am, and shall probably ship off for Greece again; what nonsense it is to talk of Soul, when a cloud makes it _melancholy_ and wine makes it _mad_. Collet of Staines, your "most kind host," has lost that girl you saw of his. She grew to five feet eleven, and might have been God knows how high if it had pleased Him to renew the race of Anak; but she fell by a ptisick, a fresh proof of the folly of begetting children. You knew Matthews. Was he not an intellectual giant? I knew few better or more intimately, and none who deserved more admiration in point of ability. Scrope Davies has been here on his way to Harrowgate; I am his guest in October at King's, where we will "drink deep ere we depart." "Won't you, won't you, won't you, won't you come, Mr. Mug?" [3] We did not amalgamate properly at Harrow; it was somehow rainy, and then a wife makes such a damp; but in a seat of celibacy I will have revenge. Don't you hate helping first, and losing the wings of chicken? And then, conversation is always flabby. Oh! in the East women are in their proper sphere, and one has--no conversation at all. My house here is a delightful matrimonial mansion. When I wed, my spouse and I will be so happy!--one in each wing. I presume you are in motion from your Herefordshire station, [4] and Drury must be gone back to Gerund Grinding. I have not been at Cambridge since I took my M.A. degree in 1808. _Eheu fugaces!_ I look forward to meeting you and Scrope there with the feelings of other times. Capt. Hobhouse is at Enniscorthy in Juverna. I wish he was in England. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 195, 'note' I. [Footnote 1 of Letter 102]] [Footnote 2: For Henry Drury, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 41, 'note' 2. [Footnote 1 of Letter 14]] [Footnote 3: Byron may possibly allude to "Matthew Mug," a character in Foote's 'Mayor of Garratt', said to be intended for the Duke of Newcastle. In act ii. sc. 2 of the comedy occurs this passage-- "'Heel-Tap'. Now, neighbours, have a good caution that this Master Mug does not cajole you; he is a damn'd palavering fellow." But there is no passage in the play which exactly corresponds with Byron's quotation.] [Footnote 4: Hodgson was staying with his uncle, the Rev. Richard Coke, of Lower Moor, Herefordshire.] * * * * * 183.--To R.C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 10, 1811. Dear Sir,--I rather think in one of the opening stanzas of 'Childe Harold' there is this line: 'Tis said at times the sullen tear would start. Now, a line or two after, I have a repetition of the epithet "_sullen_ reverie;" so (if it be so) let us have "speechless reverie," or "silent reverie;" but, at all events, do away the recurrence. Yours ever, B. * * * * * 184.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, September 13, 1811. My Dear Hodgson,--I thank you for your song, or, rather, your two songs,--your new song on love, and your _old song_ on _religion_. [1] I admire the _first_ sincerely, and in turn call upon you to _admire_ the following on Anacreon Moore's new operatic farce, [2] or farcical opera--call it which you will: Good plays are scarce, So Moore writes _Farce_; Is Fame like his so brittle? We knew before That "_Little's" Moore_, But now _'tis Moore_ that's _Little_. I won't dispute with you on the Arcana of your new calling; they are Bagatelles like the King of Poland's rosary. One remark, and I have done; the basis of your religion is _injustice_; the _Son_ of _God_, the _pure_, the _immaculate_, the _innocent_, is sacrificed for the _Guilty_. This proves _His_ heroism; but no more does away _man's_ guilt than a schoolboy's volunteering to be flogged for another would exculpate the dunce from negligence, or preserve him from the Rod. You degrade the Creator, in the first place, by making Him a begetter of children; and in the next you convert Him into a Tyrant over an immaculate and injured Being, who is sent into existence to suffer death for the benefit of some millions of Scoundrels, who, after all, seem as likely to be damned as ever. As to miracles, I agree with Hume that it is more probable men should _lie_ or be _deceived_, than that things out of the course of Nature should so happen. Mahomet wrought miracles, Brothers [3] the prophet had _proselytes_, and so would Breslaw [4] the conjuror, had he lived in the time of Tiberius. Besides I trust that God is not a _Jew_, but the God of all Mankind; and as you allow that a virtuous Gentile may be saved, you do away the necessity of being a Jew or a Christian. I do not believe in any revealed religion, because no religion is revealed: and if it pleases the Church to damn me for not allowing a _nonentity_, I throw myself on the mercy of the "_Great First Cause, least understood_," who must do what is most proper; though I conceive He never made anything to be tortured in another life, whatever it may in this. I will neither read _pro_ nor _con_. God would have made His will known without books, considering how very few could read them when Jesus of Nazareth lived, had it been His pleasure to ratify any peculiar mode of worship. As to your immortality, if people are to live, why die? And our carcases, which are to rise again, are they worth raising? I hope, if mine is, that I shall have a better _pair of legs_ than I have moved on these two-and-twenty years, or I shall be sadly behind in the squeeze into Paradise. Did you ever read "Malthus on Population"? If he be right, war and pestilence are our best friends, to save us from being eaten alive, in this "best of all possible Worlds." [5] I will write, read, and think no more; indeed, I do not wish to shock your prejudices by saying all I do think. Let us make the most of life, and leave dreams to Emanuel Swedenborg. Now to dreams of another genus--Poesies. I like your song much; but I will say no more, for fear you should think I wanted to scratch you into approbation of my past, present, or future acrostics. I shall not be at Cambridge before the middle of October; but, when I go, I should certes like to see you there before you are dubbed a deacon. Write to me, and I will rejoin. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: The lines in which Hodgson answered Byron's letter on his religious opinions are quoted in the 'Memoir of the Rev. F. Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 199, 200.] [Footnote 2: Moore's 'M.P., or The Bluestocking', was played at the Lyceum, September 9, 1811, but was soon withdrawn.] [Footnote 3: Richard Brothers (1757-1824) believed that, in 1795, he was to be revealed as Prince of the Hebrews and ruler of the world. In that year he was arrested, and confined first as a criminal lunatic, afterwards in a private asylum, where he remained till 1806. A portrait of "Richard Brothers, Prince of the Hebrews," was engraved, April, 1795, by William Sharp, with the following inscription: "Fully believing this to be the Man whom God has appointed, I engrave this likeness. William Sharp."] [Footnote 4: See 'Breslaw's Last Legacy; or, the Magical Companion'. Including the various exhibitions of those wonderful Artists, Breslaw, Sieur Comus, Jonas, etc. (1784).] [Footnote 5: 'Candide, ou l'Optimisms' (chapitre xxx.): "et Pangloss disait quelquefois à Candide; Tous les événements sont enchainés dans le meilleur des mondes possibles," etc. Hodgson replies (September 18, 1811): "Your last letter has unfeignedly grieved me. Believing, as I do from my heart, that you would be better and happier by thoroughly examining the evidences for Christianity, how can I hear you say you will not read any book on the subject, without being pained? But God bless you under all circumstances. I will say no more. Only do not talk of 'shocking my prejudices,' or of 'rushing to see me 'before' I am a Deacon.' I wish to see you at all times; and as to our different opinions, we can easily keep them to ourselves." The next day he writes again: "Let me make one other effort. You mentioned an opinion of Hume's about miracles. For God's sake,--hear me, Byron, for God's sake--examine Paley's answer to that opinion; examine the whole of Paley's 'Evidences'. The two volumes may be read carefully in less than a week. Let me for the last time by our friendship, implore you to read them."] * * * * * 185.--To John Murray. [1] Newstead Abbey, Notts., Sept. 14, 1811. Sir,--Since your former letter, Mr. Dallas informs me that the MS. has been submitted to the perusal of Mr. Gifford, most contrary to my wishes, as Mr. D. could have explained, and as my own letter to you did, in fact, explain, with my motives for objecting to such a proceeding. Some late domestic events, of which you are probably aware, prevented my letter from being sent before; indeed, I hardly conceived you would have so hastily thrust my productions into the hands of a Stranger, who could be as little pleased by receiving them, as their author is at their being offered, in such a manner, and to such a Man. My address, when I leave Newstead, will be to "Rochdale, Lancashire;" but I have not yet fixed the day of departure, and I will apprise you when ready to set off. You have placed me in a very ridiculous situation, but it is past, and nothing more is to be said on the subject. You hinted to me that you wished some alterations to be made; if they have nothing to do with politics or religion, I will make them with great readiness. I am, Sir, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: As soon as Byron came to town, he was a frequent visitor at 32, Fleet Street, while the sheets of 'Childe Harold' were passing through the press. "Fresh from the fencing rooms of Angelo and Jackson, he used to amuse himself by renewing his practice of 'Carte et Tierce', with his walking-cane directed against the bookshelves, while Murray was reading passages from the poem with occasional ejaculations of admiration, on which Byron would say, 'You think that a good idea, do you, Murray?' Then he would fence and lunge with his walking-stick at some special book which he had picked out on the shelves before him. As Murray afterwards said, 'I was often very glad to get rid of him!'" (Smiles's 'Memoir of John Murray', vol. i. p. 207).] * * * * * 186.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 1811. My dear Sir,--My agent will not he here for at least a week, and even afterwards my letters will be forwarded to Rochdale. I am sorry that Murray should _groan_ on my account, tho' _that_ is better than the anticipation of applause, of which men and books are generally disappointed. The notes I sent are _merely matter_ to be divided, arranged, and published for _notes_ hereafter, in proper places; at present I am too much occupied with earthly cares to waste time or trouble upon rhyme, or its modern indispensables, annotations. Pray let me hear from you, when at leisure. I have written to abuse Murray for showing the MS. to Mr. G., who must certainly think it was done by my wish, though you know the contrary.--Believe me, Yours ever, B-- * * * * * 187.--To John Murray. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. DEAR SIR,--I return the proof, which I should wish to be shown to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical arrangements much better than I can pretend to do. The printer may place the notes in his _own way_, or any _way_, so that they are out of _my way_; I care nothing about types or margins. If you have any communication to make, I shall be here at least a week or ten days longer. I am, Sir, etc., etc., BYRON. * * * * * 188--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. DEAR SIR,--I send you a 'motto': "L'univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n'a lu que la première page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vécu, m'ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tiré d'autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n'en regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues." "Le Cosmopolite." [1] If not too long, I think it will suit the book. The passage is from a little French volume, a great favourite with me, which I picked up in the Archipelago. I don't think it is well known in England; Monbron is the author; but it is a work sixty years old. Good morning! I won't take up your time. Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Fougeret de Monbron, born at Péronne, served in the 'Gardes du Corps', but abandoned the sword for the pen, and published 'Henriade Travestie' (1745); 'Préservatif Centre l'Anglomanie' (1787); and 'Le Cosmopolite' (1750). His novels, 'Margot la Ravaudeuse, Thérlsé Philosophe', and others, appeared under the name of Fougeret. He died in 1761. In that year was published in London an edition of 'Le Cosmopolite, ou le Citoyen du Monde', par Mr. de Monbron, with the motto, "Patria est ubicunque est bene" (Cic. 5, Tusc. 37). Byron's quotation is the opening paragraph of the book. The author, who had travelled in England, returns to France a complete "Jacques Rôt-de-Bif." He then visits Holland, the Low Countries, Constantinople, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and England a second time. He finds that the charm has vanished, and that the English are no better than their neighbours. It is a cynical little book, abounding in such sayings as. "Make acquaintances, not friends; intimacy breeds disgust;" "The best fruit of travelling is the justification of instinctive dislikes." Monbron, like Byron, ridicules the traveller's passion for collecting broken statues and antiques.] * * * * * 189.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. I can easily excuse your not writing, as you have, I hope, something better to do, and you must pardon my frequent invasions on your attention, because I have at this moment nothing to interpose between you and my epistles. I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, with the exception of bodily exercise to some extent, with uniform indolence, and idle insipidity. I have been expecting, and still expect, my agent, when I shall have enough to occupy my reflections in business of no very pleasant aspect. Before my journey to Rochdale, you shall have due notice where to address me--I believe at the post-office of that township. From Murray I received a second proof of the same pages, which I requested him to show you, that any thing which may have escaped my observation may be detected before the printer lays the corner-stone of an _errata_ column. I am now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance and school-fellow [1] with me, so _old_, indeed, that we have nothing _new_ to say on any subject, and yawn at each other in a sort of _quiet inquietude_. I hear nothing from Cawthorn, or Captain Hobhouse; and _their quarto_--Lord have mercy on mankind! We come on like Cerberus with our triple publications. [2] As for _myself_, by _myself_, I must be satisfied with a comparison to _Janus_. I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing the MS.; and I am certain Gifford must see it in the same light that I do. His praise is nothing to the purpose: what could he say? He could not spit in the face of one who had praised him in every possible way. I must own that I wish to have the impression removed from his mind, that I had any concern in such a paltry transaction. The more I think, the more it disquiets me; so I will say no more about it. It is bad enough to be a scribbler, without having recourse to such shifts to extort praise, or deprecate censure. It is anticipating, it is begging, kneeling, adulating,--the devil! the devil! the devil! and all without my wish, and contrary to my express desire. I wish Murray had been tied to _Payne's_ neck when he jumped into the Paddington Canal, [3] and so tell him,--_that_ is the proper receptacle for publishers. You have thought of settling in the country, why not try Notts.? I think there are places which would suit you in all points, and then you are nearer the metropolis. But of this anon. I am, yours, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: John Claridge. (See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 267, 'note' 2.) [Footnote 4 of Letter 136]] [Footnote 2: i. e. 'Childe Harold', 'Hints from Horace', and 'Travels in Albania.'] [Footnote 3: Mr. Payne, of the firm of Payne and Mackinlay, the publishers of Hodgson's 'Juvenal', committed suicide by drowning himself in the Paddington Canal. Byron, in a note to 'Hints from Horace', line 657, thus applies the incident: "A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, was alarmed by the cry of 'one in jeopardy:' he rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), procured three rakes, one eel spear and a landing-net, and at last ('horresco referens') pulled out--his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last work. Its 'alacrity of sinking' was so great, that it has never since been heard of; though some maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry-premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of ''Felo de Bibliopolâ'' against a quarto unknown,' and circumstantial evidence being since strong against the 'Curse of Kehama' (of which the above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers next session, in Grub Street--Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodiad, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bell-man of St. Sepulchre's." * * * * * 190.--To R.C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. Dear Sir,--I have just discovered some pages of observations on the modern Greeks, written at Athens by me, under the title of 'Noctes Atticæ'. They will do to _cut up_ into notes, and to be _cut up_ afterwards, which is all that notes are generally good for. They were written at Athens, as you will see by the date. Yours ever, B. * * * * * 191.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept, 21, 1811. I have shown my respect for your suggestions by adopting them; but I have made many alterations in the first proof, over and above; as, for example: Oh Thou, in _Hellas_ deem'd of heavenly birth, etc., etc. Since _shamed full oft_ by _later lyres_ on earth, Mine, etc. Yet there _I've wandered_ by the vaunted rill; and so on. So I have got rid of Dr. Lowth and "drunk" to boot, and very glad I am to say so. I have also sullenised the line as heretofore, and in short have been quite conformable. Pray write; you shall hear when I remove to Lancashire. I have brought you and my friend Juvenal Hodgson upon my back, on the score of revelation. You are fervent, but he is quite _glowing_; and if he take half the pains to save his own soul, which he volunteers to redeem mine, great will be his reward hereafter. I honour and thank you both, but am convinced by neither. Now for notes. Besides those I have sent, I shall send the observations on the Edinburgh Reviewer's remarks on the modern Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian (_not Greek_) language, specimens of modern Greek from their New Testament, a comedy of Goldoni's translated, _one scene_, a prospectus of a friend's book, and perhaps a song or two, _all_ in Romaic, besides their Pater Noster; so there will be enough, if not too much, with what I have already sent. Have you received the "Noctes Atticæ"? I sent also an annotation on Portugal. Hobhouse is also forthcoming. [1] [Footnote 1: That is, with his 'Travels in Albania', in part of which Byron and his Greek servant, Demetrius, were assisting him with notes and other material.] * * * * * 192.--TO R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811. _Lisboa_ [1] is the Portuguese word, consequently the very best. Ulissipont is pedantic; and as I have _Hellas_ and _Eros_ not long before, there would be something like an affectation of Greek terms, which I wish to avoid, since I shall have a perilous quantity of _modern_ Greek in my notes, as specimens of the tongue; therefore Lisboa may keep its place. You are right about the _Hints_; they must not precede the _Romaunt_; but Cawthorn will be savage if they don't; however, keep _them_ back, and _him_ in _good humour_, if we can, but do not let him publish. I have adopted, I believe, most of your suggestions, but "Lisboa" will be an exception to prove the rule. I have sent a quantity of notes, and shall continue; but pray let them be copied; no devil can read my hand. By the by, I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse of the "Good Night." [2] I have no reason to suppose my dog better than his brother brutes, mankind; and _Argus_ we know to be a fable. The _Cosmopolite_ was an acquisition abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in England. It is an amusing little volume, and full of French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak the language. I _will_ be angry with Murray. It was a bookselling, back-shop, Paternoster-row, paltry proceeding; and if the experiment had turned out as it deserved, I would have raised all Fleet Street, and borrowed the giant's staff from St. Dunstan's church, [3] to immolate the betrayer of trust. I have written to him as he never was written to before by an author, I'll be sworn, and I hope you will amplify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You tell me always you have much to write about. Write it, but let us drop metaphysics;--on that point we shall never agree. I am dull and drowsy, as usual. I do nothing, and even that nothing fatigues me. Adieu. [Footnote 1: See 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanza xvi., and Byron's 'note'.] [Footnote 2: See 'Childe Harold', Canto I. The "Good Night" is placed between stanzas xiii. and xiv. "And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands."] [Footnote 3: St. Dunstan's in the West, before its rebuilding by Shaw (1831-33), was one of the oldest churches in London. The clock, which projected over the street, and had two wooden figures of wild men who struck the hours with their clubs, was set up in 1671. Unless there was a similar clock before this date, as is not improbable, Scott is wrong in 'The Fortunes of Nigel', where he makes Moniplies stand "astonished as old Adam and Eve ply their ding-dong." The figures, the removal of which, it is said, brought tears to the eyes of Charles Lamb, were bought by the Marquis of Hertford to adorn his villa in Regent's Park, still called St. Dunstan's. Murray's shop at 32, Fleet Street, stood opposite the church, the yard of which was surrounded with stationers' shops, where many famous books of the seventeenth century were published.] * * * * * 193.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 25, 1811. MY DEAR HODGSON,--I fear that before the latest of October or the first of November, I shall hardly be able to make Cambridge. My everlasting agent puts off his coming like the accomplishment of a prophecy. However, finding me growing serious he hath promised to be here on Thursday, and about Monday we shall remove to Rochdale. I have only to give discharges to the tenantry here (it seems the poor creatures must be raised, though I wish it was not necessary), and arrange the receipt of sums, and the liquidation of some debts, and I shall be ready to enter upon new subjects of vexation. I intend to visit you in Granta, and hope to prevail on you to accompany me here or there or anywhere. I am plucking up my spirits, and have begun to gather my little sensual comforts together. Lucy is extracted from Warwickshire; some very bad faces have been warned off the premises, and more promising substituted in their stead; the partridges are plentiful, hares fairish, pheasants not quite so good, and the Girls on the Manor * * * * Just as I had formed a tolerable establishment my travels commenced, and on my return I find all to do over again; my former flock were all scattered; some married, not before it was needful. As I am a great disciplinarian, I have just issued an edict for the abolition of caps; no hair to be cut on any pretext; stays permitted, but not too low before; full uniform always in the evening; Lucinda to be commander--'vice' the present, about to be wedded ('mem'. she is 35 with a flat face and a squeaking voice), of all the makers and unmakers of beds in the household. My tortoises (all Athenians), my hedgehog, my mastiff and the other live Greek, are all purely. The tortoises lay eggs, and I have hired a hen to hatch them. I am writing notes for 'my' quarto (Murray would have it a 'quarto'), and Hobhouse is writing text for 'his' quarto; if you call on Murray or Cawthorn you will hear news of either. I have attacked De Pauw, [1] Thornton, [1] Lord Elgin, [2] Spain, Portugal, the 'Edinburgh Review', [3] travellers, Painters, Antiquarians, and others, so you see what a dish of Sour Crout Controversy I shall prepare for myself. It would not answer for me to give way, now; as I was forced into bitterness at the beginning, I will go through to the last. 'Væ Victis'! If I fall, I shall fall gloriously, fighting against a host. 'Felicissima Notte a Voss. Signoria,' B. [Footnote 1: 'Childe Harold', Canto II. note D, part ii.] [Footnote 2: 'Ibid'., note A.] [Footnote 3: 'Ibid'., note D, part iii.] * * * * * 194.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 1811. MY DEAR SIR,-In a stanza towards the end of canto 1st, there is in the concluding line, Some bitter bubbles up, and e'en on roses stings. I have altered it as follows: Full from the heart of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. If you will point out the stanzas on Cintra [1] which you wish recast, I will send you mine answer. Be good enough to address your letters here, and they will either be forwarded or saved till my return. My agent comes tomorrow, and we shall set out immediately. The press must not proceed of course without my seeing the proofs, as I have much to do. Pray, do you think any alterations should be made in the stanzas on Vathek? [2] I should be sorry to make any improper allusion, as I merely wish to adduce an example of wasted wealth, and the reflection which arose in surveying the most desolate mansion in the most beautiful spot I ever beheld. Pray keep Cawthorn back; he was not to begin till November, and even that will be two months too soon. I am so sorry my hand is unintelligible; but I can neither deny your accusation, nor remove the cause of it.--It is a sad scrawl, certes.--A perilous quantity of annotation hath been sent; I think almost _enough_, with the specimens of Romaic I mean to annex. I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics, and allegories of rocks and beaches; we shall all go to the bottom together, so "let us eat and drink, for tomorrow, etc." I am as comfortable in my creed as others, inasmuch as it is better to sleep than to be awake. I have heard nothing of Murray; I hope he is ashamed of himself. He sent me a vastly complimentary epistle, with a request to alter the two, and finish another canto. I sent him as civil an answer as if I had been engaged to translate by the sheet, declining altering anything in sentiment, but offered to tag rhymes, and mend them as long as he liked. I will write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my affairs allow me; but I shall be so busy and savage all the time with the whole set, that my letters will, perhaps, be as pettish as myself. If so, lay the blame on coal and coal-heavers. Very probably I may proceed to town by way of Newstead on my return from Lancs. I mean to be at Cambridge in November, so that, at all events, we shall be nearer. I will not apologise for the trouble I have given and do give you, though I ought to do so; but I have worn out my politest periods, and can only say that I am much obliged to you. Believe me, yours always, BYRON. [Footnote 1: 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanza xviii.] [Footnote 2: 'i.e.' on Bedford (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 228, 'note' 1 [Footnote 2 of Letter 125]; and 'Childe Harold', Canto I, stanza xxii.).] * * * * * 195.-To James Wedderburn Webster. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 10th, 1811. DEAR WEBSTER,--I can hardly invite a gentleman to my house a second time who walked out of it the first in so singular a mood, but if you had thought proper to pay me a visit, you would have had a "Highland Welcome." I am only just returned to it out of Lancashire, where I have been on business to a Coal manor of mine near Rochdale, and shall leave it very shortly for Cambridge and London. My companions, or rather companion, (for Claridge alone has been with me) have not been very amusing, and, as to their "_Sincerity_," they are doubtless sincere enough for a man who will never put them to the trial. Besides you talked so much of your conjugal happiness, that an invitation from home would have seemed like Sacrilege, and my rough Bachelor's Hall would have appeared to little advantage after the "Bower of Armida" [1] where you have been reposing. I cannot boast of my social powers at any time, and just at present they are more stagnant than ever. Your Brother-in-law [2] means to stand for Wexford, but I have reasons for thinking the Portsmouth interest will be against him; however I wish him success. Do _you_ mean to stand for any place next election? What are your politics? I hope Valentia's Lord is for the Catholics. You will find Hobhouse at Enniscorthy in the contested County. Pray what has seized you? your last letter is the only one in which you do not rave upon matrimony. Are there no symptoms of a young W.W.? and shall I never be a Godfather? I believe I must be married myself soon, but it shall be a secret and a Surprise. However, knowing your exceeding discretion I shall probably entrust the secret to your silence at a proper period. You have, it is true, invited me repeatedly to Dean's Court [3] and now, when it is probable I might adventure there, you wish to be off. Be it so. If you address your letters to this place they will be forwarded wherever I sojourn. I am about to meet some friends at Cambridge and on to town in November. The papers are full of Dalrymple's Bigamy [4] (I know the man). What the Devil will he do with his _Spare-rib_? He is no beauty, but as lame as myself. He has more ladies than legs, what comfort to a cripple! _Sto sempre umilissimo servitore_. BYRON. [Footnote 1: Armida is the Sorceress, the niece of Prince Idreotes, in Tasso's 'Jerusalem Delivered', in whose palace Rinaldo forgets his vow as a crusader. Byron, in 'Don Juan' (Canto I. stanza lxxi.), says: "But ne'er magician's wand Wrought change, with all Armida's fairy art, Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart." In the Catalogue of Byron's books, sold April 5, 1816, appear four editions of Tasso's 'Gerusalemme Liberata', being those of 1776, 1785, 1813, and one undated.] [Footnote 2: For George Annesley, Lord Valentia, afterwards Earl of Mountnorris (1769-1844), see 'Poems', ed. 1898, vol. i. p. 378, and 'note 5'.] [Footnote 3: Near Wimborne, Dorset.] [Footnote 4: The suit of 'Dalrymple' v. 'Dalrymple' was tried before Sir William Scott, in the Consistory Court, Doctors' Commons, July 16, 1811. The suit was brought by Mrs. Dalrymple ('née' Joanna Gordon) against Captain John William Henry Dalrymple. By Scottish law he was held to have been married to Miss Gordon, and his subsequent marriage with Miss Manners, sister of the Duchess of St. Albans, was held to be illegal.] * * * * * 196.--To R.C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, October 10th, 1811. DEAR SIR,--Stanzas 24, 26, 29, [1] though _crossed_ must _stand_, with their _alterations_. The other three [2] are cut out to meet your wishes. We must, however, have a repetition of the proof, which is the first. I will write soon. Yours ever, B. P.S.--Yesterday I returned from Lancs. [Footnote 1: The stanzas are xxiv., xxv., xxvi. of Canto I.] [Footnote 2: The following are the three deleted stanzas: XXV. "In golden characters, right well designed, First on the list appeareth one 'Junot;' Then certain other glorious names we find; (Which rhyme compelleth me to place below--) Dull victors! baffled by a vanquished foe, Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, Stand, worthy of each other, in a row Sirs Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of 'tother tew." XXVII. "But when Convention sent his handy work, Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar; Mayor, Alderman, laid down th' uplifted fork; The bench of Bishops half forgot to snore; Stern Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore To question aught, once more with transport leapt, And bit his dev'lish quill agen, and swore With foe such treaty never should be kept. Then burst the blatant beast, and roared and raged and--slept!!!" XXVIII. "Thus unto heaven appealed the people; heaven, Which loves the lieges of our gracious King, Decreed that ere our generals were forgiven, Inquiry should be held about the thing. But mercy cloaked the babes beneath her wing; And as they spared our foes so spared we them. (Where was the pity of our sires for Byng?) Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn. Then live ye, triumph gallants! and bless your judges' phlegm."] * * * * * 197.--To R.C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. I have returned from Lancashire, and ascertained that my property there may be made very valuable, but various circumstances very much circumscribe my exertions at present. I shall be in town on business in the beginning of November, and perhaps at Cambridge before the end of this month; but of my movements you shall be regularly apprised. Your objections I have in part done away by alterations, which I hope will suffice; and I have sent two or three additional stanzas for both _"Fyttes."_ I have been again shocked with a _death_, and have lost one very dear to me in happier times [1]; but "I have almost forgot the taste of grief," and "supped full of horrors" [2] till I have become callous, nor have I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would have bowed down my head to the earth. It seems as though I were to experience in my youth the greatest misery of age. My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely tree before I am withered. Other men can always take refuge in their families; I have no resource but my own reflections, and they present no prospect here or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. I am indeed very wretched, and you will excuse my saying so, as you know I am not apt to cant of sensibility. Instead of tiring yourself with _my_ concerns, I should be glad to hear _your_ plans of retirement. I suppose you would not like to be wholly shut out of society? Now I know a large village, or small town, about twelve miles off, where your family would have the advantage of very genteel society, without the hazard of being annoyed by mercantile affluence; where _you_ would meet with men of information and independence; and where I have friends to whom I should be proud to introduce you. There are, besides, a coffee-room, assemblies, etc., etc., which bring people together. My mother had a house there some years, and I am well acquainted with the economy of Southwell, the name of this little commonwealth. Lastly, you will not be very remote from me; and though I am the very worst companion for young people in the world, this objection would not apply to _you_, whom I could see frequently. Your expenses, too, would be such as best suit your inclinations, more or less, as you thought proper; but very little would be requisite to enable you to enter into all the gaieties of a country life. You could be as quiet or bustling as you liked, and certainly as well situated as on the lakes of Cumberland, unless you have a particular wish to be _picturesque_. Pray, is your Ionian friend in town? You have promised me an introduction. You mention having consulted some friend on the MSS. Is not this contrary to our usual way? Instruct Mr. Murray not to allow his shopman to call the work _Child of Harrow's Pilgrimage_!!!!! [3] as he has done to some of my astonished friends, who wrote to inquire after my _sanity_ on the occasion, as well they might. I have heard nothing of Murray, whom I scolded heartily. Must I write more notes? Are there not enough? Cawthorn must be kept back with the _Hints_. I hope he is getting on with Hobhouse's quarto. Good evening. Yours ever, etc. [Footnote 1: The reference is to Edleston (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 130, note 3 [Footnote 2 of Letter 74]), of whose death Miss Edleston had recently sent Byron an account.] [Footnote 2: "I have almost forgot the taste of fears: ... I have supp'd full with horrors." 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 5.] [Footnote 3: Francis Hodgson, writing to Byron, October 8, 1811, says, "Murray's shopman, taught, I presume, by himself, calls 'Psyche' 'Pishy,' 'The Four Slaves of Cythera' 'The Four do. of Cythera,' and 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' 'Child of Harrow's Pilgrimage.' This misnomering Vendor of Books must have been misbegotten in some portentous union of the Malaprops and the Slipslops."] * * * * * 198.--To Francis Hodgson. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13, 1811. You will begin to deem me a most liberal correspondent; but as my letters are free, you will overlook their frequency. I have sent you answers in prose and verse to all your late communications; and though I am invading your ease again, I don't know why, or what to put down that you are not acquainted with already. I am growing _nervous_ (how you will laugh!)--but it is true,--really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically _nervous_. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless; I have very seldom any society, and when I have, I run out of it. At "this present writing," there are in the next room three _ladies_, and I have stolen away to write this grumbling letter.--I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity, for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely; but this looks more like silliness than madness, as Scrope Davies would facetiously remark in his consoling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your company; and a session of Parliament would suit me well,--any thing to cure me of conjugating the accursed verb "_ennuyer_." When shall you be at Cambridge? You have hinted, I think, that your friend Bland [1] is returned from Holland. I have always had a great respect for his talents, and for all that I have heard of his character; but of me, I believe he knows nothing, except that he heard my sixth form repetitions ten months together at the average of two lines a morning, and those never perfect. I remembered him and his _Slaves_ as I passed between Capes Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of Ceriga, and I always bewailed the absence of the _Anthology_. I suppose he will now translate Vondel, the Dutch Shakspeare, and _Gysbert van Amsteli_ [2] will easily be accommodated to our stage in its present state; and I presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the love of Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the passion of Christ; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, and other varieties of Low Country literature. No doubt you will think me crazed to talk of such things, but they are all in black and white and good repute on the banks of every canal from Amsterdam to Alkmaar. Yours ever, B. My poesy is in the hands of its various publishers; but the _Hints from Horace_ (to which I have subjoined some savage lines on Methodism, [3] and ferocious notes on the vanity of the triple Editory of the _Edin. Annual Register_ [4]), my _Hints_, I say, stand still, and why?--I have not a friend in the world (but you and Drury) who can construe Horace's Latin or my English well enough to adjust them for the press, or to correct the proofs in a grammatical way. So that, unless you have bowels when you return to town (I am too far off to do it for myself), this ineffable work will be lost to the world for--I don't know how many _weeks_. _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ must wait till _Murray's_ is finished. He is making a tour in Middlesex, and is to return soon, when high matter may be expected. He wants to have it in quarto, which is a cursed unsaleable size; but it is pestilent long, and one must obey one's bookseller. I trust Murray will pass the Paddington Canal without being seduced by Payne and Mackinlay's example,--I say Payne and Mackinlay, supposing that the partnership held good. Drury, the villain, has not written to me; "I am never (as Mrs. Lumpkin [5] says to Tony) to be gratified with the monster's dear wild notes." So you are going (going indeed!) into orders. You must make your peace with the Eclectic Reviewers--they accuse you of impiety, I fear, with injustice. Demetrius, the "Sieger of Cities," is here, with "Gilpin Horner." [6] The painter [7] is not necessary, as the portraits he already painted are (by anticipation) very like the new animals.--Write, and send me your "Love Song"--but I want _paulo majora_ from you. Make a dash before you are a deacon, and try a _dry_ publisher. Yours always, B. [Footnote 1: For Robert Bland, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 271, 'note' 1 [Footnote 2 of Letter 137]. In his 'Four Slaves of Cythera' (1809), Canto I., occur the following lines: "Now full in sight the Paphian gardens smile, And thence by many a green and summer isle, Whose ancient walls and temples seem to sleep, Enshadowed on the mirror of the deep, They coast along Cythera's happy ground, Gem of the sea, for love's delight renown'd."] [Footnote 2: Bland had been acting as English Chaplain in Holland. Joost Van Vondel (1587-1679), born at Cologne of Anabaptist parents, became a Roman Catholic in 1641. Most of his thirty-two tragedies are on classical or religious subjects, and in the latter may be traced his gradual change of faith. 'Gysbrecht van Amstel'(1637) is a play, the action of which takes place on Christmas Day in the thirteenth century. The scene is laid at Amsterdam, which is captured by a ruse like that of the Greeks at Troy. The play appealed strongly to the patriotic instincts of the Dutch by its prophecy of the future greatness of Amsterdam. Vondel's 'Lucifer' (1654) has been often compared to 'Paradise Lost'. It also bears some affinities to 'Cain'. In it the Archangel Lucifer rebels against God on learning the Divine intention to take on Himself the nature, not of Angels, but of Man.] [Footnote 3: 'Hints from Horace', lines 371-382.] [Footnote 4: 'The Edinburgh Annual Register' (1808-26) was published by John Ballantyne and Co. The prospectus promised a general history of Europe; a collection of State papers; a chronicle of events; original essays on morality, literature, and science; and articles on biography, the useful arts, and meteorology. The Editor was Scott, and Southey was responsible for the historical department. The first two parts, giving the history of 1808, did not appear till July, 1810, and then with an editorial apology for the omission of the articles on biography, the useful arts, and meteorology; also with an explanation that the idea of original essays on morality, literature, and science had been abandoned. The venture, thus unfortunately launched, never succeeded. For Byron's attack, see 'Hints from Horace', line 657, and his 'note'.] [Footnote 5: This is an obvious slip for "Mrs. Hardcastle," who, in 'She Stoops to Conquer' (act ii.), says, "I'm never to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster!"] [Footnote 6: Probably Demetrius, his Greek servant, whom he nicknames after Demetrius Poliorcetes, and Claridge, who had bored Byron during a long stay of three weeks.] [Footnote 7: Barber, whom he had brought down to Newstead to paint his wolf and his bear.] * * * * * 199.--To R. C. Dallas. Oct. 14, 1811. DEAR SIR,--Stanza 9th, for Canto 2nd, somewhat altered, to avoid recurrence in a former stanza. STANZA 9. There, thou! whose love and life together fled, Have left me here to love and live in vain:-- Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, When busy Memory flashes o'er my brain? Well--I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast; If aught of young Remembrance then remain, Be as it may Whate'er beside Futurity's behest; or,-- Howe'er may be For me 'twere bliss enough to see thy spirit blest! I think it proper to state to you, that this stanza alludes to an event which has taken place since my arrival here, and not to the death of any _male_ friend. Yours, B. * * * * * 200.--To R. C. Dallas. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 16, 1811. I am on the wing for Cambridge. Thence, after a short stay, to London. Will you be good enough to keep an account of all the MSS. you receive, for fear of omission? Have you adopted the three altered stanzas of the latest proof? I can do nothing more with them. I am glad you like the new ones. Of the last, and of the _two_, I sent for a new edition, to-day a _fresh note_. The lines of the second sheet I fear must stand; I will give you reasons when we meet. Believe me, yours ever, BYRON. * * * * * 201.--To R. C. Dallas. Cambridge, Oct. 25, 1811. DEAR SIR,--I send you a conclusion to the _whole_. In a stanza towards the end of Canto I. in the line, Oh, known the earliest and _beloved_ the most, I shall alter the epithet to "_esteemed_ the most." The present stanzas are for the end of Canto II. For the beginning of the week I shall be at No. 8, my old lodgings, in St. James' Street, where I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you. Yours ever, B. * * * * * 202.--To Thomas Moore. [1] Cambridge, October 27, 1811. SIR,--Your letter followed me from Notts, to this place, which will account for the delay of my reply. Your former letter I never had the honour to receive;--be assured in whatever part of the world it had found me, I should have deemed it my duty to return and answer it in person. The advertisement you mention, I know nothing of.--At the time of your meeting with Mr. Jeffrey, I had recently entered College, and remember to have heard and read a number of squibs on the occasion; and from the recollection of these I derived all my knowledge on the subject, without the slightest idea of "giving the lie" to an address which I never beheld. When I put my name to the production, which has occasioned this correspondence, I became responsible to all whom it might concern,--to explain where it requires explanation, and, where insufficiently or too sufficiently explicit, at all events to satisfy. My situation leaves me no choice; it rests with the injured and the angry to obtain reparation in their own way. With regard to the passage in question, _you_ were certainly _not_ the person towards whom I felt personally hostile. On the contrary, my whole thoughts were engrossed by one, whom I had reason to consider as my worst literary enemy, nor could I foresee that his former antagonist was about to become his champion. You do not specify what you would wish to have done: I can neither retract nor apologise for a charge of falsehood which I never advanced. In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 8, St. James's Street.--Neither the letter nor the friend to whom you stated your intention ever made their appearance. Your friend, Mr. Rogers, [2] or any other gentleman delegated by you, will find me most ready to adopt any conciliatory proposition which shall not compromise my own honour,--or, failing in that, to make the atonement you deem it necessary to require. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your most obedient, humble servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Thomas Moore (1779-1852), by his literary and social gifts, had made his name several years before 1811, when he first became personally acquainted with Byron. His precocity was as remarkable as his versatility. The son of a Dublin grocer, for whom his political interest secured the post of barrack-master, he went, like Sheridan, to Samuel Whyte's school, and was afterwards at Trinity College, Dublin. Before he was fifteen he had written verses, including lines to Whyte, himself a poet, the publication of which, in the 'Anthologia Hibernica' (October, 1793; February, March, and June, 1794), gained him a local reputation. Coming to London in 1799, he read law at the Middle Temple. His 'Odes' translated from Anacreon (1800), dedicated to the Prince of Wales, opened to him the houses of the Whig aristocracy; and his powers as a singer, an actor, a talker, and, later, as a satirist, made him a favourite in society. In 1801 appeared his 'Poems: by the late Thomas Little', amatory verses which Byron read, and imitated in some of the silliest of his youthful lines. The review of Moore's 'Odes, Epistles, and Other Poems' (1806), which appeared in the 'Edinburgh Review' for July, 1806, provoked Moore to challenge Jeffrey. Their duel with "leadless pistols" led, not only to Moore's friendship with Jeffrey, but, indirectly, as is seen from the following letters, to Moore's acquaintance with Byron. Moore himself contributed to the 'Edinburgh', between the years 1814 and 1834, essays on multifarious subjects, from poetry to German Rationalism, from the Fathers to French official life. In 1807 the first of the 'Irish Melodies' was published; they continued to appear at irregular intervals till 1834, when 122 had been printed. A master of the art of versification, Moore sings, with graceful fancy, in a tone of mingled mirth and melancholy, his love of his country, of the wine of other countries, and the women of all countries. But, except in his patriotism, he shows little depth of feeling. The 'Melodies' are the work of a brilliantly clever man, endowed with an exquisite musical ear, and a temperament that is rather susceptible than intense. With them may be classed his 'National Airs' (1815) and 'Sacred Song' (1816). Moore had already found one field in which he excelled; it was not long before he discovered another. His serious satires, 'Corruption' (1808), 'Intolerance' (1808), and 'The Sceptic' (1809), failed. His nature was neither deep enough nor strong enough for success in such themes. In the ephemeral strife of party politics he found his real province. Nothing can be better of their kind than the metrical lampoons collected in 'Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post-bag, by Thomas Brown the Younger' (1813). In his hands the bow and arrows of Cupid become formidable weapons of party warfare; nor do their ornaments impede the movements of the archer. The shaft is gaily winged and brightly polished; the barb sharp and dipped in venom; and the missile hums music as it flies to its mark. Moore's satire is the satire of the Clubs at its best; but it is scarcely the satire of literature. 'The Twopenny Post-bag' was the parent of many similar productions, beginning with 'The Fudge Family in Paris' (1818), and ending with 'Fables for the Holy Alliance' (1823), which he dedicated to Byron. As a serious poet, and the author of 'Lalla Rookh' (1817), 'The Loves of the Angels' (1823), and 'Alciphron' (1839), Moore was perhaps overrated by his contemporaries. In spite of their brightness of fancy, metrical skill, and brilliant cleverness, they lack the greater elements of the highest poetry. Moore's prose work begins, apart from his contributions to periodical literature, with the 'Memoirs of Captain Rock' (1824), 'The Epicurean' (1827), 'The Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion' (1834), 'The History of Ireland' (1846); and a succession of biographies--the life of 'Sheridan' (1825), of 'Byron' (1830), and 'Lord Edward Fitzgerald' (1831)--complete the list. In the midst of his biographical work, Moore was advised by Lord Lansdowne to write nine lives at once, and print them together under the title of 'The Cat'. In 1811 Moore married Miss Elizabeth Dyke (born 1793), an actress who fascinated him at the Kilkenny private theatricals in 1809. To the outer world, Mrs. Moore's bird, as she called him, was a sprightly little songster, who lived in a whirl of dinners, suppers, concerts, and theatricals. These, as well as his private anxieties and misfortunes, are recorded in the eight volumes of his 'Memoirs, Journals, and Correspondence', which were edited by Lord John Russell, in 1853. Moore was an excellent son, a good husband, an affectionate father, and to Byron a loyal friend, neither envious nor subservient. Clare, Hobhouse, and Moore were (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations', 2nd edition, 1850, pp. 393, 394) the only persons whose friendship Byron never disclaimed. He spoke of Moore ('ibid'., pp. 322, 323) as "a delightful companion, gay without being boisterous, witty without effort, comic without coarseness, and sentimental without being lachrymose. He reminds one of the fairy who, whenever she spoke, let diamonds fall from her lips. My 'tête-à-tête' suppers with Moore are among the most agreeable impressions I retain of the hours passed in London." In July, 1806, in consequence of the article in the 'Edinburgh Review' on his recent volume of 'Poems', Moore sent, through his friend Hume, a challenge to Jeffrey, who was seconded by Francis Horner, and a meeting was arranged. Moore, who had only once in his life discharged a firearm of any kind, and then nearly blew his thumb off, borrowed a case of pistols from William Spencer, and bought in Bond Street enough powder and bullets for a score of duels. The parties met at Chalk Farm; the seconds loaded the pistols, placed the men at their posts, and were about to give the signal to fire, when the police officers, rushing upon them from behind a hedge, knocked Jeffrey's weapon from his hand, disarmed Moore, and conveyed the whole party to Bow Street. They were released on bail; but, on Moore returning to claim the borrowed pistols, the officer refused to give them up, because only Moore's pistol was loaded with ball. Horner, however, gave evidence that he had seen both pistols loaded; and there, but for the reports circulated in the newspapers, the affair would have ended. But the joke was too good to be allowed to drop, and, in spite of Moore's published letter, he was for months a target for the wits ('Memoirs, Journals, and Correspondence', vol. i. pp. 199-208). In 'English Bards, etc.', lines 466, 467, and his 'note', Byron made merry over "Little's leadless pistol," with the result that, when the second edition o£ the satire was published, with his name attached, Moore sent him the following letter:-- "Dublin, January 1, 1810. "My Lord,--Having just seen the name of 'Lord Byron' prefixed to a work entitled 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', in which, as it appears to me, 'the lie is given' to a public statement of mine, respecting an affair with Mr. Jeffrey some years since, I beg you will have the goodness to inform me whether I may consider your Lordship as the author of this publication. "I shall not, I fear, be able to return to London for a week or two; but, in the mean time, I trust your Lordship will not deny me the satisfaction of knowing whether you avow the insult contained in the passages alluded to. "It is needless to suggest to your Lordship the propriety of keeping our correspondence secret. "I have the honour to be, "Your Lordship's very humble servant, "THOMAS MOORE. "22, Molesworth Street." Owing to Byron's absence abroad, the letter never reached him; it was, in fact, kept back by Hodgson. On his return to England, Moore, who in the interval had married, sent him a second letter, restating the nature of the insult he had received in 'English Bards'. "'It is now useless,' I continued ('Life', p. 143), 'to speak of the steps with which it was my intention to follow up that letter. The time which has elapsed since then, though it has done away neither the injury nor the feeling of it, has, in many respects, materially altered my situation; and the only object which I have now in writing to your Lordship is to preserve some consistency with that former letter, and to prove to you that the injured feeling still exists, however circumstances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates, at present. When I say "injured feeling," let me assure your Lordship that there is not a single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. I mean but to express that uneasiness, under (what I consider to be) a charge of falsehood, which must haunt a man of any feeling to his grave, unless the insult be retracted or atoned for; and which, if I did 'not' feel, I should, indeed, deserve far worse than your Lordship's satire could inflict upon me.' In conclusion I added, that so far from being influenced by any angry or resentful feeling towards him, it would give me sincere pleasure if, by any satisfactory explanation, he would enable me to seek the honour of being henceforward ranked among his acquaintance." Byron's letter of October 27, 1811. was written in reply to this second letter from Moore.] [Footnote 2: For Samuel Rogers, see p. 67, note 1.] * * * * * 203.--To R. C. Dallas. 8, St. James's Street, 29th October, 1811. DEAR SIR,--I arrived in town last night, and shall be very glad to see you when convenient. Yours very truly, BYRON. 204.--To Thomas Moore. [1] 8, St. James's Street, October 29, 1811. SIR,--Soon after my return to England, my friend, Mr. Hodgson, apprised me that a letter for me was in his possession; but a domestic event hurrying me from London immediately after, the letter (which may most probably be your own) is still _unopened in his keeping_. If, on examination of the address, the similarity of the handwriting should lead to such a conclusion, it shall be opened in your presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. Mr. H. is at present out of town;--on Friday I shall see him, and request him to forward it to my address. With regard to the latter part of both your letters, until the principal point was discussed between us, I felt myself at a loss in what manner to reply. Was I to anticipate friendship from one, who conceived me to have charged him with falsehood? Were not _advances_, under such circumstances, to be misconstrued,--not, perhaps, by the person to whom they were addressed, but by others? In _my_ case such a step was impracticable. If you, who conceived yourself to be the offended person, are satisfied that you had no cause for offence, it will not be difficult to convince me of it. My situation, as I have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it commenced under other circumstances; but it must rest with you to determine how far it may proceed after so _auspicious_ a beginning. I have the honour to be, etc. [Footnote 1: Moore had replied, accepting Byron's explanation, and adding, "As your Lordship does not show any wish to proceed beyond the rigid formulary of explanation, it is not for me to make any further advances. We Irishmen, in businesses of this kind, seldom know any medium between decided hostility and decided friendship; but, as any approaches towards the latter alternative must now depend entirely on your Lordship, I have only to repeat that I am satisfied with your letter, and that I have the honour to be," etc., etc.] * * * * * 205.--To Thomas Moore. [1] 8, St. James's Street, October 30, 1811. SIR,--You must excuse my troubling you once more upon this very unpleasant subject. It would be a satisfaction to me, and I should think to yourself, that the unopened letter in Mr. Hodgson's possession (supposing it to prove your own) should be returned _in statu quo_ to the writer; particularly as you expressed yourself "not quite easy under the manner in which I had dwelt on its miscarriage." A few words more, and I shall not trouble you further. I felt, and still feel, very much flattered by those parts of your correspondence, which held out the prospect of our becoming acquainted. If I did not meet them in the first instance as perhaps I ought, let the situation I was placed in be my defence. You have _now_ declared yourself _satisfied_, and on that point we are no longer at issue. If, therefore, you still retain any wish to do me the honour you hinted at, I shall be most happy to meet you, when, where, and how you please, and I presume you will not attribute my saying thus much to any unworthy motive. I have the honour to remain, etc. [Footnote 1: "Piqued," says Moore ('Life', 144), "at the manner in which my efforts towards a more friendly understanding were received," he had briefly expressed his satisfaction at Byron's explanation, and added that the correspondence might close.] * * * * * 206.--To R. C. Dallas. 8, St. James's Street, October 31, 1811. DEAR SIR,--I have already taken up so much of your time that there needs no excuse on your part, but a great many on mine, for the present interruption. I have altered the passages according to your wish. With this note I send a few stanzas on a subject which has lately occupied much of my thoughts. They refer to the death of one to whose name you are a _stranger_, and, consequently, cannot be interested. I mean them to complete the present volume. They relate to the same person whom I have mentioned in Canto 2nd, and at the conclusion of the poem. I by no means intend to identify myself with 'Harold', but to _deny_ all connection with him. If in parts I may be thought to have drawn from myself, believe me it is but in parts, and I shall not own even to that. As to the _Monastic dome_, etc., [1] I thought those circumstances would suit him as well as any other, and I could describe what I had seen better than I could invent. I would not be such a fellow as I have made my hero for all the world. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: 'Childe Harold', Canto II. stanza xlviii.] * * * * * 207.--To Thomas Moore. 8, St. James's Street, November 1, 1811. Sir,--As I should be very sorry to interrupt your Sunday's engagement, if Monday, or any other day of the ensuing week, would be equally convenient to yourself and friend, I will then have the honour of accepting his invitation. [1] Of the professions of esteem with which Mr. Rogers [2] has honoured me, I cannot but feel proud, though undeserving. I should be wanting to myself, if insensible to the praise of such a man; and, should my approaching interview with him and his friend lead to any degree of intimacy with both or either, I shall regard our past correspondence as one of the happiest events of my life. I have the honour to be, Your very sincere and obedient servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Rogers has left an account of this dinner. "Neither Moore nor myself had ever seen Byron when it was settled that he should dine at my house to meet Moore; nor was he known by sight to Campbell, who, happening to call upon me that morning, consented to join the party. I thought it best that I alone should be in the drawing-room when Byron entered it; and Moore and Campbell accordingly withdrew. Soon after his arrival, they returned; and I introduced them to him severally, naming them as Adam named the beasts. When we sat down to dinner, I asked Byron if he would take soup? 'No; he never took soup.' 'Would he take some fish?' 'No; he never took fish.' Presently I asked if he would eat some mutton? 'No; he never ate mutton.' I then asked if he would take a glass of wine? 'No; he never tasted wine.' It was now necessary to inquire what he 'did' eat and drink; and the answer was, 'Nothing but hard biscuits and soda-water.' Unfortunately, neither hard biscuits nor soda-water were at hand; and he dined upon potatoes bruised down on his plate and drenched with vinegar. My guests stayed very late, discussing the merits of Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie. Some days after, meeting Hobhouse, I said to him, 'How long will Lord Byron persevere in his present diet? 'He replied, 'Just as long as you continue to notice it.' I did not then know, what I now know to be a fact, that Byron, after leaving my house, had gone to a Club in St. James's Street and eaten a hearty meat-supper" ('Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', pp. 231, 232). Moore's ('Life', p. 145) first impressions of Byron were "the nobleness of his air, his beauty, the gentleness of his voice and manners, and--what was naturally not the least attraction--his marked kindness to myself. Being in mourning for his mother, the colour, as well of his dress, as of his glossy, curling, and picturesque hair, gave more effect to the pure, spiritual paleness of his features, in the expression of which, when he spoke, there was a perpetual play of lively thought, though melancholy was their habitual character when in repose."] [Footnote 2: Samuel Rogers (1763-1855), the third son of a London banker, was born at Stoke Newington. Shortly after his father's death, in 1793, he withdrew from any active part in the management of the bank, and devoted himself for the rest of his long life to literature, art, and society. In 1803 he moved from chambers in the Temple to a house in St. James's Place, overlooking the Green Park. Here he lived till his death, in December, 1855, and here he gathered round him, at his celebrated breakfasts, the most distinguished men and women of his time. An excellent account of the "Town Mouse" entertaining the "Country Mouse" is given by Dean Stanley ('Life', vol. i. p. 298), who met Wordsworth at breakfast with Rogers, in 1841, and describes "the town mouse a sleek, well-fed, sly, 'white' mouse, and the country mouse with its rough, weather-worn face and grey hairs; the town mouse displaying its delicate little rolls and pyramids of glistening strawberries, the country mouse exulting in its hollow tree, its crust of bread and liberty, and rallying its brother on his late hours and frequent dinners." One of his earliest recollections was the sight of a rebel's head upon a pole at Temple Bar. He had talked with a Thames boatman who remembered Pope; had seen Garrick in 'The Suspicious Husband'; had heard Sir Joshua Reynolds deliver his last lecture as President of the Royal Academy; had seen John Wesley "lying in state" in the City Road; had gone to call on Dr. Johnson, but, when his hand was on the knocker, found his courage fled. He lived to be offered the laureateship in 1850, on the death of Wordsworth, and to decline it in favour of Tennyson. "Time was," wrote Mathias ('Pursuits of Literature', note, p. 360, ed. 1808), "when bankers were as stupid as their guineas could make them; they were neither orators, nor painters, nor poets. But now. .. Mr. Rogers dreams on Parnassus; and, if I am rightly informed, there is a great demand among his brethren for the 'Pleasures of Memory'." Rogers began to write poetry at an early age, and continued to write it all his life. His 'Ode to Superstition' was published in 1786; the 'Pleasures of Memory', in 1792; the 'Epistle to a Friend', in 1798; 'Columbus', in 1812; 'Jacqueline', in 1813; 'Human Life', in 1819; 'Italy', in 1822-34. His later years were occupied in revising, correcting, or amplifying his published poems, and in preparing the notes to 'Italy', which are admirable studies in compactness and precision of language. A disciple of Pope, an imitator of Goldsmith, Rogers was rather a skilful adapter than an original poet. His chief talent was his taste; if he could not originate, he could appreciate. The fastidious care which he lavished on his work has preserved it. In his commonplace-book he has entered the number of years which he spent in composing and revising his poems. His 'Pleasures of Memory' occupied seven years, 'Columbus' fourteen, and 'Italy' fifteen. An excellent judge of art, he employed Flaxman, Stothard, and Turner at a time when their powers were little appreciated by his fellow-countrymen. Of his taste Byron speaks enthusiastically in his Journal (see p. 331). But the following passage (hitherto unpublished) from his 'Detached Thoughts' (Ravenna, 1821) gives his later opinion of the man: "When Sheridan was on his death-bed, Rogers aided him with purse and person. This was particularly kind of Rogers, who always spoke ill of Sheridan (to me, at least), but, indeed, he does that of everybody to anybody. Rogers is the reverse of the line: 'The _best good man_ with the _worst_ natured Muse,' being: 'The _worst_ good man with the _best_ natured Muse.' His Muse being all Sentiment and Sago and Sugar, while he himself is a venomous talker. I say 'worst good man' because he is (perhaps) a 'good' man; at least he does good now and then, as well he may, to purchase himself a shilling's worth of salvation for his slanders. They are so 'little', too--small talk--and old Womanny, and he is malignant too--and envious--and--he be damned!" In a manuscript note to these passages Sir Walter Scott writes, "I never heard Rogers say a single word against Byron, which is rather odd too. Byron wrote a bitter and undeserved satire on Rogers. This conduct must have been motived by something or other." Speaking of Rogers and Sheridan, he says, "He certainly took pennyworths out of his friend's character. I sat three hours for my picture to Sir Thomas Lawrence, during which the whole conversation was filled up by Rogers with stories of Sheridan, for the least of which, if true, he deserved the gallows. One respected his committing a rape on his sister-in-law on the day of her husband's funeral. Others were worse." In politics Rogers was a Whig, in religion a Presbyterian. But he meddled little with either. In private life he was as kindly in action as he was caustic in speech. A sensitive man himself, he studied to be satirical to others. When Ward condemned 'Columbus' in the 'Quarterly Review', Rogers repaid his critic in the stinging epigram: "Ward has no heart, they say; but I deny it; He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it." Byron warmly admired Rogers's poetry. To him he dedicated 'The Giaour', in "admiration for his genius, respect for his character, and gratitude for his friendship." The 'Quarterly Review', in an article on 'The Corsair' and 'Lara', mentions "the highly refined, but somewhat insipid, pastoral tale of 'Jacqueline'." Byron, on reading the review, said to Lady Byron, "The man's a fool. 'Jacqueline' is as superior to 'Lara' as Rogers is to me" ('Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', p. 154, 'note'). "The 'Pleasures of Memory'," he said (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations', p. 153), "is a very beautiful poem, harmonious, finished, and chaste; it contains not a single meretricious ornament. If Rogers has not fixed himself in the higher fields of Parnassus, he has, at least, cultivated a very pretty flower-garden at its base." But he goes on to speak of the poem (p. 354) as "a 'hortus siccus' of pretty flowers," and an illustration of "the difference between inspiration and versification." If Rogers ever saw Byron's 'Question and Answer' (1818), he was generous enough to forget the satire. In 'Italy' he paid a noble tribute to the genius of the dead poet: "He is now at rest; And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone, Gone like a star that through the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, Was generous, noble--noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do Things long regretted, oft, as many know, None more than I, thy gratitude would build On slight foundations; and, if in thy life Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious! They in thy train--ah, little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourned, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleamed on what remained of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow. Thou art gone; And he who would assail thee in thy grave, Oh, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert--even from thy earliest years, When wandering, yet unspoilt, a Highland boy-- Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, Her charmed cup--ah, who among us all Could say he had not erred as much, and more?"] * * * * * 208.--To Francis Hodgson. 8, St. James's Street, November 17, 1811. Dear Hodgson,--I have been waiting for the letter [1] which was to have been sent by you _immediately_, and must again jog your memory on the subject. I believe I wrote you a full and true account of poor--'s proceedings. Since his reunion to--, [2] I have heard nothing further from him. What a pity! a man of talent, past the heyday of life, and a clergyman, to fall into such imbecility. I have heard from Hobhouse, who has at last sent more copy to Cawthorn for his _Travels_. I franked an enormous cover for you yesterday, seemingly to convey at least twelve cantos on any given subject. I fear the I aspect of it was too _epic_ for the post. From this and other coincidences I augur a publication on your part, but what, or when, or how much, you must disclose immediately. I don't know what to say about coming down to Cambridge at present, but live in hopes. I am so completely superannuated there, and besides feel it something brazen in me to wear my magisterial habit, after all my buffooneries, that I hardly think I shall venture again. And being now an [Greek: ariston men hydôr] disciple I won't come within wine-shot of such determined topers as your collegiates. I have not yet subscribed to Bowen. I mean to cut Harrow "_enim unquam_" as somebody classically said for a farewell sentence. I am superannuated there too, and, in short, as old at twenty-three as many men at seventy. Do write and send this letter that hath been so long in your custody. It is important that Moore should be certain that I never received it, if it be _his_. Are you drowned in a bottle of Port? or a Kilderkin of Ale? that I have never heard from you, or are you fallen into a fit of perplexity? Cawthorn has declined, and the MS. is returned to him. This is all at present from yours in the faith, [Greek: Mpairon]. [Footnote 1: On November 17, 1811, Hodgson writes to Byron: "I enclose you the long-delayed letter, which, from the similarity of hands alone, Davies and I will go shares in a bet of ten to one is the cartel in question."] [Footnote 2: The names are carefully erased by Hodgson.] * * * * * 209.--To Francis Hodgson. 8, St. James's Street, December 4, 1811. MY DEAR HODGSON,--I have seen Miller, [1] who will see Bland, [2] but I have no great hopes of his obtaining the translation from the crowd of candidates. Yesterday I wrote to Harness, who will probably tell you what I said on the subject. Hobhouse has sent me my Romaic MS., and I shall require your aid in correcting the press, as your Greek eye is more correct than mine. But these will not come to type this month, I dare say. I have put some soft lines on ye Scotch in the 'Curse of Minerva'; take them; "Yet Caledonia claims some native worth," etc. [3] If you are not content now, I must say with the Irish drummer to the deserter who called out, "Flog high, flog low" "The de'il burn ye, there's no pleasing you, flog where one will." Have you given up wine, even British wine? I have read Watson to Gibbon. [4] He proves nothing, so I am where I was, verging towards Spinoza; and yet it is a gloomy Creed, and I want a better, but there is something Pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything. The post brings me to a conclusion. Bland has just been here. Yours ever, BN. [Footnote 1: See Letters', vol. i. p. 319, 'note' 2 [Footnote 1 of Letter 158]] [Footnote 2: Byron was endeavouring to secure for Bland (see 'Letters, vol. i. p. 271, 'note' 1 [Footnote 2 of Letter 137]), the work of translating Lucien Buonaparte's poem of 'Charlemagne'. He did not succeed. The poem, translated by Dr. Butler, Head-master of Shrewsbury, afterwards Bishop of Lichfield, and Francis Hodgson, was published in 1815.] [Footnote 3: Lines 149-156.] [Footnote 4: 'An Apology for Christianity, in a Series of Letters to Edward Gibbon, Esq.', by Richard Watson, D.D. (1776). Gibbon had a great respect for Watson, at this time Professor of Divinity at Cambridge, afterwards Bishop of Llandaff, whom he describes as "a prelate of a large mind and liberal spirit." In a letter to Holroyd (November 4, 1776), he speaks of the 'Apology' as "feeble," but "uncommingly genteel." To his stepmother he writes, November 29, 1776, that Watson's answer is "civil" and "too dull to deserve your notice."] * * * * * 210.--To William Harness. [1] 8, St. James's Street, Dec. 6, 1811. My Dear Harness,--I write again, but don't suppose I mean to lay such a tax on your pen and patience as to expect regular replies. When you are inclined, write: when silent, I shall have the consolation of knowing that you are much better employed. Yesterday, Bland and I called on Mr. Miller, who, being then out, will call on Bland to-day or to-morrow. I shall certainly endeavour to bring them together.--You are censorious, child; when you are a little older, you will learn to dislike every body, but abuse nobody. With regard to the person of whom you speak, your own good sense must direct you. I never pretend to advise, being an implicit believer in the old proverb. This present frost is detestable. It is the first I have felt for these three years, though I longed for one in the oriental summer, when no such thing is to be had, unless I had gone to the top of Hymettus for it. I thank you most truly for the concluding part of your letter. I have been of late not much accustomed to kindness from any quarter, and am not the less pleased to meet with it again from one where I had known it earliest. I have not changed in all my ramblings,--Harrow, and, of course, yourself, never left me, and the "_Dulces reminiscitur Argos_" attended me to the very spot to which that sentence alludes in the mind of the fallen Argive.--Our intimacy began before we began to date at all, and it rests with you to continue it till the hour which must number it and me with the things that _were_. Do read mathematics.--I should think _X plus Y_ at least as amusing as the 'Curse of Kehama' [2], and much more intelligible. Master Southey's poems _are_, in fact, what parallel lines might be--viz. prolonged _ad infinitum_ without meeting anything half so absurd as themselves. "What news, what news? Queen Orraca, What news of scribblers five? S----, W----, C----, L----d, and L----e? All damn'd, though yet alive." Coleridge is lecturing. [3] "Many an old fool," said Hannibal to some such lecturer, "but such as this, never." [4] Ever yours, etc. [Footnote 1: See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 177, 'note' 1. [Footnote 1 of Letter 92]] [Footnote 2: Robert Southey (1774-1843) published his 'Curse of Kehama' in 1810. It formed a part of a series of heroic poems in which he intended to embody the chief mythologies of the world. In spite of Byron's adverse opinion, it contains magnificent passages, and disputes with 'Roderick, the Last of the Goths' (1814), the claim to be the finest of his longer poems. Southey's literary activity was immense. He had already produced 'Joan of Arc' (1796), 'Thalaba' (1801), 'Madoc' (1805), and many other works in prose and verse. At this time he was personally unknown to Byron, who had ridiculed his "annual strains." They met for the first time at Holland House, in September, 1813. (See Byron's letter to Moore, September 27, 1813, and Journal, p. 331.) The animosity between the two men belongs to a later date, and in its origin was partly political, partly personal. Southey, in early life, had been a republican and a Unitarian, if not a deist. He collaborated with Coleridge in the 'Fall of Robespierre' (1794), wrote a portion of the 'Conciones ad Populum' (1795), which the Government considered seditious; and, according to Poole ('Thomas Pools and his Friends', vol. i. chap, vi.), wavered "between Deism and Atheism." He became a champion of monarchical principles and of religious orthodoxy, and attacked the views, which he had once held and expressed in 'Wat Tyler' (written in 1794, and piratically published in 1817), with the bitterness of a reactionary. He had also, as Byron believed, circulated, if not invented, a report that Byron and Shelley had formed "a league of incest" at Geneva, in 1816-17, with "two girls," Mary Godwin (Mrs. Shelley) and Jane Clairmont. Byron not only denied the charge, but retorted upon him, in his "Observations upon an Article in 'Blackwood's Magazine'" (March 15, 1820), as the author of 'Wat Tyler' and poet laureate, the man who "wrote treason and serves the King," the ex-pantisocrat who advocated "all things, including women, in common." Southey's 'Vision of Judgment', an apotheosis of George III., published in 1821, gave Byron a second provocation and a second opportunity, by speaking in the preface of his "Satanic spirit of pride and audacious impiety." Byron again replied in prose; and Southey (January 5, 1820), in a letter to the 'London Courier', invited him to attack him in rhyme. In Byron's 'Vision of Judgment' he found his invitation accepted, and himself pilloried in that tremendous satire. Southey overvalued his own narrative poetry. It is as a man, a prominent figure in literary history, a leader in the romantic revival, a master of prose, and the author of the best short biography in the English language--the 'Life of Nelson' (1813)--that he lives at the present day. His name also deserves to be remembered with gratitude by all who have read the nursery classic of "'The Three Bears'." Byron parodies a stanza in Southey's "Queen Orraca and the Five Martyrs of Morocco" ('Works', vol. vi. pp. 166-173): "What news, O King Affonso, What news of the Friars five? Have they preached to the Miramamolin; And are they still alive?" The blanks stand for Scott or Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lloyd, and Lamb(e), with the lines from 'New Morality' in his mind: "Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd and Lamb and Co., Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux."] [Footnote 3: Coleridge, beginning November 18, 1811, and ending January 27, 1812, delivered a course of seventeen lectures on Shakespeare and Milton, "in illustration of the principles of poetry." The lectures were given under the auspices of the London Philosophical Society, in the Scot's Corporation Hall, Crane Court, Fleet Street. Single tickets for the whole course were two guineas, or three guineas "with the privilege of introducing a lady." J. Payne Collier took shorthand notes of the lectures and published a portion of his material, the rest being lost ('Lectures on Shakespear', from notes by J.P. Collier), The notes, with other contemporary reports from the 'Times', 'Morning Chronicle', 'Dublin Chronicle', Crabb Robinson's 'Diary', and other sources, were republished in 1883 by Mr. Ashe ('Lectures and Notes on Shakspere and other English Poets'). Collier, in his notes of Coleridge's conversation (November I, 1811), gives the substance, in all probability, of the attack on Campbell alluded to in the next letter. Coleridge said that "neither Southey, Scott, nor Campbell would by their poetry survive much beyond the day when they lived and wrote. Their works seemed to him not to have the seeds of vitality, the real germs of long life. The two first were entertaining as tellers of stories in verse; but the last, in his 'Pleasures of Hope', obviously had no fixed design, but when a thought (of course, not a very original one) came into his head, he put it down in couplets, and afterwards strung the 'disjecta membra' (not 'poetæ') together. Some of the best things in it were borrowed; for instance the line: 'And freedom shriek'd when Kosciusko fell,' was taken from a much-ridiculed piece by Dennis, a pindaric on William III.: 'Fair Liberty shriek'd out aloud, aloud Religion groaned.' It is the same production in which the following much-laughed-at specimen of bathos is found: 'Nor Alps nor Pyreneans keep him out, Nor fortified redoubt.' Coleridge had little toleration for Campbell, and considered him, as far as he had gone, a mere verse-maker."(Ashe's Introduction to 'Lectures on Shakspere', pp. 16, 17).] [Footnote 4: Hannibal, in exile at Ephesus, was taken to hear a lecture by a peripatetic philosopher named Phormio. The lecturer ('homo copiosus') discoursed for some hours on the duties of a general, and military subjects generally. The delighted audience asked Hannibal his opinion of the lecture. He replied in Greek, "I have seen many old fools often, but such an old fool as Phormio, never ('Multos se deliros senes s¾pe vidisse; sed qui magis, quam Phormio, deliraret, vidisse neminem')" (Cicero, 'De Oratore', ii. 18).] * * * * * 211.--To James Wedderburn Webster. 8, St. James's St., Dec. 7th, 1811. My Dear W.,--I was out of town during the arrival of your letters, but forwarded all on my return. I hope you are going on to your satisfaction, and that her Ladyship is about to produce an heir with all his mother's Graces and all his Sire's good qualities. You know I am to be a Godfather. Byron Webster! a most heroic name, say what you please. Don't be alarmed; my "_caprice_" won't lead me in to Dorset. No, _Bachelors_ for me! I consider you as dead to us, and all my future _devoirs_ are but tributes of respect to your _Memory_. Poor fellow! he was a facetious companion and well respected by all who knew him; but he is gone. Sooner or later we must all come to it. I see nothing of you in the _papers_, the only place where I don't wish to see you; but you will be in town in the Winter. What dost thou do? shoot, hunt, and "wind up y'e Clock" as Caleb Quotem says? [1] That thou art vastly happy, I doubt not. I see your brother in law at times, and like him much; but we miss you much; I shall leave town in a fortnight to pass my Xmas in Notts. Good afternoon, Dear W. Believe me, Yours ever most truly, B. [Footnote 1: Byron alludes to Caleb Quotem's song in 'The Review, or Wags of Windsor' (act ii. sc. 2), by George Colman the Younger: "I'm parish clerk and sexton here, My name is Caleb Quotem, I'm painter, glazier, auctioneer, In short, I am factotum." ... "At night by the fire, like a good, jolly cock, When my day's work is done and all over, I tipple, I smoke, and I wind up the clock, With my sweet Mrs. Quotem in clover."] * * * * * 212.--To William Harness. St. James's Street, Dec. 8, 1811. Behold a most formidable sheet, without gilt or black edging, and consequently very vulgar and indecorous, particularly to one of your precision; but this being Sunday, I can procure no better, and will atone for its length by not filling it. Bland I have not seen since my last letter; but on Tuesday he dines with me, and will meet Moore, the epitome of all that is exquisite in poetical or personal accomplishments. How Bland has settled with Miller, I know not. I have very little interest with either, and they must arrange their concerns according to their own gusto. I have done my endeavours, _at your request_, to bring them together, and hope they may agree to their mutual advantage. Coleridge has been lecturing against Campbell. [1] Rogers was present, and from him I derive the information. We are going to make a party to hear this Manichean of poesy. Pole [2] is to marry Miss Long, and will be a very miserable dog for all that. The present ministers are to continue, and his Majesty _does_ continue in the same state; so there's folly and madness for you, both in a breath. I never heard but of one man truly fortunate, and he was Beaumarchais, [3] the author of _Figaro_, who buried two wives and gained three lawsuits before he was thirty. And now, child, what art thou doing? _Reading, I trust_. I want to see you take a degree. Remember, this is the most important period of your life; and don't disappoint your papa and your aunt, and all your kin--besides myself. Don't you know that all male children are begotten for the express purpose of being graduates? and that even I am an A.M., [4] though how I became so the Public Orator only can resolve. Besides, you are to be a priest; and to confute Sir William Drummond's late book about the Bible [5] (printed, but not published), and all other infidels whatever. Now leave Master H.'s gig, and Master S.'s Sapphics, and become as immortal as Cambridge can make you. You see, _Mio Carissimo_, what a pestilent correspondent I am likely to become; but then you shall be as quiet at Newstead as you please, and I won't disturb your studies as I do now. When do you fix the day, that I may take you up according to contract? Hodgson talks of making a third in our journey; but we can't stow him, inside at least. Positively you shall go with me as was agreed, and don't let me have any of your _politesse_ to H. on the occasion. I shall manage to arrange for both with a little contrivance. I wish H. was not quite so fat, and we should pack better. You will want to know what I am doing--chewing tobacco. You see nothing of my allies, Scrope Davies and Matthews [6]--they don't suit you; and how does it happen that I--who am a pipkin of the same pottery--continue in your good graces? Good night,--I will go on in the morning. Dec. 9th.--In a morning I am always sullen, and to-day is as sombre as myself. Rain and mist are worse than a sirocco, particularly in a beef-eating and beer-drinking country. My bookseller, Cawthorne, has just left me, and tells me, with a most important face, that he is in treaty for a novel of Madame D'Arblay's, for which 1000 guineas are asked! [7] He wants me to read the MS. (if he obtains it), which I shall do with pleasure; but I should be very cautious in venturing an opinion on her whose _Cecilia_ Dr. Johnson superintended. [8] If he lends it to me, I shall put it in the hands of Rogers and Moore, who are truly men of taste. I have filled the sheet, and beg your pardon; I will not do it again. I shall, perhaps, write again; but if not, believe, silent or scribbling, that I am, My dearest William, ever, etc. [Footnote 1: See p. 75, 'note' 1. In the application to Coleridge of the phrase, "Manichean of poesy," Byron may allude to Cowper's 'Task' (bk. v. lines 444, 445): "As dreadful as the Manichean God, Adored through fear, strong only to destroy."] [Footnote 2: William Wellesley Pole Tylney Long Wellesley (1788-1857), one of the most worthless of the bloods of the Regency, son of Lord Maryborough, and nephew of the Duke of Wellington, became in 1845 the fourth Earl of Mornington. He married in March, 1812, Catherine, daughter and co-heir, with her brother, of Sir James Tylney Long, Bart., of Draycot, Wilts. On his marriage he added his wife's double name to his own, and so gave a point to the authors of Rejected Addresses: "Long may Long-Tilney-Wellesley-Long-Pole live." For Byron's allusion to him in 'The Waltz', see 'Poems', 1898, vol. i. p. 484, note 1. Having run through his wife's large fortune by his extravagant expenditure at Wanstead Park and elsewhere, he was obliged, in 1822, to escape from his creditors to the Continent. There (1823-25) he lived with Mrs. Bligh, wife of Captain Bligh, of the Coldstream Guards. His wife died in 1825, after filing a bill for divorce, and making her children wards of Chancery. Wellesley subsequently (1828) married Mrs. Bligh; but the second wife was as ill treated as the first, and he left her so destitute that she was a frequent applicant for relief at the metropolitan police-courts. He died of heart-disease in July, 1857, a pensioner on the charity of his cousin, the second Duke of Wellington.] [Footnote 3: Byron's statement is incorrect. Pierre-Auguste Caron de Beaumarchais (1732-1799) married, in 1756, as his first wife, Madeleine-Catherine Aubertin, widow of the sieur Franquet. She died in 1757. He married, in 1768, as his second wife, Geneviève-Magdaleine Wattebled, widow of the sieur Lévêque. She died in 1770. The only lawsuit which he won "before he was thirty," was that against Lepaute, who claimed as his own invention the escapement for watches and clocks, which Beaumarchais had discovered. The case was decided in favour of Beaumarchais in 1754. Out of his second lawsuit--with Count de la Blache, legatee of his patron Duverney, who died in 1770--sprang his action against Goëzman, with which began the publication of his 'Mémoires'. (See Loménie, 'Beaumarchais and his Times', tr. by H.S. Edwards, 4 vols., London, 1855-6.)] [Footnote 4: Byron took his M. A. degree at Cambridge July 4, 1808.] [Footnote 5: Sir William Drummond (1770-1828), Tory M.P. for St. Mawes (1795-96) and for Lostwithiel (1796-1801), held from 1801 to 1809 several diplomatic posts: ambassador to the Court of Naples 1801-3; to the Ottoman Porte 1803-6; to the Court of Naples for the second time, 1806-9. From 1809, at which date his political and diplomatic career closed, he devoted himself to literature. He had already published 'Philosophical Sketches on the Principles of Society and Government' (1793); 'A Review of the Governments of Sparta and Athens' (1795); 'The Satires of Persius', translated (1798); 'Byblis, a Tragedy', in verse (1802); 'Academical Questions' (1805). In 1810 he published 'Herculanensia'; and, in the following year, printed for private circulation his 'OEdipus Judaicus', a bold attempt to explain many parts of the Old Testament as astronomical allegories. In 1817 appeared the first part of his 'Odin', a poem in blank verse; in 1824-29 his 'Origines, or Remarks on the Origin of several Empires, States, and Cities', was published. Sir William, who died at Rome in 1828, lived much of his later life abroad. Drummond, as a member of the Alfred Club, is described in the 'Sexagenarian' (vol. ii. chap, xxiv.), where Beloe, speaking of the ('Edipus Judaicus'), says that "he appeared to have employed his leisure in searching for objections and arguments as they related to Scripture, which had been so often refuted, that they were considered by the learned and wise as almost exploded." He refers to 'Byblis' as evidence of his "perverted and fantastical taste" in poetry, praises his "spirited translation" of Persius, commends the "sound sense and very extensive reading" of his 'Philosophical' 'Sketches', and scoffs at the "metaphysical labyrinth" of his 'Academical Questions'. "When you go to Naples," said Byron to Lady Blessington ('Conversations', pp. 238, 239), "you must make acquaintance with Sir William Drummond, for he is certainly one of the most erudite men and admirable philosophers now living. He has all the wit of Voltaire, with a profundity that seldom appertains to wit, and writes so forcibly, and with such elegance and purity of style, that his works possess a peculiar charm. Have you read his 'Academical Questions'? If not, get them directly, and I think you will agree with me, that the preface to that work alone would prove Sir William Drummond an admirable writer. He concludes it by the following sentence, which I think one of the best in our language: "'Prejudice may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of time, while Reason slumbers in the citadel; but if the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty support each other; he who will not reason is a bigot; he who cannot is a fool; and he who dares not is a slave.' "Is not the passage admirable? How few could have written it! and yet how few read Drummond's works! They are too good to be popular. His 'Odin' is really a fine poem, and has some passages that are beautiful, but it is so little read that it may be said to have dropped still-born from the press--a mortifying proof of the bad taste of the age. His translation of Persius is not only very literal, but preserves much of the spirit of the original... he has escaped all the defects of translators, and his Persius resembles the original as nearly, in feeling and sentiment, as two languages so dissimilar in idiom will admit."] [Footnote 6: Henry Matthews (1789-1828) of Eton and King's College, Cambridge, younger brother of Charles Skinner Matthews, and author of the 'Diary of an Invalid' (1820).] [Footnote 7: 'The Wanderer, or Female Difficulties', Madame d'Arblay's fourth and last novel ('Evelina', 1778; 'Cecilia', 1782; 'Camilla', 1796), was published in 1814. "I am indescribably occupied," she writes to Dr. Burney, October 12, 1813, "in giving more and more last touches to my work, about which I begin to grow very anxious. I am to receive merely £500 upon delivery of the MS.; the two following £500 by instalments from nine months to nine months, that is, in a year and a half from the day of publication. If all goes well, the whole will be £3000, but only at the end of the sale of eight thousand copies." The book failed; but rumour magnified the sum received by the writer. Mrs. Piozzi, shortly after the publication of 'The Wanderer' and of Byron's lines, "Weep, daughter of a royal line," writes to Samuel Lysons, February 17, 1814: "Come now, do send me a kind letter and tell me if Madame d'Arblaye gets £3000 for her book or no, and if Lord Byron is to be called over about some verses he has written, as the papers hint" ('Autobiography, Letters, and Literary Remains', vol. ii. p. 246).] [Footnote 8: Dr. Johnson never saw 'Cecilia' (1782) till it was in print. A day or two before publication, Miss Burney sent three copies to the three persons who had the best claim to them--her father, Mrs. Thrale, and Dr. Johnson.] * * * * * 213.--To Francis Hodgson. London, Dec. 8, 1811. I sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other day, and now take a dose in another style. I wrote it a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former days. "Away, away, ye notes of woe," etc., etc. [1] I have gotten a book by Sir W. Drummond (printed, but not published), entitled _OEdipus Judaicus_ in which he attempts to prove the greater part of the Old Testament an allegory, particularly Genesis and Joshua. He professes himself a theist in the preface, and handles the literal interpretation very roughly. I wish you could see it. Mr. Ward [2] has lent it me, and I confess to me it is worth fifty Watsons. You and Harness must fix on the time for your visit to Newstead; I can command mine at your wish, unless any thing particular occurs in the interim. Master William Harness and I have recommenced a most fiery correspondence; I like him as Euripides liked Agatho, or Darby admired Joan, as much for the past as the present. Bland dines with me on Tuesday to meet Moore. Coleridge has attacked the _Pleasures of Hope_, and all other pleasures whatsoever. Mr. Rogers was present, and heard himself indirectly _rowed_ by the lecturer. We are going in a party to hear the new Art of Poetry by this reformed schismatic [3]; and were I one of these poetical luminaries, or of sufficient consequence to be noticed by the man of lectures, I should not hear him without an answer. For you know, "an a man will be beaten with brains, he shall never keep a clean doublet." [4] Campbell [5] will be desperately annoyed. I never saw a man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensitive;--what a happy temperament! I am sorry for it; what can _he_ fear from criticism? I don't know if Bland has seen Miller, who was to call on him yesterday. To-day is the Sabbath,--a day I never pass pleasantly, but at Cambridge; and, even there, the organ is a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant enough in town; as long as they don't retrograde, 'tis all very well. Hobhouse writes and writes and writes, and is an author. I do nothing but eschew tobacco. [6] I wish parliament were assembled, that I may hear, and perhaps some day be heard;--but on this point I am not very sanguine. I have many plans;--sometimes I think of the East again, and dearly beloved Greece. I am well, but weakly. Yesterday Kinnaird [7] told me I looked very ill, and sent me home happy. You will never give up wine. See what it is to be thirty! if you were six years younger, you might leave off anything. You drink and repent; you repent and drink. Is Scrope still interesting and invalid? And how does Hinde with his cursed chemistry? To Harness I have written, and he has written, and we have all written, and have nothing now to do but write again, till Death splits up the pen and the scribbler. The Alfred [8] has three hundred and fifty-four candidates for six vacancies. The cook has run away and left us liable, which makes our committee very plaintive. Master Brook, our head serving-man, has the gout, and our new cook is none of the best. I speak from report,--for what is cookery to a leguminous-eating Ascetic? So now you know as much of the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still there, and they may dress their dishes in their own way for me. Let me know your determination as to Newstead, and believe me, Yours ever, [Greek: Mpairon.] [Footnote 1: Here follows one of the 'Thyrza' poems.] [Footnote 2: The Hon. John William Ward, afterwards fourth Earl of Dudley. Byron said of him (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations with Lord Byron', p. 197), "Ward is one of the best-informed men I know, and, in a 'tête-à-tête', is one of the most agreeable companions. He has great originality, and, being 'très distrait', it adds to the piquancy of his observations, which are sometimes somewhat 'trop naïve', though always amusing. This 'naïveté' of his is the more piquant from his being really a good-natured man, who unconsciously thinks aloud. Interest Ward on a subject, and I know no one who can talk better. His expressions are concise without being poor, and terse and epigrammatic without being affected," etc. Of somewhat the same opinion was Lady H. Leveson Gower ('Letters of Harriet, Countess Granville', vol. i. pp. 41, 42): "The charm of Mr. Ward's conversation is exactly what Mr. Luttrell wants, a sort of 'abandon', and being entertaining because it is his nature and he cannot help it. I only mean Mr. Ward in his happier hour, for what I have said of him is the very reverse of what he is when vanity or humour seize upon him."] [Footnote 3: Crabb Robinson, in his 'Diary' for January 20, 1812, has the following entry: "In the evening at Coleridge's lecture. Conclusion of Milton. Not one of the happiest of Coleridge's efforts. Rogers was there, and with him was Lord Byron. He was wrapped up, but I recognized his club foot, and, indeed, his countenance and general appearance."] [Footnote 4: "'Benedict': No; if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome about him." 'Much Ado about Nothing', act v. sc. 4.] [Footnote 5: Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) lectured at the Royal Institution in 1811 on poetry. The lectures were afterwards published in the 'New Monthly Magazine', of which he was editor (1820-30). Campbell also apparently read his lectures aloud at private houses. Miss Berry ('Journal', vol. ii. p. 502) mentions a dinner-party on June 26, 1812, at the Princess of Wales's, where she heard him read his "first discourse," delivered at the Institution. Again (ibid., vol. iii. p. 6), she dined with Madame de Stael, March 9, 1814: "Nobody but Campbell the poet, Rocca, and her own daughter. After dinner, Campbell read to us a discourse of his upon English poetry, and upon some of the great poets. There are always signs of a poet and critic of genius in all he does, often encumbered by too ornate a style." Campbell's best work was done between 1798 and 1810. Within that period were published 'The Pleasures of Hope' (1799), 'Gertrude of Wyoming' (1809), and such other shorter poems as "Hohenlinden," "Ye Mariners of England," "The Battle of the Baltic," and "O'Connor's Child." His "Ritter Bann," a reminiscence of his sojourn abroad (1800-1), was not published till later; both it and "The Last Man" were published in the 'New Monthly Magazine', during the period of his editorship. An excellent judge of verse, he collected 'Specimens of the British Poets' (1819), to which he added a valuable essay on poetry and short biographies. His 'Theodoric' (1824), 'Pilgrim of Glencoe' (1842), and Lives of Mrs. Siddons, Petrarch, and Shakespeare added nothing to his reputation. The judgment of contemporary poets in the main agreed with Coleridge's estimate of Campbell's work. "There are some of Campbell's lyrics," said Rogers ('Table-Talk', etc., pp. 254, 255), "which will never die. His 'Pleasures of Hope' is no great favourite with me. The 'feeling' throughout his 'Gertrude' is very beautiful." Wordsworth also thought the 'Pleasures of Hope' "strangely over-rated; its fine words and sounding lines please the generality of readers, who never stop to ask themselves the meaning of a passage." Byron, who calls Campbell "a warm-hearted and honest man," thought that his "'Lochiel' and 'Mariners' are spirit-stirring productions; his 'Gertrude of Wyoming' is beautiful; and some of the episodes in his 'Pleasures of Hope' pleased me so much that I know them by heart". (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations with Lord Byron', p. 353). George Ticknor, who met Campbell in 1815 ('Life', vol. i. p. 63), says, "He is a short, small man, and has one of the roundest and most lively faces I have seen amongst this grave people. His manners seemed as open as his countenance, and his conversation as spirited as his poetry. He could have kept me amused till morning." Shortly afterwards, Ticknor went to see him at Sydenham (ibid., p. 65): "Campbell had the same good spirits and love of merriment as when I met him before,--the same desire to amuse everybody about him; but still I could see, as I partly saw then, that he labours under the burden of an extraordinary reputation, too easily acquired, and feels too constantly that it is necessary for him to make an exertion to satisfy expectation. The consequence is that, though he is always amusing, he is not always quite natural." Sir Walter Scott made a similar remark about the numbing effect of Campbell's reputation upon his literary work; his deference to critics ruined his individuality. It was Scott's admiration for "Hohenlinden" which induced Campbell to publish the poem. The two men, travelling in a stage-coach alone, beguiled the way by repeating poetry. At last Scott asked Campbell for something of his own. He replied that there was one thing he had never printed, full of "drums and trumpets and blunderbusses and thunder," and that he did not know if there was any good in it. He then repeated "Hohenlinden." When he had finished, Scott broke out with, "But, do you know, that's devilish fine! Why, it's the finest thing you ever wrote, and it 'must' be printed!"] [Footnote 6: See p. 31, note 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 181].] [Footnote 7: Douglas James William Kinnaird (1788-1830), fifth son of the seventh Baron Kinnaird, was educated at Eton, Gottingen, and Trinity College, Cambridge. He was an intimate friend of Hobhouse, with whom he travelled on the Continent (1813-14), and was in political sympathy. He represented Bishop's Castle from July, 1819, to March, 1820, but losing his seat at the general election, did not again attempt to enter Parliament. He was famous for his "mob dinners," to which Moore probably refers when he writes to Byron, in an undated letter, of the "Deipnosophist Kinnaird." He was a partner in the bank of Ransom and Morland, a member of the committee for managing Drury Lane Theatre, author of the acting version of 'The Merchant of Bruges, or Beggar's Bush' (acted at Drury Lane, December 14, 1815), and a member of the Radical Rota Club. Kinnaird was Byron's "trusty and trustworthy trustee and banker, and crown and sheet anchor." It was at his suggestion that Byron wrote the 'Hebrew Melodies' and the 'Monody on the Death of Sheridan'. Talking of Kinnaird to Lady Blessington ('Conversations', p. 215), Byron said, "My friend Dug is a proof that a good heart cannot compensate for an irritable temper; whenever he is named, people dwell on the last and pass over the first; and yet he really has an excellent heart, and a sound head, of which I, in common with many others of his friends, have had various proofs. He is clever, too, and well informed, and I do think would have made a figure in the world, were it not for his temper, which gives a dictatorial tone to his manner, that is offensive to the 'amour propre' of those with whom he mixes."] [Footnote 8: The Alfred Club (1808-55), established at 23, Albemarle Street, was the Savile of the day. Beloe, in his 'Sexagenarian' (vol. ii. chaps, xx.-xxv.), describes among the members of the Symposium, as he calls it, Sir James Mackintosh, George Ellis, William Gifford, John Reeves, Sir W. Drummond, and himself. Byron, in his 'Detached Thoughts', says, "I was a member of the Alfred. It was pleasant; a little too sober and literary, and bored with Sotheby and Sir Francis d'Ivernois; but one met Peel, and Ward, and Valentia, and many other pleasant or known people; and it was, upon the whole, a decent resource in a rainy day, in a dearth of parties, or parliament, or in an empty season." It was, says Mr. Wheatley ('London Past and Present'), known as the 'Half-read'. In a manuscript note, now for the first time printed as written, on the above passage from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts', Sir Walter Scott writes, "The Alfred, like all other clubs, was much haunted with boars, a tusky monster which delights to range where men most do congregate. A boar, or bore, is always remarkable for something respectable, such as wealth, character, high birth, acknowledged talent, or, in short, for something that forbids people to turn him out by the shoulders, or, in other words, to cut him dead. Much of this respectability is supplied by the mere circumstance of belonging to a certain society of clubists, within whose districts the bore obtains free-warren, and may wallow or grunt at pleasure. Old stagers in the club know and avoid the fated corner and arm-chair which he haunts; but he often rushes from his lair on the inexperienced."] * * * * * 214.--To Thomas Moore. December 11, 1811. My Dear Moore,--If you please, we will drop our former monosyllables, and adhere to the appellations sanctioned by our godfathers and godmothers. If you make it a point, I will withdraw your name; at the same time there is no occasion, as I have this day postponed your election 'sine die', till it shall suit your wishes to be amongst us. I do not say this from any awkwardness the erasure of your proposal would occasion to _me_, but simply such is the state of the case; and, indeed, the longer your name is up, the stronger will become your probability of success, and your voters more numerous. Of course you will decide--your wish shall be my law. If my zeal has already outrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute my officiousness to an excusable motive. I wish you would go down with me to Newstead. Hodgson will be there, and a young friend, named Harness, the earliest and dearest I ever had from the third form at Harrow to this hour. I can promise you good wine, and, if you like shooting, a manor of 4000 acres, fires, books, your own free will, and my own very indifferent company. 'Balnea, vina, Venus' [1]. Hodgson will plague you, I fear, with verse;--for my own part I will conclude, with Martial, 'nil recitabo tibi' [2]; and surely the last inducement, is not the least. Ponder on my proposition, and believe me, my dear Moore, Yours ever, BYRON. [Footnote 1: "Balnea, vina, Venus corrumpunt corpora nostra." The words are thus given in Grüter ('Corpus Inscriptionum' (1603), p. DCCCCXII. 10).] [Footnote 2: Martial (xi. lii. 16), 'Ad Julium Cerealem': "Plus ego polliceor: nil recitabo tibi."] * * * * * 215.--To Francis Hodgson. 8, St. James's Street, Dec. 12, 1811. Why, Hodgson! I fear you have left off wine and me at the same time,--I have written and written and written, and no answer! My dear Sir Edgar [1], water disagrees with you--drink sack and write. Bland did not come to his appointment, being unwell, but Moore supplied all other vacancies most delectably. I have hopes of his joining us at Newstead. I am sure you would like him more and more as he developes,--at least I do. How Miller and Bland go on, I don't know. Cawthorne talks of being in treaty for a novel of Madame D'Arblay's, and if he obtains it (at 1500 guineas!!) wishes me to see the MS. This I should read with pleasure,-- not that I should ever dare to venture a criticism on her whose writings Dr. Johnson once revised, but for the pleasure of the thing. If my worthy publisher wanted a sound opinion, I should send the MS. to Rogers and Moore, as men most alive to true taste. I have had frequent letters from Wm. Harness, and _you_ are silent; certes, you are not a schoolboy. However, I have the consolation of knowing that you are better employed, viz. reviewing. You don't deserve that I should add another syllable, and I won't. Yours, etc. P.S.--I only wait for your answer to fix our meeting. [Footnote 1: Hodgson published, in 1810, 'Sir Edgar, a Tale'.] * * * * * 216.--To R. C. Dallas. [Undated, Dec.? 1811] [1] DEAR SIR,--I have only this scrubby paper to write on--excuse it. I am certain that I sent some more notes on Spain and Portugal, particularly one on the latter. Pray rummage, and don't mind my _politics_. I believe I leave town next week. Are you better? I hope so. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: Dallas's answer is dated December 14, 1811] * * * * * 217.--To William Harness. 8, St. James's Street, Dec. 15, 1811. I wrote you an answer to your last, which, on reflection, pleases me as little as it probably has pleased yourself. I will not wait for your rejoinder; but proceed to tell you, that I had just then been greeted with an epistle of * *'s, full of his petty grievances, and this at the moment when (from circumstances it is not necessary to enter upon) I was bearing up against recollections to which _his_ imaginary sufferings are as a scratch to a cancer. These things combined, put me out of humour with him and all mankind. The latter part of my life has been a perpetual struggle against affections which embittered the earliest portion; and though I flatter myself I have in a great measure conquered them, yet there are moments (and this was one) when I am as foolish as formerly. I never said so much before, nor had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself of having been rather savage in my letter, and wish to inform you this much of the cause. You know I am not one of your dolorous gentlemen: so now let us laugh again. Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to visit Campbell [1]. He was not visible, so we jogged homeward merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with Rogers, and am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of rage at present. Last night I saw Kemble in Coriolanus [2];--he _was glorious_, and exerted himself wonderfully. By good luck I got an excellent place in the best part of the house, which was more than overflowing. Clare [3] and Delawarr [4], who were there on the same speculation, were less fortunate. I saw them by accident,--we were not together. I wished for you, to gratify your love of Shakspeare and of fine acting to its fullest extent. Last week I saw an exhibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, [5] at the Haymarket, who performed Lothario in a _damned_ and damnable manner. I told you the fate of B[land] and H[odgson] in my last. So much for these sentimentalists, who console themselves in their stews for the loss--the never to be recovered loss--the despair of the refined attachment of a couple of drabs! You censure _my_ life, Harness,--when I compare myself with these men, my elders and my betters, I really begin to conceive myself a monument of prudence--a walking statue--without feeling or failing; and yet the world in general hath given me a proud pre-eminence over them in profligacy. Yet I like the men, and, God knows, ought not to condemn their aberrations. But I own I feel provoked when they dignify all this by the name of _love_--romantic attachments for things marketable for a dollar! Dec. 16th.--I have just received your letter;--I feel your kindness very deeply. The foregoing part of my letter, written yesterday, will, I hope, account for the tone of the former, though it cannot excuse it. I do _like_ to hear from you--more than _like_. Next to seeing you, I have no greater satisfaction. But you have other duties, and greater pleasures, and I should regret to take a moment from either. H * * was to call to-day, but I have not seen him. The circumstances you mention at the close of your letter is another proof in favour of my opinion of mankind. Such you will always find them--selfish and distrustful. I except none. The cause of this is the state of society. In the world, every one is to stir for himself--it is useless, perhaps selfish, to expect any thing from his neighbour. But I do not think we are born of this disposition; for you find _friendship_ as a schoolboy, and _love_ enough before twenty. I went to see * *; he keeps me in town, where I don't wish to be at present. He is a good man, but totally without conduct. And now, my dearest William, I must wish you good morrow, and remain ever, Most sincerely and affectionately yours, etc. [Footnote 1: Campbell lived at Sydenham from 1804 to 1820. Moore (Life, p. 148) adds the following note: "On this occasion, another of the noble poet's peculiarities was, somewhat startlingly, introduced to my notice. When we were on the point of setting out from his lodgings in St. James's Street, it being then about midday, he said to the servant, who was shutting the door of the 'vis-a-vis', 'Have you put in the pistols?' and was answered in the affirmative. It was difficult,--more especially taking into account the circumstances under which we had just become acquainted,-- to keep from smiling at this singular noonday precaution."] [Footnote 2: On December 14, 1811, at Covent Garden, Kemble acted "Coriolanus" with Mrs. Siddons as "Volumnia." It was Kemble's great part, and in it he made his last appearance on the stage (June 23, 1817).] [Footnote 3: For Lord Clare, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 116, 'note' 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 65.]] [Footnote 4: For Lord Delawarr, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 41, note 1 [Footnote 5 of Letter 13.]] [Footnote 5: Robert Coates, "the Amateur of Fashion," known as "Romeo" Coates, sometimes as "Diamond" Coates, sometimes as "Cock-a-doodle-doo" Coates (1772-1848), was the only surviving son of a wealthy West Indian planter. He made his first appearance on the stage at Bath (February 9, 1810), as "Romeo." In the play-bill he was announced as "a Gentleman, 1st Appearance on any stage." Genest ('English Stage', vol. viii. p. 207) says, "Many gentlemen have been weak enough to fancy themselves actors, but no one ever persevered in obtruding himself for so long a time on the notice of the public in spite of laughter, hissing, etc." On December 9, 1811, he appeared at the Haymarket as "Lothario" in Rowe's 'Fair Penitent'. Mathews, at Covent Garden, imitated his performance, in Bate Dudley's 'At Home', as "Mr. Romeo Rantall," appearing in the "pink silk vest and cloak, white satin breeches and stockings, Spanish hat, with a rich high plume of ostrich feathers," in which Coates had played "Lothario" 'Memoirs of Charles Mathews', (vol. ii. pp. 238, 239).] * * * * * 218.--To Robert Rushton. [1] 8, St. James's Street, Jan. 21, 1812. Though I have no objection to your refusal to carry _letters_ to Mealey's, you will take care that the letters are taken by _Spero_ at the proper time. I have also to observe, that Susan is to be treated with civility, and not _insulted_ by any person over whom I have the smallest controul, or, indeed, by any one whatever, while I have the power to protect her. I am truly sorry to have any subject of complaint against _you_; I have too good an opinion of you to think I shall have occasion to repeat it, after the care I have taken of you, and my favourable intentions in your behalf. I see no occasion for any communication whatever between _you_ and the _women_, and wish you to occupy yourself in preparing for the situation in which you will be placed. If a common sense of decency cannot prevent you from conducting yourself towards them with rudeness, I should at least hope that your _own interest_, and regard for a master who has _never_ treated you with unkindness, will have some weight. Yours, etc., BYRON. P.S.--I wish you to attend to your arithmetic, to occupy yourself in surveying, measuring, and making yourself acquainted with every particular relative to the _land_ of Newstead, and you will _write_ to me _one letter every week_, that I may know how you go on. [Footnote 1: The two following letters, and a suppressed passage in the letter to Moore of January 29, 1812, refer to a quarrel among his dependents, in which Rushton, the "little page" of Childe Harold (see 'Letters', vol. i. pp. 224, 242), played a part. The story is told at considerable length in a letter to Hodgson, dated January 28, 1812. To the same affair probably belong the following scrap and Byron's note: "Pray don't forget me, as I shall never cease thinking of you, my Dearest 'and only Friend, (signed) S. H. V.'" To this Byron has added this note: "This was written on the 11th of January, 1812; on the 28th I received ample proof that the Girl had forgotten _me_ and _herself_ too. Heigho! B." The letters show, writes Moore ('Life', p. 152), "how gravely and coolly the young lord could arbitrate on such an occasion, and with what considerate leaning towards the servant whose fidelity he had proved, in preference to any new liking or fancy by which it might be suspected he was actuated toward the other." In a MS. book written by Mrs. Heath of Newstead ('née' Rebekah Beardall), it is stated that the elder Rushton had as his farm-servant Fletcher, afterwards Byron's valet. Byron watched Fletcher and young Robert Rushton ploughing, took a fancy to both, and engaged them as his servants. Rushton accompanied Byron to Geneva, but afterwards entered the service of James Wedderburn Webster (see p. 2, 'note' 1). In 1827 he married a woman of the name of Bagnall, and with her help kept a school at Arnold, near Nottingham. Subsequently he took a farm on the Newstead estate, named Hazelford, and shortly afterwards died, leaving a widow and three children.] * * * * * 219.--To Robert Rushton. 8, St. James's Street, January 25, 1812. Your refusal to carry the letter was not a subject of remonstrance: it was not a part of your business; but the language you used to the girl was (as _she_ stated it) highly improper. You say, that you also have something to complain of; then state it to me immediately: it would be very unfair, and very contrary to my disposition, not to hear both sides of the question. If any thing has passed between you _before_ or since my last visit to Newstead, do not be afraid to mention it. I am sure _you_ would not deceive me, though _she_ would. Whatever it is, _you_, shall be forgiven. I have not been without some suspicions on the subject, and am certain that, at your time of life, the blame could not attach to you. You will not _consult_, any one as to your answer, but write to me immediately. I shall be more ready to hear what you have to advance, as I do not remember ever to have heard a word from you before _against_, any human being, which convinces me you would not maliciously assert an untruth. There is not any one who can do the least injury to you, while you conduct yourself properly. I shall expect your answer immediately. Yours, etc., BYRON. * * * * * 220.--To Thomas Moore. January 29, 1812. My Dear Moore,--I wish very much I could have seen you; I am in a state of ludicrous tribulation.*** Why do you say that I dislike your poesy [1]? I have expressed no such opinion, either in _print_ or elsewhere. In scribbling myself, it was necessary for me to find fault, and I fixed upon the trite charge of immorality, because I could discover no other, and was so perfectly qualified in the innocence of my heart, to "pluck that mote from my neighbour's eye." I feel very, very much obliged by your approbation; but, at _this moment_, praise, even _your_ praise, passes by me like "the idle wind." I meant and mean to send you a copy the moment of publication; but now I can think of nothing but damned, deceitful,--delightful woman, as Mr. Liston says in the 'Knight of Snowdon' [2]? Believe me, my dear Moore, Ever yours, most affectionately, BYRON. [Footnote: 1. Of Moore's early poems Byron was an admirer. The influence of "Little" and "Anacreon" is strongly marked throughout 'Hours of Idleness'. For the "trite charge of immorality," see 'English Bards, etc.', lines 283-294; and 'Letters', vol. i. p. 113. Byron's opinion of Moore's later poetry was thus stated by him to Lady Blessington ('Conversations', pp. 354, 355): "Having compared Rogers's poems to a flower-garden, to what shall I compare Moore's?--to the Valley of Diamonds, where all is brilliant and attractive, but where one is so dazzled by the sparkling on every side that one knows not where to fix, each gem beautiful in itself, but overpowering to the eye from their quantity."] [Footnote 2: 'The Knight of Snowdoun', a musical drama, written by Thomas Morton (1764-1838), and founded on 'The Lady of the Lake', was produced at Covent Garden, Feb. 5, 1811, and published the same year. John Liston (1776-1846), the most famous comedian of the century, played the part of "Macloon," his wife that of "Isabel." In act iii. sc. 3 Macloon says, "Oh, woman! woman! deceitful, damnable, (_changing into a half-smile_) delightful woman! do all one can, there's nothing else worth thinking of."] * * * * * 221.--To Francis Hodgson. 8, St. James's Street, Feb. 1, 1812. MY DEAR HODGSON,-I am rather unwell with a vile cold, caught in the House of Lords last night. Lord Sligo and myself, being tired, _paired off_, being of opposite sides, so that nothing was gained or lost by _our_ votes. I did not speak: but I might as well, for nothing could have been inferior to the Duke of Devonshire, Marquis of Downshire, and the Earl of Fitzwilliam. The Catholic Question comes on this month, and perhaps I may then commence. I must "screw my courage to the sticking-place," and we'll _not_ fail. Yours ever, B. * * * * * 222.--To Samuel Rogers. February 4, 1812. MY DEAR SIR,--With my best acknowledgments to Lord Holland [1], I have to offer my perfect concurrence in the propriety of the question previously to be put to ministers. If their answer is in the negative, I shall, with his Lordship's approbation, give notice of a motion for a Committee of Inquiry. I would also gladly avail myself of his most able advice, and any information or documents with which he might be pleased to intrust me, to bear me out in the statement of facts it may be necessary to submit to the House. From all that fell under my own observation during my Christmas visit to Newstead, I feel convinced that, if _conciliatory_ measures are not very soon adopted, the most unhappy consequences may be apprehended. [2] Nightly outrage and daily depredation are already at their height; and not only the masters of frames, who are obnoxious on account of their occupation, but persons in no degree connected with the malecontents or their oppressors, are liable to insult and pillage. I am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken on my account, and beg you to believe me, Ever your obliged and sincere, etc. [Footnote 1: For Lord Holland, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 184, 'note' 1 [Footnote 3 of Letter 94]. He was Recorder of Nottingham; hence his special interest in the proposed legislation against frame-breaking.] [Footnote 2: Owing to the state of trade, numbers of stocking-weavers had lost work. The discontent thus produced was increased by the introduction of a wide frame for the manufacture of gaiters and stockings, which, it was supposed, would further diminish the demand for manual labour. In November, 1811, organized bands of men began to break into houses and destroy machinery. For several days no serious effort was made to check the riots, which extended to a considerable distance round Nottingham. But on November 14 the soldiers were called out. Between that date and December 9, 900 cavalry and 1000 infantry were sent to Nottingham; and, on January 8, 1812, these forces were increased by two additional regiments. The rioters assumed the name of Luddites, and their leader was known as General Lud. The name is said to have originated in 1779, in a Leicestershire village, where a half-witted lad, named Ned Lud, broke a stocking-frame in a fit of passion; hence the common saying, when machinery was broken, that "Ned Lud" did it. A Bill was introduced in the House of Commons (February 14) increasing the severity of punishments for frame-breaking. On the second reading (February 17) Sir Samuel Romilly strongly opposed the measure, which passed its third reading (February 20) without a division. The Bill, as introduced into the Upper House by Lord Liverpool, (1) rendered the offence of frame-breaking punishable by death; and (2) compelled persons in whose houses the frames were broken to give information to the magistrates. On the second reading of the Bill (February 27, 1812), Byron spoke against it in his first speech in the House of Lords (see Appendix II. (i)). The Bill passed its third reading on March 5, and became law as 52 Geo. III. c. 16. Byron did not confine his opposition to a speech in the House of Lords. He also addressed "An Ode to the Framers of the Frame Bill," which appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' on Monday, March 2, 1812. The following letter to Perry, the editor, is published by permission of Messrs. Ellis and Elvey, in whose possession is the original: "Sir,--I take the liberty of sending an alteration of the two last lines of Stanza 2'd which I wish to run as follows, "'Gibbets on Sherwood will _heighten_ the Scenery Shewing how Commerce, _how_ Liberty thrives!' "I wish you could insert it tomorrow for a particular reason; but I feel much obliged by your inserting it at all. Of course, do not put _my name_ to the thing. Believe me, Your obliged and very obed't Serv't, BYRON. "8, St. James Street, Sunday, March 1st, 1812."] * * * * * 223.--To Master John Cowell. [1] 8, St. James's Street, February 12, 1812. MY DEAR JOHN,--You have probably long ago forgotten the writer of these lines, who would, perhaps, be unable to recognize _yourself_, from the difference which must naturally have taken place in your stature and appearance since he saw you last. I have been rambling through Portugal, Spain, Greece, etc., etc., for some years, and have found so many changes on my return, that it would be very unfair not to expect that you should have had your share of alteration and improvement with the rest. I write to request a favour of you: a little boy of eleven years, the son of Mr. **, my particular friend, is about to become an Etonian, and I should esteem any act of protection or kindness to him as an obligation to myself: let me beg of you then to take some little notice of him at first, till he is able to shift for himself. I was happy to hear a very favourable account of you from a schoolfellow a few weeks ago, and should be glad to learn that your family are as well as I wish them to be. I presume you are in the upper school;--as an _Etonian_, you will look down upon a _Harrow_ man; but I never, even in my boyish days, disputed your superiority, which I once experienced in a cricket match, where I had the honour of making one of eleven, who were beaten to their hearts' content by your college in _one innings_. [2] Believe me to be, with great truth, etc., etc., B. [Footnote 1: "Breakfasted with Mr. Cowell," writes Moore, in his Diary, June 11, 1828, "having made his acquaintance for the purpose of gaining information about Lord Byron. Knew Byron for the first time when he himself was a little boy, from being in the habit of playing with B.'s dogs. Byron wrote to him to school to bid him mind his prosody. Gave me two or three of his letters to him. Saw a good deal of B. at Hastings; mentioned the anecdote about the ink-bottle striking one of the lead Muses. These Muses had been brought from Holland; and there were, I think, only eight of them arrived safe. Fletcher had brought B. a large jar of ink, and, not thinking it was full, B. had thrust his pen down to the very bottom; his anger at finding it come out all besmeared with ink made him chuck the jar out of the window, when it knocked down one of the Muses in the garden, and deluged her with ink. In 1813, when B. was at Salt Hill, he had Cowell over from Eton, and 'pouched' him no less than ten pounds. Cowell has ever since kept one of the notes. Told me a curious anecdote of Byron's mentioning to him, as if it had made a great impression on him, their seeing Shelley (as they thought) walking into a little wood at Lerici, when it was discovered afterwards that Shelley was at that time in quite another direction. 'This,' said Byron, in a sort of awe-struck voice, 'was about ten days before his death.' Cowell's imitation of his look and manner very striking. Thinks that in Byron's speech to Fletcher, when he was dying, threatening to appear to him, there was a touch of that humour and fun which he was accustomed to mix up with everything". ('Memoirs, Journals, etc'., vol. v. pp. 302, 303).] [Footnote 2: See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 70, and 'note' 1 [Footnote 2 of Letter 30.]] * * * * * 224.--To Francis Hodgson. 8, St. James's Street, February 16, 1812. Dear Hodgson,--I send you a proof. Last week I was very ill and confined to bed with stone in the kidney, but I am now quite recovered. The women are gone to their relatives, after many attempts to explain what was already too clear. If the stone had got into my heart instead of my kidneys, it would have been all the better. However, I have quite recovered _that_ also, and only wonder at my folly in excepting my own strumpets from the general corruption,--albeit a two months' weakness is better than ten years. I have one request to make, which is, never mention a woman again in any letter to me, or even allude to the existence of the sex. I won't even read a word of the feminine gender;--it must all be 'propria quæ maribus'. In the spring of 1813 I shall leave England for ever. Every thing in my affairs tends to this, and my inclinations and health do not discourage it. Neither my habits nor constitution are improved by your customs or your climate. I shall find employment in making myself a good Oriental scholar. I shall retain a mansion in one of the fairest islands, and retrace, at intervals, the most interesting portions of the East. In the mean time, I am adjusting my concerns, which will (when arranged) leave me with wealth sufficient even for home, but enough for a principality in Turkey. At present they are involved, but I hope, by taking some necessary but unpleasant steps, to clear every thing. Hobhouse is expected daily in London: we shall be very glad to see him; and, perhaps, you will come up and "drink deep ere he depart," if not, "Mahomet must go to the mountain;" [1]--but Cambridge will bring sad recollections to him, and worse to me, though for very different reasons. I believe the only human being, that ever loved me in truth and entirely, was of, or belonging to, Cambridge, and, in that, no change can now take place. There is one consolation in death--where he sets his seal, the impression can neither be melted nor broken, but endureth for ever. Yours always, B. P.S.--I almost rejoice when one I love dies young, for I could never bear to see them old or altered. [Footnote 1: See Bacon's 'Essays' ("Of Boldness"): "Mahomet made the people believe that he would call a hill to him, and from the top of it offer up his prayers for the observers of his law. The people assembled; Mahomet called the hill to come to him, again and again; and when the hill stood still, he was never a whit abashed, but said, 'If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill.'"] * * * * * 225.--To Francis Hodgson. London, February 21, 1812. My Dear Hodgson,--There is a book entituled _Galt, his Travels in ye Archipelago_, [1] daintily printed by Cadell and Davies, ye which I could desiderate might be criticised by you, inasmuch as ye author is a well-respected esquire of mine acquaintance, but I fear will meet with little mercy as a writer, unless a friend passeth judgment. Truth to say, ye boke is ye boke of a cock-brained man, and is full of devises crude and conceitede, but peradventure for my sake this grace may be vouchsafed unto him. Review him myself I can not, will not, and if you are likewize hard of heart, woe unto ye boke! ye which is a comely quarto. Now then! I have no objection to review, if it pleases Griffiths [2] to send books, or rather _you_, for you know the sort of things I like to [play] with. You will find what I say very serious as to my intentions. I have every reason to induce me to return to Ionia. Believe me, yours always, B. [Footnote 1: John Galt (1779-1839) published in 1812 his 'Voyages and Travels in the Years 1809, 1810, and 1811'. For his meeting with Byron at Gibraltar in 1809, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 243, 'note' 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 130]; see also 'ibid.', p. 304, 'note' 2 [Footnote 2 of Letter 131]. Galt's novels were, in later years, liked by Byron, who "praised the 'Annals of the Parish' very highly, as also 'The Entail' ... some scenes of which, he said, had affected him very much. 'The characters in Mr. Galt's novels have an identity,' added Byron, 'that reminds me of Wilkie's pictures'" (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations with Lord Byron', p. 74). "When I knew Galt, years ago," said Byron to Lady Blessington, "I was not in a frame of mind to form an impartial opinion of him: his mildness and equanimity struck me even then; but, to say the truth, his manner had not deference enough for my then aristocratical taste, and finding I could not awe him into a respect sufficiently profound for my sublime self, either as a peer or an author, I felt a little grudge towards him that has now completely worn off," etc., etc. ('ibid.', p. 249).] [Footnote 2: George Edward Griffiths (circ. 1769-1829), son of Ralph Griffiths, who founded, owned, and published the 'Monthly Review', and boarded and lodged Oliver Goldsmith as a contributor, succeeded to the management of the 'Review' on the death of his father in 1803. He edited it till 1825, when he sold the property. He lived at Linden House, Turnham Green. Francis Hodgson wrote for the 'Monthly Review', and, March 2, 1814, he writes to Byron, "I have already read a review of Safie in the 'British Critic', and will undertake it in the 'Monthly' if Griffiths, with whom I am in very bad odour from my late shameful idleness, will allow me. Oh that you would write a good smart critique of something to get both 'yourself and me' in high repute at Turnham Green!!!!" In Byron's 'Detached Thoughts' occurs the following passage: "I have been a reviewer. In the 'Monthly Review' I wrote some articles which were inserted. This was in the latter part of 1811. In 1807, in a Magazine called 'Monthly Literary Recreations', I reviewed Wordsworth's trash of that time. "Excepting these, I cannot accuse myself of anonymous Criticism (that I recollect), though I have been 'offered' more than one review in our principal Journals." In the Bodleian Library is a copy of the 'Monthly Review', in which Griffiths has entered the initials of the authors of each article. Two articles from the 'Review', attributed to Byron on this authority, are given in Appendix I.] * * * * * 226.--To Lord Holland. 8, St. James's Street, February 25, 1812. MY LORD,--With my best thanks, I have the honour to return the Notts, letter to your Lordship. I have read it with attention, but do not think I shall venture to avail myself of its contents, as my view of the question differs in some measure from Mr. Coldham's. I hope I do not wrong him, but _his_ objections to the bill appear to me to be founded on certain apprehensions that he and his coadjutors might be mistaken for the "_original advisers_" (to quote him) of the measure. For my own part, I consider the manufacturers as a much injured body of men, sacrificed to the views of certain individuals who have enriched themselves by those practices which have deprived the frame-workers of employment. For instance;--by the adoption of a certain kind of frame, one man performs the work of seven--six are thus thrown out of business. But it is to be observed that the work thus done is far inferior in quality, hardly marketable at home, and hurried over with a view to exportation. Surely, my Lord, however we may rejoice in any improvement in the arts which may be beneficial to mankind, we must not allow mankind to be sacrificed to improvements in mechanism. The maintenance and well-doing of the industrious poor is an object of greater consequence to the community than the enrichment of a few monopolists by any improvement in the implements of trade, which deprives the workman of his bread, and renders the labourer "unworthy of his hire." My own motive for opposing the bill is founded on its palpable injustice, and its certain inefficacy. I have seen the state of these miserable men, and it is a disgrace to a civilized country. Their excesses may be condemned, but cannot be subject of wonder. The effect of the present bill would be to drive them into actual rebellion. The few words I shall venture to offer on Thursday will be founded upon these opinions formed from my own observations on the spot. By previous inquiry, I am convinced these men would have been restored to employment, and the county to tranquillity. It is, perhaps, not yet too late, and is surely worth the trial. It can never be too late to employ force in such circumstances. I believe your Lordship does not coincide with me entirely on this subject, and most cheerfully and sincerely shall I submit to your superior judgment and experience, and take some other line of argument against the bill, or be silent altogether, should you deem it more advisable. Condemning, as every one must condemn, the conduct of these wretches, I believe in the existence of grievances which call rather for pity than punishment. I have the honour to be, with great respect, my Lord, your Lordship's Most obedient and obliged servant, BYRON. P.S.--I am a little apprehensive that your Lordship will think me too lenient towards these men, and half a _frame-breaker myself_. * * * * * 227.--To Francis Hodgson. 8, St. James's Street, March 5, 1812. MY DEAR HODGSON,--_We_ are not answerable for reports of speeches in the papers; they are always given incorrectly, and on this occasion more so than usual, from the debate in the Commons on the same night. The _Morning Post_ should have said _eighteen years_. However, you will find the speech, as spoken, in the Parliamentary Register, when it comes out. Lords Holland and Grenville, particularly the latter, paid me some high compliments in the course of their speeches, as you may have seen in the papers, and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered me. I have had many marvellous eulogies [1] repeated to me since, in person and by proxy, from divers persons _ministerial_--yea, _ministerial!_--as well as oppositionists; of them I shall only mention Sir F. Burdett. _He_ says it is the best speech by a _lord_ since the "_Lord_ knows when," probably from a fellow-feeling in the sentiments. Lord H. tells me I shall beat them all if I persevere; and Lord G. remarked that the construction of some of my periods are very like _Burke's!!_ And so much for vanity. I spoke very violent sentences with a sort of modest impudence, abused every thing and every body, and put the Lord Chancellor very much out of humour: and if I may believe what I hear, have not lost any character by the experiment. As to my delivery, loud and fluent enough, perhaps a little theatrical. I could not recognize myself or any one else in the newspapers [2]. I hire myself unto Griffiths, and my poesy [3] comes out on Saturday. Hobhouse is here; I shall tell him to write. My stone is gone for the present, but I fear is part of my habit. We _all_ talk of a visit to Cambridge. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: For Byron's speech, February 27, 1812, see Appendix II. (i).] Grenville said, "There never was a maxim of greater wisdom than that uttered by the noble lord [Byron] who had so ably addressed their lordships that night for the first time" ('Hansard', vol. xxi. p. 977). Moore quotes a passage from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts': "Sheridan's liking for me (whether he was not mystifying me I do not know, but Lady Caroline Lamb and others told me that he said the same both before and after he knew me) was founded upon 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. He told me that he did not care about poetry (or about mine--at least, any but 'that' poem of mine), but he was sure, from 'that' and other symptoms, I should make an orator, if I would but take to speaking, and grow a parliament man. He never ceased harping upon this to me to the last; and I remember my old tutor, Dr. Drury, had the same notion when I was a 'boy'; but it never was my turn of inclination to try. I spoke once or twice, as all young peers do, as a kind of introduction into public life; but dissipation, shyness, haughty and reserved opinions, together with the short time I lived in England after my majority (only about five years in all), prevented me from resuming the experiment. As far as it went, it was not discouraging, particularly my 'first' speech (I spoke three or four times in all); but just after it, my poem of 'Childe Harold' was published, and nobody ever thought about my 'prose' afterwards, nor indeed did I; it became to me a secondary and neglected object, though I sometimes wonder to myself if I should have succeeded."] [Footnote 2: Byron, writing to John Hanson, February 28, 1812, says: "Dear Sir,--In the report of my speech (which by the bye is given very incorrectly) in the 'M[orning] Herald', 'Day', and 'B[ritish] Press', they state that I mentioned 'Bristol', a place I never saw in my life and knew nothing of whatever, nor 'mentioned' at all last night. Will you be good enough to send to these 'papers' 'immediately', and have the mistake corrected, or I shall get into a scrape with the Bristol people? "I am, yours very truly, "B."] [Footnote 3: 'Childe Harold', Cantos I., II.] * * * * * 228.--To Lord Holland. St. James's Street, March 5, 1812. MY LORD,--May I request your Lordship to accept a copy of the thing which accompanies this note [1]? You have already so fully proved the truth of the first line of Pope's couplet [2], "Forgiveness to the injured doth belong," that I long for an opportunity to give the lie to the verse that follows. If I were not perfectly convinced that any thing I may have formerly uttered in the boyish rashness of my misplaced resentment had made as little impression as it deserved to make, I should hardly have the confidence--perhaps your Lordship may give it a stronger and more appropriate appellation--to send you a quarto of the same scribbler. But your Lordship, I am sorry to observe to-day, is troubled with the gout; if my book can produce a _laugh_ against itself or the author, it will be of some service. If it can set you to _sleep_, the benefit will be yet greater; and as some facetious personage observed half a century ago, that "poetry is a mere drug," [3] I offer you mine as a humble assistant to the _eau medicinale_. I trust you will forgive this and all my other buffooneries, and believe me to be, with great respect, Your Lordship's obliged and sincere servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: 'Childe Harold' was published March 1, 1812. Another copy of 'Childe Harold' was sent to Mrs. Leigh, with the following inscription: "To Augusta, my dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever loved me much better than I deserved, this volume is presented by her _father's_ son, and most affectionate brother, B." The effect which the poem instantly produced is best expressed in Byron's own memorandum: "I awoke one morning and found myself famous." He was only just twenty-three years old. "The subject," says Elizabeth, Duchess of Devonshire ('Two Duchesses', pp. 375, 376), "of conversation, of curiosity, of enthusiasm almost, one might say, of the moment is not Spain or Portugal, Warriors or Patriots, but Lord Byron!" "He returned," she continues, "sorry for the severity of some of his lines (in the 'English Bards'), and with a new poem, 'Childe Harold', which he published. This poem is on every table, and himself courted, visited, flattered, and praised whenever he appears. He has a pale, sickly, but handsome countenance, a bad figure, and, in short, he is really the only topic almost of every conversation--the men jealous of him, the women of each other." "Lord Byron," writes Lady Harriet Leveson Gower to the Duke of Devonshire, May 10, 1812 ('Letters of Harriet, Countess Granville', vol. i. p. 34), "is still upon a pedestal, and Caroline William doing homage. I have made acquaintance with him. He is agreeable, but I feel no wish for any further intimacy. His countenance is fine when it is in repose; but the moment it is in play, suspicious, malignant, and consequently repulsive. His manner is either remarkably gracious and conciliatory, with a tinge of affectation, or irritable and impetuous, and then, I am afraid, perfectly natural." Rogers ('Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', pp. 232, 233) says, "After Byron had become the 'rage', I was frequently amused at the manoeuvres of certain noble ladies to get acquainted with him by means of me; for instance, I would receive a note from Lady----, requesting the pleasure of my company on a particular evening, with a postscript, 'Pray, could you not contrive to bring Lord Byron with you?' Once, at a great party given by Lady Jersey, Mrs. Sheridan ran up to me and said, 'Do, as a favour, try if you can place Lord Byron beside me at supper!'"] [Footnote 2: "Forgiveness to the injured does belong, But they ne'er pardon, who have done the wrong." Dryden's 'Conquest of Grenada', part ii. act i. sc. 2.] [Footnote 3: Murphy, in sc. 1 of 'The Way to Keep Him' (1760), uses the word in the same sense; "A wife's a drug now; mere tar-water, with every virtue under heaven, but nobody takes it."] * * * * * CHAPTER VI. MARCH, 1812--MAY, 1813. THE IDOL OF SOCIETY--THE DRURY LANE ADDRESS--SECOND SPEECH IN PARLIAMENT. * * * * * 229.--To Thomas Moore. With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's loss, no unfair play was hinted at, as may be seen by referring to the book [1]; and it is expressly added that the managers _were ignorant_ of that transaction. As to the prevalence of play at the Argyle, it cannot be denied that there were _billiards_ and _dice_;--Lord B. has been a witness to the use of both at the Argyle Rooms. These, it is presumed, come under the denomination of play. If play be allowed, the President of the Institution can hardly complain of being termed the "Arbiter of Play,"--or what becomes of his authority? Lord B. has no personal animosity to Colonel Greville. A public institution, to which he himself was a subscriber, he considered himself to have a right to notice _publickly_. Of that institution Colonel Greville was the avowed director;--it is too late to enter into the discussion of its merits or demerits. Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, for the real or supposed injury, to Colonel G.'s friend and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord B.--begging them to recollect that, while they consider Colonel G.'s honour, Lord B. must also maintain his own. If the business can be settled amicably, Lord B. will do as much as can and ought to be done by a man of honour towards conciliation;--if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in the manner most conducive to his further wishes. [Footnote 1: Byron, in 'English Bards, etc.' (lines 638-667), had alluded to Colonel Greville, Manager of the Argyle Institution: "Or hail at once the patron and the pile Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle," etc. In a note he had also referred to "Billy" Way's loss of several thousand pounds in the Rooms. On his return from abroad, Colonel Greville demanded satisfaction through his friend Gould Francis Leckie. Byron referred Leckie to Moore, and sent Moore the above paper for his guidance. The affair was amicably settled. In his 'Detached Thoughts' occurs the following passage:-- "I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have always contrived to settle the business without compromising the honour of the parties, or leading them to mortal consequences, and this, too, sometimes in very difficult and delicate circumstances, and having to deal with very hot and haughty spirits,--Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, captains, and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, of course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed company. I have had to carry challenges from gentlemen to noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to counsellors, and once from a clergyman to an officer in the Life Guards; but I found the latter by far the most difficult: "'to compose The bloody duel without blows,' "the business being about a woman: I must add, too, that I never saw a _woman_ behave so ill, like a cold-blooded, heartless b----as she was,--but very handsome for all that. A certain Susan C----was she called. I never saw her but once; and that was to induce her but to say two words (which in no degree compromised herself), and which would have had the effect of saving a priest or a lieutenant of cavalry. She would _not_ say them, and neither Nepean nor myself [the son of Sir Evan Nepean, and a friend to one of the parties] could prevail upon her to say them, though both of us used to deal in some sort with womankind. At last I managed to quiet the combatants without her talisman, and, I believe, to her great disappointment: she was the damnedest b----that I ever saw, and I have seen a great many. Though my clergyman was sure to lose either his life or his living, he was as warlike as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly be pacified; but then he was in love, and that is a martial passion." One challenge from a gentleman to a nobleman was that of Scrope Davies to Lord Foley, in 1813; but Byron succeeded in arranging the matter. That from a lawyer to a counsellor was in 1815, from John Hanson to Serjeant Best, afterwards Lord Wynford, and arose out of the marriage of Miss Hanson to Lord Portsmouth; this quarrel was also settled by Byron. The case of the clergyman was that of the Rev. Robert Bland, whose mistress, during his absence in Holland, left him for an officer in the Guards (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 197, end of 'note' [Footnote 1 of Letter 102] on Francis Hodgson). Byron was himself a fair shot with a pistol. "When in London," writes Gronow ('Reminiscences', vol. i. p. 152), "Byron used to go to Manton's shooting-gallery, in Davies Street, to try his hand, as he said, at a wafer. Wedderburn Webster was present when the poet, intensely delighted with his own skill, boasted to Joe Manton that he considered himself the best shot in London. 'No, my lord,' replied Manton, 'not the best; but your shooting to-day was respectable.' Whereupon Byron waxed wroth, and left the shop in a violent passion."] * * * * * 230.--To William Bankes. My dear Bankes,--My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner might inadvertently be, the change was as unintentional as (if intended) it would have been ungrateful. I really was not aware that, while we were together, I had evinced such caprices; that we were not so much in each other's company as I could have wished, I well know, but I think so _acute an observer_ as yourself must have perceived enough to _explain this_, without supposing any slight to one in whose society I have pride and pleasure. Recollect that I do not allude here to "extended" or "extending" acquaintances, but to circumstances you will understand, I think, on a little reflection. And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, otherwise than I trust we have long thought. You told me not long ago that my temper was improved, and I should be sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your friendship is of more account to me than all those absurd vanities in which, I fear, you conceive me to take too much interest. I have never disputed your superiority, or doubted (seriously) your good will, and no one shall ever "make mischief between us" without the sincere regret on the part of your ever affectionate, etc. P.S.--I shall see you, I hope, at Lady Jersey's [1]. Hobhouse goes also. [Footnote 1: George Child-Villiers (1773-1859), "in manners and appearance 'le plus grand seigneur' of his time," succeeded his father, "the Prince of Maccaronies," in 1805, as fifth Earl of Jersey. He was twice Lord Chamberlain to William IV., and twice Master of the Horse to Queen Victoria. He married, in 1804, Lady Sarah Sophia Fane, eldest daughter of John, tenth Earl of Westmorland, and heiress, through her mother, 'née' Sarah Anne Child, of the fortune of her grandfather, Robert Child, the banker. Lady Jersey for many years reigned supreme, by her beauty and wit, in London society, "the veriest tyrant," said Byron, "that ever governed Fashion's fools, and compelled them to shake their caps and bells as she willed it." At Almack's, where, according to Gronow ('Reminiscences', vol. i. p. 32), she introduced the quadrille after Waterloo, she was a despot. 'Almack's', the very clever and personal picture of fashionable life, published in 1826, is dedicated "To that most Distinguished and Despotic Conclave, composed of their High Mightinesses the Ladies Patronesses of the Balls at Almack's, the Rulers of Fashion, the Arbiters of Taste, the Leaders of 'Ton', and the Makers of Manners, whose Sovereign sway over 'the world' of London has long been established on the firmest basis, whose Decrees are Laws, and from whose judgment there is no appeal." Over this "Willis Coalition Cabinet" Lady Jersey, as "Lady Hauton," is described as reigning supreme. "She knew more than any person I ever met with, and both everything and everybody; she could quiz and she could flatter." "Treat people like fools," she is supposed to say, "and they will worship you; stoop to make up to them, and they will directly tread you underfoot." Ticknor ('Life', vol. i. p. 269) speaks of her as a "beautiful creature, with a great deal of talent, taste, and elegant knowledge." He was at Almack's, in 1819, and standing close to Lady Jersey, then at the height of beauty and brilliant talent, a leader in society, and with decided political opinions, when she refused the Duke of Wellington admittance. The lady patronesses had made a rule to admit no one after eleven o'clock. When the rule first came into operation, Ticknor heard one of the attendants announce that the Duke of Wellington was at the door. "What o'clock is it?" Lady Jersey asked. "Seven minutes after eleven, your ladyship." She paused a moment, and then said, with emphasis and distinctness, "Give my compliments,--give Lady Jersey's compliments to the Duke of Wellington, and say that she is very glad that the first enforcement of the rule of exclusion is such that hereafter no one can complain of its application. He cannot be admitted" ('ibid'., vol. i. pp. 296, 297). Politically, Lady Jersey was a power. Such an entry as the following sounds strange to modern readers: Dining at Lord Holland's, in 1835, in company with Lord Melbourne, Lord Grey, and other prominent politicians, Ticknor notes that "public business was much talked about--the corporation bill, the motion for admitting Dissenters to the universities, etc., etc.; and as to the last, when the question arose whether it would be debated on Tuesday night, it was admitted to be doubtful whether Lady Jersey would not succeed in getting it postponed, as she has a grand dinner that evening" ('Life', vol. i. pp. 409, 410). Lady Jersey, whose mother-in-law, 'née' Frances Twyden, had been a bitter opponent of the Princess of Wales, provoked the wrath of the Regent by espousing the cause of his wife. The Prince was determined to break off this friendship with his wife's champion, and sent a letter to her by the hand of Colonel Willis, announcing his determination. Some time later they met at a great party given by Henry Hope in Cavendish Square. Lady Jersey was walking with Rogers in the gallery, when they met the Prince, who "stopped for a moment, and then, drawing himself up, marched past her with a look of the utmost disdain. Lady Jersey returned the look to the full; and, as soon as the Prince was gone, said to me, with a smile, 'Didn't I do it well?'" ('Table Talk of Samuel Rogers', pp. 267, 268). From this same change of feeling arose the incident which Byron celebrated in his Condolatory Address "On the Occasion of the Prince Regent Returning her Picture to Mrs. Mee." The lines were enclosed with a letter which is printed at the date May 29, 1814. "Pegasus is, perhaps, the only horse of whose paces," said Byron ('Conversations with Lady Blessington', p. 51), "Lord [Jersey] could not be a judge." Of Lady Jersey he says ('ibid'., p. 50), "Of all that coterie, Madame [de Stael], after Lady [Jersey], was the best; at least I thought so, for these two ladies were the only ones who ventured to protect me when all London was crying out against me on the separation, and they behaved courageously and kindly ... Poor dear Lady [Jersey]! Does she still retain her beautiful cream-coloured complexion and raven hair? I used to long to tell her that she spoiled her looks by her excessive animation; for eyes, tongue, head, and arms were all in movement at once, and were only relieved from their active service by want of respiration," etc., etc.] * * * * * 231.--To Thomas Moore. March 25, 1812. Know all men by these presents, that you, Thomas Moore, stand indicted--no--invited, by special and particular solicitation, to Lady Caroline Lamb's [1] tomorrow evening, at half-past nine o'clock, where you will meet with a civil reception and decent entertainment. Pray, come--I was so examined after you this morning, that I entreat you to answer in person. Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: Lady Caroline Lamb (1785-1828), the "Calantha Avondale" of her own 'Glenarvon', was the daughter of Frederick Ponsonby, third Earl of Bessborough, by his wife, Lady Henrietta Frances Spencer, sister of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. She was brought up, partly in Italy under the care of a servant, partly by her grandmother, the wife of John, first Earl Spencer. She married, June 3, 1805, William Lamb, afterwards Lord Melbourne. Her manuscript commonplace-book is in the possession of the Hon. G. Ponsonby. A few pages are taken up with a printed copy of the 'Essay on the Progressive Improvement of Mankind', with which her husband won the declamation prize at Trinity, Cambridge, in 1798. The rest of the volume consists of some 200 pages filled with prose, and verse, and sketches. It begins with a list of her nicknames--"Sprite," "Young Savage," "Ariel," "Squirrel," etc. Then follow the secret language of an imaginary order; her first verses, written at the age of thirteen; scraps of poetry, original and extracted, in French, Italian, and English; a long fragment of a wild romantic story of a girl's seduction by an infidel nobleman. A clever sketch in water-colour of William Lamb and of herself, after their marriage, is followed by verses on the birth of her son, "little "Augustus," August 23, 1807. The last stanza of a poem, which has nothing to commend it except the feelings of the wife and mother which it expresses, runs thus: "His little eyes like William's shine; How great is then my joy, For, while I call this darling mine, I see 'tis William's boy!" The most ambitious effort in the volume is a poem, illustrated with pictures in water colours, such as 'L'Amour se cache sous le voile d'Amitié, or l'Innocence le recoit dans ses bras'; a third, in the style of Blake, bears the inscription 'le Désespoir met fin à ses jours'. The poem opens with the following lines: "Winged with Hope and hushed with Joy, See yon wanton, blue-eyed Boy,-- Arch his smile, and keen his dart,-- Aim at Laura's youthful heart! How could he his wiles disguise? How deceive such watchful eyes? How so pure a breast inspire, Set so young a Mind on fire? 'Twas because to raise the flame Love bethought of friendship's name. Under this false guise he told her That he lived but to behold her. How could she his fault discover When he often vowed to love her? How could she her heart defend When he took the name of friend?" Dates are seldom affixed to the compositions, and it is impossible to say whether any are autobiographical. But, taken as a whole, they reveal a clever, romantic, impulsive, imaginative woman, whose pet names describe at once the charm of her character and the fascination of her small, slight figure, "golden hair, large hazel eyes," and low musical voice. Her marriage with William Lamb, June 3, seems to have been at first kept secret. Lord Minto in August, 1805 ('Life and Letters', vol. iii. p. 361), speaks of her as unmarried, and adds that she is "a lively and rather a pretty girl; they say she is very clever." Augustus Foster, writing to his mother, Lady Elizabeth Foster, July 30, 1805 ('The Two Duchesses', p. 233), says, "I cannot fancy Lady Caroline married. I cannot be glad of it. How changed she must be--the delicate Ariel, the little Fairy Queen become a wife and soon perhaps a mother." Lady Elizabeth replies, September 30, 1805 ('ibid'., p. 242): "You may retract all your sorrow about Caro Ponsonby's marriage, for she is the same wild, delicate, odd, delightful person, unlike everything." Lady Caroline and William Lamb are described by Lady Elizabeth, three months later, as "flirting all day long 'è felice adesso'." The phrase, perhaps, correctly expresses Lady Caroline's conception of love as an episode; but no breach occurred till 1813. In the previous year, when Byron had suddenly risen to the height of his fame, she had refused to be introduced by Lady Westmorland to the man of whom she made the famous entry in her Diary "mad, bad, and dangerous to know." But they met, a few days later, at Holland House, and Byron called on her in Whitehall, where for the next four months he was a daily visitor. On blue-bordered paper, embossed at the corners with scallop-shells, she wrote to Byron at an early stage in their acquaintance, the letter numbered 1 in Appendix III. For the sequel to the story of their friendship, see Byron's letter to Lady Caroline, p. 135, 'note' 1, and Appendix III.] * * * * * 232.--To Lady Caroline Lamb. [Undated.] I never supposed you artful: we are all selfish,--nature did that for us. But even when you attempt deceit occasionally, you cannot maintain it, which is all the better; want of success will curb the tendency. Every word you utter, every line you write, proves you to be either _sincere_ or a _fool_. Now as I know you are not the one, I must believe you the other. I never knew a woman with greater or more pleasing talents, _general_ as in a woman they should be, something of everything, and too much of nothing. But these are unfortunately coupled with a total want of common conduct. [1] For instance, the _note_ to your _page_--do you suppose I delivered it? or did you mean that I should? I did not of course. Then your heart, my poor Caro (what a little volcano!), that pours _lava_ through your veins; and yet I cannot wish it a bit colder, to make a _marble slab_ of, as you sometimes see (to understand my foolish metaphor) brought in vases, tables, etc., from Vesuvius, when hardened after an eruption. To drop my detestable tropes and figures, you know I have always thought you the cleverest, most agreeable, absurd, amiable, perplexing, dangerous, fascinating little being that lives now, or ought to have lived 2000 years ago. I won't talk to you of beauty; I am no judge. But our beauties cease to be so when near you, and therefore you have either some, or something better. And now, Caro, this nonsense is the first and last compliment (if it be such) I ever paid you. You have often reproached me as wanting in that respect; but others will make up the deficiency. Come to Lord Grey's; at least do not let me keep you away. All that you so often _say_, I _feel_. Can more be said or felt? This same prudence is tiresome enough; but one _must_ maintain it, or what _can_ one do to be saved? Keep to it. [Footnote 1: The following letter from Lady Caroline to Fletcher, Byron's valet, illustrates the statement in the text: "FLETCHER,--Will you come and see me here some evening at 9, and no one will know of it. You may say you bring a letter, and wait the answer. I will send for you in. But I will let you know first, for I wish to speak with you. I also want you to take the little Foreign Page I shall send in to see Lord Byron. Do not tell him before-hand, but, when he comes with flowers, shew him in. I shall not come myself, unless just before he goes away; so do not think it is me. Besides, you will see this is quite a child, only I wish him to see my Lord if you can contrive it, which, if you tell me what hour is most convenient, will be very easy. I go out of Town to-morrow for a day or two, and I am now quite well--at least much better."] * * * * * 233.--To William Bankes. April 20, 1812. MY DEAR BANKES,--I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech you made to me last night, and my hope is that it was only one of your _profane_ jests. I should be very sorry that any part of my behaviour should give you cause to suppose that I think higher of myself, or otherwise of you than I have always done. I can assure you that I am as much the humblest of your servants as at Trin. Coll.; and if I have not been at home when you favoured me with a call, the loss was more mine than yours. In the bustle of buzzing parties, there is, there can be, no rational conversation; but when I can enjoy it, there is nobody's I can prefer to your own. Believe me, ever faithfully and most affectionately yours, BYRON. * * * * * 234.--To Thomas Moore. Friday noon. I should have answered your note yesterday, but I hoped to have seen you this morning. I must consult with you about the day we dine with Sir Francis [1]. I suppose we shall meet at Lady Spencer's [2] to-night. I did not know that you were at Miss Berry's [3] the other night, or I should have certainly gone there. As usual, I am in all sorts of scrapes, though none, at present, of a martial description. Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: Probably with Sir Francis Burdett, at 77, Piccadilly.] [Footnote 2: Grandmother of Lady Caroline Lamb.] [Footnote 3: Mary Berry (1763-1852), the friend and editor of Horace Walpole, whom she might have married, lived at Little Strawberry Hill, and in North Audley Street, London. In her Journal Miss Berry mentions two occasions on which she met Byron. The first was Thursday, April 2, 1812, at Lord Glenbervie's. "I had a quarter of an hour's conversation, which, I own, gave me a great desire to know him better, and he seemed willing that I should do so." The second occasion was May 7, 1812. "At the end of the evening I had half an hour's conversation with Lord Byron, principally on the subject of the Scotch Review, with which he is very much pleased. He is a singular man, and pleasant to me but I very much fear that his head begins to be turned by all the adoration of the world, especially the women" ('Journal and Correspondence of Miss Berry', vol. ii. pp. 496, 497).] * * * * * 235.--To Lady Caroline Lamb. May 1st, 1812. MY DEAR LADY CAROLINE,-I have read over the few poems of Miss Milbank [1] with attention. They display fancy, feeling, and a little practice would very soon induce facility of expression. Though I have an abhorrence of Blank Verse, I like the lines on Dermody [2] so much that I wish they were in rhyme. The lines in the Cave at Seaham have a turn of thought which I cannot sufficiently commend, and here I am at least candid as my own opinions differ upon such subjects. The first stanza is very good indeed, and the others, with a few slight alterations, might be rendered equally excellent. The last are smooth and pretty. But these are all, has she no others? She certainly is a very extraordinary girl; who would imagine so much strength and variety of thought under that placid Countenance? It is not necessary for Miss M. to be an authoress, indeed I do not think publishing at all creditable either to men or women, and (though you will not believe me) very often feel ashamed of it myself; but I have no hesitation in saying that she has talents which, were it proper or requisite to indulge, would have led to distinction. A friend of mine (fifty years old, and an author, but not _Rogers_) has just been here. As there is no name to the MSS. I shewed them to him, and he was much more enthusiastic in his praises than I have been. He thinks them beautiful; I shall content myself with observing that they are better, much better, than anything of Miss M.'s protegee ('sic') Blacket. You will say as much of this to Miss M. as you think proper. I say all this very sincerely. I have no desire to be better acquainted with Miss Milbank; she is too good for a fallen spirit to know, and I should like her more if she were less perfect. Believe me, yours ever most truly, B. [Footnote 1: This letter refers to the future Lady Byron, the "Miss Monmouth" of 'Glenarvon' (see vol. iii. p. 100), who was first brought to Byron's notice by Lady Caroline Lamb. Anna Isabella (often shortened into Annabella) Milbanke (born May 17, 1792; died May 16, 1860) was the only child of Sir Ralph Milbanke, Bart., and the Hon. Judith Noel, daughter of Lord Wentworth. Her childhood was passed at Halnaby, or at Seaham, where her father had "a pretty villa on the cliff." In 1808 Seaham "was the most primitive hamlet ever met with--a dozen or so of cottages, no trade, no manufacture, no business doing that we could see; the owners were mostly servants of Sir Ralph Milbanke's" ('Memoirs of a Highland Lady', p. 71). It was here that Blacket the poet (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 314, 'note' 2; p. 6, 'note' 5, of the present volume; and 'English Bards, etc'., line 770, and Byron's 'note') died, befriended by Miss Milbanke. Byron (Medwin's 'Conversations with Lord Byron', pp. 44, 45) thus describes the personal appearance of his future wife: "There was something piquant and what we term pretty in Miss Milbanke. Her features were small and feminine, though not regular. She had the fairest skin imaginable. Her figure was perfect for her height; and there was a simplicity, a retired modesty, about her, which was very characteristic, and formed a happy contrast to the cold, artificial formality and studied stiffness which is called fashion." The roundness of her face suggested to Byron the pet name of "Pippin." High-principled, guided by a strong sense of duty, imbued with deep religious feeling, Miss Milbanke lived to impress F. W. Robertson as "the noblest woman he ever knew" ('Diary of Crabb Robinson' (1852), vol. iii. p. 405). She was also a clever, well-read girl, fond of mathematics, a student of theology and of Greek, a writer of meritorious verse, which, however, Byron only allowed to be "good by accident" (Medwin, p. 60). Among her mother's friends were Mrs. Siddons, Joanna Baillie, and Maria Edgeworth. The latter, writing, May, 1813, to Miss Ruxton, says, "Lady Milbanke is very agreeable, and has a charming, well-informed daughter." With all her personal charms, virtues, and mental gifts, she shows, in many of her letters, a precision, formality, and self-complacency, which suggest the female pedant. Byron says of her that "she was governed by what she called fixed rules and principles, squared mathematically" (Medwin, p. 60); at one time he used to speak of her as his "Princess of Parallelograms," and at a later period he called her his "Mathematical Medea." Before Miss Milbanke met Byron, she had a lover in Augustus Foster, son of Lady Elizabeth Foster, afterwards Duchess of Devonshire. The duchess, writing to her son, February 29, 1812, says that Mrs. George Lamb (?) would sound Miss Milbanke as to her feelings: "Caro means to see 'la bella' Annabelle before she writes to you ... I shall almost hate her if she is blind to the merits of one who would make her so happy" ('The Two Duchesses', p. 358). Apparently Mr. Foster's love was not returned. "She persists in saying," writes the duchess, May 4, 1812 ('ibid'., p. 362), "that she never suspected your attachment to her; but she is so odd a girl that, though she has for some time rather liked another, she has decidedly refused them, because she thinks she ought to marry a person with a good fortune; and this is partly, I believe, from generosity to her parents, and partly owning that fortune is an object to herself for happiness. In short, she is good, amiable, and sensible, but cold, prudent, and reflecting. Lord Byron makes up to her a little; but she don't seem to admire him except as a poet, nor he her except for a wife." Again, June 2, 1812, she says, "Your Annabella is a mystery; liking, not liking; generous-minded, yet afraid of poverty; there is no making her out. I hope you don't make yourself unhappy about her; she is really an icicle." Miss Milbanke's unaffected simplicity attracted Byron; even her coldness was a charm. When he came to know her, he probably found her not only agreeable, but the best woman he had ever met. Lady Melbourne, who knew him most intimately, and was also Miss Milbanke's aunt, may well have thought that, if her niece once gained control over Byron, her influence would be the making of his character. She encouraged the match by every means in her power. It is unnecessary to suppose that she did so to save Lady Caroline Lamb; that danger was over. At some time before the autumn of 1812, Byron proposed to Miss Milbanke, and was refused. He still, however, continued to correspond with her, and his 'Journal' shows that his affection for her was steadily growing during the years 1813-14. In September, 1814, he proposed a second time, and was accepted. Byron professed to believe (Medwin, p. 59) that Miss Milbanke was not in love with him. "I was the fashion when she first came out; I had the character of being a great rake, and was a great dandy--both of which young ladies like. She married me from vanity, and the hope of reforming and fixing me." Byron was not the man to unbosom himself to Medwin on such a subject. Moore asked the same question--whether Lady Byron really loved Byron--of Lady Holland, who "seemed to think she must. He was such a loveable person. I remember him (said she) sitting there with that light upon him, looking so beautiful!'" ('Journals, etc.', vol. ii. p. 324). The letters that will follow seem to show beyond all question that the marriage was one of true affection on both sides.] [Footnote 2: Thomas Dermody (1775-1802), a precocious Irish lad, whose dissipated habits weakened his mind and body, published poems in 1792, 1800, and 1802. His collected verses appeared in 1807 under the title of 'The Harp of Erin', edited by J. G. Raymond, who had published the previous year (1806) 'The Life of Thomas Dermody' in two volumes.] * * * * * 236.--To Thomas Moore. May 8, 1812. I am too proud of being your friend, to care with whom I am linked in your estimation, and, God knows, I want friends more at this time than at any other. I am "taking care of myself" to no great purpose. If you knew my situation in every point of view, you would excuse apparent and unintentional neglect. I shall leave town, I think; but do not you leave it without seeing me. I wish you, from my soul, every happiness you can wish yourself; and I think you have taken the road to secure it. Peace be with you! I fear she has abandoned me. Ever, etc. * * * * * 237.--To Thomas Moore. May 20, 1812. On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw Bellingham launched into eternity [1], and at three the same day I saw * * * launched into the country. I believe, in the beginning of June, I shall be down for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat you up 'en passant' with Hobhouse, who is endeavouring, like you and every body else, to keep me out of scrapes. I meant to have written you a long letter, but I find I cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you will hear it from me--if good; if _bad_, there are plenty to tell it. In the mean time, do you be happy. Ever yours, etc. P.S.--My best wishes and respects to Mrs. Moore;--she is beautiful. I may say so even to you, for I was never more struck with a countenance. [Footnote 1: Bellingham, while engaged in the timber trade at Archangel, fancied himself wronged by the Russian Government, and the British Ambassador at St. Petersburg, Lord G. Leveson-Gower. Returning to England, he set up in Liverpool as an insurance broker, continuing to press his claims against Russia on the Ministry without success. On May 11, 1812, he shot Spencer Perceval, First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer, dead in the lobby of the House of Commons. Bellingham was hanged before Newgate on May 18. Byron took a window, says Moore ('Life', p. 164), to see the execution. He "was accompanied on the occasion by his old schoolfellows, Mr. Bailey and Mr. John Madocks. They went together from some assembly, and, on their arriving at the spot, about three o'clock in the morning, not finding the house that was to receive them open, Mr. Madocks undertook to rouse the inmates, while Lord Byron and Mr. Bailey sauntered, arm in arm, up the street. During this interval, rather a painful scene occurred. Seeing an unfortunate woman lying on the steps of a door, Lord Byron, with some expression of compassion, offered her a few shillings; but, instead of accepting them, she violently pushed away his hand, and, starting up with a yell of laughter, began to mimic the lameness of his gait. He did not utter a word; but 'I could feel,' said Mr. Bailey, 'his arm trembling within mine, as we left her.'" In Byron's 'Detached Thoughts' is an anecdote of Baillie, whose name is here misspelt by Moore: "Baillie (commonly called 'Long' Baillie, a very clever man, but odd) complained in riding, to our friend Scrope Davies, that he had a 'stitch' in his side. 'I don't wonder at it,' said Scrope, 'for you ride like a _tailor_.' Whoever has seen B. on horseback, with his very tall figure on a small nag, would not deny the justice of the repartee."] * * * * * 238.--To Bernard Barton [1]. 8, St. James's St., June 1, 1812. The most satisfactory answer to the concluding part of your letter is that Mr. Murray will republish your volume, if you still retain your inclination for the experiment, which I trust will be successful. Some weeks ago my friend Mr. Rogers showed me some of the stanzas in MS., and I then expressed my opinion of their merit, which a further perusal of the printed volume has given me no reason to revoke. I mention this, as it may not be disagreeable to you to learn that I entertained a very favourable opinion of your powers, before I was aware that such sentiments were reciprocal. Waiving your obliging expressions as to my own productions, for which I thank you very sincerely, and assure you that I think not lightly of the praise of one whose approbation is valuable, will you allow me to talk to you candidly, not critically, on the subject of yours? You will not suspect me of a wish to discourage, since I pointed out to the publisher the propriety of complying with your wishes. I think more highly of your poetical talents than it would, perhaps, gratify you to hear expressed, for I believe, from what I observe of your mind, that you are above flattery. To come to the point, you deserve success, but we know, before Addison wrote his Cato', that desert does not always command it. But, suppose it attained: "You know what ills the author's life assail, Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail." [2] Do not renounce writing, but never trust entirely to authorship. If you have a possession, retain it; it will be, like Prior's fellowship [3], a last and sure resource. Compare Mr. Rogers with other authors of the day; assuredly he is amongst the first of living poets, but is it to that he owes his station in society, and his intimacy in the best circles? No, it is to his prudence and respectability; the world (a bad one, I own) courts him because he has no occasion to court it. He is a poet, nor is he less so because he was something more. I am not sorry to hear that you are not tempted by the vicinity of Capel Loft, Esq're. [4], though, if he had done for you what he has done for the Bloomfields, I should never have laughed at his rage for patronising. But a truly constituted mind will ever be independent. That you may be so is my sincere wish, and, if others think as well of your poetry as I do, you will have no cause to complain of your readers. Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: Bernard Barton (1784-1849), the friend of Charles Lamb, and the Quaker poet, to whose 'Poems and Letters' (1849) Edward FitzGerald prefixed a biographical introduction, published 'Metrical Effusions' (1812), 'Poems by an Amateur' (1817), 'Poems' (1820), and several other works. He was for many years a clerk in a bank at Woodbridge, in Suffolk. Byron's advice to him was that of Lamb: "Keep to your bank, and your bank will keep you." Two letters, written by him to Byron in 1814, showing his admiration of the poet, and his appreciation of the generosity of his character, and part of the draft of Byron's answer, are given in Appendix IV.] [Footnote 2: "There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,-- Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail." Johnson's 'Vanity of Human Wishes', line 159.] [Footnote 3: Matthew Prior (1664-1721) became a Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1688.] [Footnote 4: For Capell Lofft and the Bloomfields, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 337, 'notes' I and 2 [Footnotes 4 and 5 of Letter 167.]] * * * * * 239.--To Lord Holland. June 25, 1812. MY DEAR LORD,--I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, been very negligent, but till last night I was not apprised of Lady Holland's restoration, and I shall call to-morrow to have the satisfaction, I trust, of hearing that she is well.--I hope that neither politics nor gout have assailed your Lordship since I last saw you, and that you also are "as well as could be expected." The other night, at a ball, I was presented by order to our gracious Regent, who honoured me with some conversation, and professed a predilection for poetry [1].--I confess it was a most unexpected honour, and I thought of poor Brummell's [2] adventure, with some apprehension of a similar blunder. I have now great hope, in the event of Mr. Pye's [3] decease, of "warbling truth at court," like Mr. Mallet [4] of indifferent memory.--Consider, one hundred marks a year! besides the wine and the disgrace; but then remorse would make me drown myself in my own butt before the year's end, or the finishing of my first dithyrambic.--So that, after all, I shall not meditate our laureate's death by pen or poison. Will you present my best respects to Lady Holland? and believe me, hers and yours very sincerely. [Footnote 1: The ball was given in June, 1812, at Miss Johnson's (see 'Memoir of John Murray', vol. i. p. 212). In the words "predilection for poetry" Byron probably refers to the phrase in the Regent's letter to the Duke of York (February 13, 1812): "I have no predilections to indulge, no resentments to gratify." Moore, in the 'Twopenny Post-bag', twice fastens on the phrase. In "The Insurrection of the Papers", a dream suggested by Lord Castlereagh's speech--"It would be impossible for His Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it"--he writes: "But, oh, the basest of defections! His Letter about 'predilections'-- His own dear Letter, void of grace, Now flew up in its parent's face!" And again, in the "Parody of a Celebrated Letter": "I am proud to declare I have no predilections, My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections Are just danc'd about for a moment or two, And the 'finer' they are, the more sure to run through."] [Footnote 2: The grandfather of Beau Brummell, who was in business in Bury Street, St. James's, also let lodgings. One of his lodgers, Charles Jenkinson, afterwards Earl of Liverpool, obtained for his landlord's son, William Brummell, a clerkship in the Treasury. The Treasury clerk became so useful to Lord North that he obtained several lucrative offices; and, dying in 1794, left £65,000 in the hands of trustees for division among his three children. The youngest of these was George Bryan Brummell (1788-1840), the celebrated Beau. George Brummell went from Eton to Oriel College, Oxford, where his undergraduate career is traced in "Trebeck," a character in Lister's 'Granby' (1826). From Oxford Brummell entered the Tenth Hussars, a favourite regiment of the Prince of Wales. Well-built and well-mannered, possessed of admirable tact, witty and original in conversation, inexhaustible in good temper and good stories, a master of impudence and banter, the new cornet made himself so agreeable to the prince that, at the latter's marriage, Brummell attended him, both at St. James's and to Windsor, as "a kind of 'chevalier d'honneur." In 1798 Brummell left the army with the rank of captain. A year later he came of age, and settled at 4, Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. On his intimacy with the Prince Regent, Brummell founded the extraordinary position which he achieved in society. Fashion was in those days a power; and he was its dictator--the oracle, both for men and women, of taste, manners, and dress. His ascendency rested in some degree on solid foundations. He was not a mere fop, but conspicuous for the quiet neatness of his dress--for "a certain exquisite propriety," as Byron described it to Leigh Hunt--and, at a time when the opposite was common, for the scrupulous cleanliness of his person and his linen. An excellent dancer, clever at 'vers de société', an agreeable singer, a talented artist, a judge of china, buhl, and other objects of 'virtù', a collector of snuff-boxes, a connoisseur in canes, he had gifts which might have raised him above the Bond Street 'flaneur', or the idler at Watier's Club. Well-read in a desultory fashion, he wrote verses which were not without merit in their class. The following are the first and last stanzas of 'The Butterfly's Funeral', a poem which was suggested by Mrs. Dorset's 'Peacock at Home' and Roscoe's 'Butterfly's Ball':-- "Oh ye! who so lately were blythsome and gay, At the Butterfly's banquet carousing away; Your feasts and your revels of pleasure are fled, For the soul of the banquet, the Butterfly's dead! * * * * * And here shall the daisy and violet blow, And the lily discover her bosom of snow; While under the leaf, in the evenings of spring, Still mourning his friend, shall the grasshopper sing." In the days of his prosperity (1799-1816), Brummell knew everybody to whose acquaintance he condescended. His Album, in which he collected 226 pieces of poetry, many by himself, others by celebrities of the day, is a curious proof of his popularity. It contains contributions from such persons as the Duchess of Devonshire, Erskine, Lord John Townshend, Sheridan, General Fitzpatrick, William Lamb (afterwards Lord Melbourne) and his brother George, and Byron. Lady Hester Stanhope ('Memoirs', vol. i. pp. 280-283) knew him well. She describes him "riding in Bond Street, with his bridle between his fore-finger and thumb, as if he held a pinch of snuff;" gives many instances of his audacious effrontery, and yet concludes that "the man was no fool," and that she "should like to see him again." The story that Brummell told the Prince Regent to ring the bell was denied by him. A more probable version of the story is given in Jesse's 'Life of Beau Brummell' (vol. i. p. 255), "that one evening, when Brummell and Lord Moira were engaged in earnest conversation at Carlton House, the prince requested the former to ring the bell, and that he replied without reflection, 'Your Royal Highness is close to it,' upon which the prince rang the bell and ordered his friend's carriage, but that Lord Moira's intervention caused the unintentional liberty to be overlooked." The rupture between them is attributed by Jesse to Mrs. Fitzherbert's influence. Whatever the cause, the prince cut his former friend. A short time afterwards, Brummell, walking with Lord Alvanley, met the prince leaning on the arm of Lord Moira. As the prince, who stopped to speak to Lord Alvanley, was moving on, Brummell said to his companion, "Alvanley, who's your fat friend?" In the 'Twopenny Postbag' Moore makes the Regent say, in the "Parody of a Celebrated Letter": "Neither have I resentments, or wish there should come ill To mortal--except, now I think on it, Beau Brummell, Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion, To cut me, and bring the old king into fashion." Brummell's position withstood the loss of the Regent's friendship. He became one of the most frequent visitors to the Duke and Duchess of York, at Oatlands Park ('Journal of T. Raikes', vol. i. p. 146); and his friendship with the duchess lasted till her death. He was ruined by gambling at Watier's Club, of which he was perpetual president. This club, which was in Piccadilly, at the corner of Bolton Street, was originally founded, in 1807, by Lord Headfort, John Madocks, and other young men, for musical gatherings. But glees and snatches soon gave way to superlative dinners and gambling at macao. Byron, Moore, and William Spencer belonged to Watier's--the only men of letters admitted within its precincts. From 1814 to 1816 Brummell lost heavily; he could obtain no further supplies, and was completely ruined. In his distress he wrote to Scrope Davies, in May, 1816: "MY DEAR SCROPE,--Lend me two hundred pounds; the banks are shut, and all my money is in the three per cents. It shall be repaid to-morrow morning. Yours, GEORGE BRUMMELL." The reply illustrates Byron's remark that "Scrope Davies is a wit, and a man of the world, and feels as much as such a character can do." "MY DEAR GEORGE,--'Tis very unfortunate, but all my money is in the three per cents. Yours, S. DAVIES." On May 17, "obliged," says Byron ('Detached Thoughts'), "by that affair of poor Meyler, who thence acquired the name of 'Dick the Dandykiller'--(it was about money and debt and all that)--to retire to France," Brummell took flight to Dover, and crossed to Calais. Watier's Club died a natural death, in 1819, from the ruin of most of its members. Amongst Brummell's effects at Chesterfield Street was a screen which he was making for the Duchess of York. The sixth panel was occupied by Byron and Napoleon, placed opposite each other; the former, surrounded with flowers, had a wasp in his throat (Jesse's 'Life', vol. i. p. 361). At Calais Brummell bought a French grammar to study the language. When Scrope Davies was asked, says Byron ('Detached Thoughts'), "what progress Brummell had made in French, he responded 'that Brummell had been stopped, like Buonaparte in Russia, by the 'Elements'' I have put this pun into 'Beppo', which is 'a fair exchange and no robbery;' for Scrope made his fortune at several dinners (as he owned himself) by repeating occasionally as his own some of the buffooneries with which I had encountered him in the morning." Brummell died, in 1840, at Caen, after making acquaintance with the inside of the debtor's prison in that town--imbecile, and in the asylum of the 'Bon Sauveur'. He is buried in the Protestant cemetery of Caen. France has raised a more lasting monument to his fame in Barbey d'Aurevilly's 'Du Dandysme et de Georges Brummell' (1845).] [Footnote 3: Henry James Pye (1745-1813) was, from 1790 to his death, poet laureate, in which post he succeeded Thomas Warton, and was followed by Southey. Mathias, in the 'Pursuits of Literature' (Dialogue ii. lines 69, 70), says: "With Spartan Pye lull England to repose, Or frighten children with Lenora's woes;" and again ('ibid'., lines 79, 80): "Why should I faint when all with patience hear, And laureat Pye sings more than twice a year?" His birthday odes were so full of "vocal groves and feathered choirs," that George Steevens broke out with the lines: "When the 'pie' was opened," etc. Pye's 'magnum opus' was 'Alfred' (1801), an epic poem in six books.] [Footnote 4: David Mallet, or Malloch (1705-1765), is best known for his ballad of 'William and Margaret', his unsubstantiated claim to the authorship of 'Rule, Britannia', and his edition of Bolingbroke's works. He was appointed, in 1742, under-secretary to Frederick, Prince of Wales.] * * * * * 240.--To Professor Clarke [1]. St. James's Street, June 26, 1812. Will you accept my very sincere congratulations on your second volume, wherein I have retraced some of my old paths, adorned by you so beautifully, that they afford me double delight? The part which pleases me best, after all, is the preface, because it tells me you have not yet closed labours, to yourself not unprofitable, nor without gratification, for what is so pleasing as to give pleasure? I have sent my copy to Sir Sidney Smith, who will derive much gratification from your anecdotes of Djezzar, [1] his "energetic old man." I doat upon the Druses; but who the deuce are they with their Pantheism? I shall never be easy till I ask _them_ the question. How much you have traversed! I must resume my seven leagued boots and journey to Palestine, which your description mortifies me not to have seen more than ever. I still sigh for the Ægean. Shall not you always love its bluest of all waves, and brightest of all skies? You have awakened all the gipsy in me. I long to be restless again, and wandering; see what mischief you do, you won't allow gentlemen to settle quietly at home. I will not wish you success and fame, for you have both, but all the happiness which even these cannot always give. [Footnote 1: Edward Daniel Clarke (1769-1822), appointed Professor of Mineralogy at Cambridge, in 1808, was the rival whose travels Hobhouse was anxious to anticipate. He is described by Miss Edgeworth, in 1813 ('Letters', vol. i. p. 205), as "a little, square, pale, flat-faced, good-natured-looking, fussy man, with very intelligent eyes, yet great credulity of countenance, and still greater benevolence." Byron met Clarke at Cambridge in November, 1811, discussed Greece with him, and was relieved to find that he knew "no Romaic." Clarke was an indefatigable traveller, and, as he was a botanist, mineralogist, antiquary, and numismatist, he made good use of his opportunities. The marbles, including the Eleusinian Ceres, which he brought home, are in the Fitzwilliam Museum. His mineralogical collections were purchased, after his death, by the University of Cambridge; and his coins by Payne Knight. His 'Travels in Various Countries of Europe, Asia, and Africa' appeared at intervals, from 1810 to 1823, in six quarto volumes. The following letter was written by Clarke to Byron, after the appearance of 'Childe Harold': "Trumpington, Wednesday morning. "DEAR LORD BYRON,--From the eagerness which I felt to make known my opinions of your poem before others had expressed _any_ upon the subject, I waited upon you to deliver my hasty, although hearty, commendation. If it be worthy your acceptance, take it once more, in a more deliberate form! Upon my arrival in town I found that Mathias entirely coincided with me. 'Surely,' said I to him, 'Lord Byron, at this time of life, cannot have experienced such keen anguish as those exquisite allusions to what older men _may_ have felt seem to denote!' This was his answer: 'I fear he has--he could not else have written such a poem.' This morning I read the second canto with all the attention it so highly merits, in the peace and stillness of my study; and I am ready to confess I was never so much affected by any poem, passionately fond of poetry as I have been from my earliest youth.... "The eighth stanza, '_Yet if as holiest men_,' etc., has never been surpassed. In the twenty-third, the sentiment is at variance with Dryden: 'Strange cozenage! _none_ would live past years again.' "And it is perhaps an instance wherein, for the first time, I found not within my own breast an echo to your thought, for I would not '_be once more a boy_;' but the generality of men will agree with you, and wish to tread life's path again. "In the twelfth stanza of the same canto, you might really add a very curious note to these lines: 'Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,' "by stating this fact: When the last of the Metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving it, a great part of the superstructure with one of the triglyphs, was thrown down by the work men whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe out of his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to Lusieri--[Greek: Télos]! I was present at the time. "Once more I thank you for the gratification you have afforded me. "Believe me, ever yours most truly, "E. D. CLARKE."] [Footnote 2: In Clarke's 'Travels' (Part II. sect. i. chap, xii., "Greece, Egypt, and the Holy Land") will be found an account of Djezzar Pasha, who fortified Acre in 1775, and with Sir Sidney Smith, defended it against Buonaparte, March 16 to May 20, 1799. Clarke ('ibid'.) mentions the Druses detained by Djezzar as hostages.] * * * * * 241.--To Walter Scott. [1] St. James's Street, July 6, 1812. SIR,--I have just been honoured with your letter.--I feel sorry that you should have thought it worth while to notice the "evil works of my nonage," as the thing is suppressed _voluntarily_, and your explanation is too kind not to give me pain. The Satire was written when I was very young and very angry, and fully bent on displaying my wrath and my wit, and now I am haunted by the ghosts of my wholesale assertions. I cannot sufficiently thank you for your praise; and now, waving myself, let me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He ordered me to be presented to him at a ball; and after some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your immortalities: he preferred you to every bard past and present, and asked which of your works pleased me most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I thought the 'Lay'. He said his own opinion was nearly similar. In speaking of the others, I told him that I thought you more particularly the poet of _Princes_, as _they_ never appeared more fascinating than in 'Marmion' and the 'Lady of the Lake'. He was pleased to coincide, and to dwell on the description of your Jameses as no less royal than poetical. He spoke alternately of Homer and yourself, and seemed well acquainted with both; so that (with the exception of the Turks [2] and your humble servant) you were in very good company. I defy Murray to have exaggerated his Royal Highness's opinion of your powers, nor can I pretend to enumerate all he said on the subject; but it may give you pleasure to hear that it was conveyed in language which would only suffer by my attempting to transcribe it, and with a tone and taste which gave me a very high idea of his abilities and accomplishments, which I had hitherto considered as confined to _manners_, certainly superior to those of any living _gentleman_ [3]. This interview was accidental. I never went to the levee; for having seen the courts of Mussulman and Catholic sovereigns, my curiosity was sufficiently allayed; and my politics being as perverse as my rhymes, I had, in fact, "no business there." To be thus praised by your Sovereign must be gratifying to you; and if that gratification is not alloyed by the communication being made through me, the bearer of it will consider himself very fortunately and sincerely, Your obliged and obedient servant, BYRON. P.S.--Excuse this scrawl, scratched in a great hurry, and just after a journey. [Footnote 1: The correspondence which begins with this letter laid the foundation of a firm friendship between the two poets. Scott was naturally annoyed by the attack upon him in 'English Bards, etc'. (lines 171-174), made by "a young whelp of a Lord Byron." Though 'Childe Harold' seemed to him "a clever poem," it did not raise his opinion of Byron's character. Murray, hoping to heal the breach between them, wrote to Scott, June 27, 1812 ('Memoir of John Murray', vol. i. p. 213), giving Byron's account of the conversation with the Prince Regent. "But the Prince's great delight," says Murray, "was Walter Scott, whose name and writings he dwelt upon and recurred to incessantly. He preferred him far beyond any other poet of the time, repeated several passages with fervour, and criticized them faithfully.... Lord Byron called upon me, merely to let off the raptures of the Prince respecting you, thinking, as he said, that if I were likely to have occasion to write to you, it might not be ungrateful for you to hear of his praises." Scott's answer (July 2) enclosed the following letter from himself to Byron: "Edinburgh, July 3d, 1812. "MY LORD,--I am uncertain if I ought to profit by the apology which is afforded me, by a very obliging communication from our acquaintance, John Murray, of Fleet Street, to give your Lordship the present trouble. But my intrusion concerns a large debt of gratitude due to your Lordship, and a much less important one of explanation, which I think I owe to myself, as I dislike standing low in the opinion of any person whose talents rank so highly in my own, as your Lordship's most deservedly do. "The first 'count', as our technical language expresses it, relates to the high pleasure I have received from the 'Pilgrimage of Childe Harold', and from its precursors; the former, with all its classical associations, some of which are lost on so poor a scholar as I am, possesses the additional charm of vivid and animated description, mingled with original sentiment; but besides this debt, which I owe your Lordship in common with the rest of the reading public, I have to acknowledge my particular thanks for your having distinguished by praise, in the work which your Lordship rather dedicated in general to satire, some of my own literary attempts. And this leads me to put your Lordship right in the circumstances respecting the sale of 'Marmion', which had reached you in a distorted and misrepresented form, and which, perhaps, I have some reason to complain, were given to the public without more particular inquiry. The poem, my Lord, was _not_ written upon contract for a sum of money--though it is too true that it was sold and published in a very unfinished state (which I have since regretted), to enable me to extricate myself from some engagements which fell suddenly upon me by the unexpected misfortunes of a very near relation. So that, to quote statute and precedent, I really come under the case cited by Juvenal, though not quite in the extremity of the classic author: 'Esurit, intactam Paridi nisi vendit Agaven.' "And so much for a mistake, into which your Lordship might easily fall, especially as I generally find it the easiest way of stopping sentimental compliments on the beauty, etc., of certain poetry, and the delights which the author must have taken in the composition, by assigning the readiest reason that will cut the discourse short, upon a subject where one must appear either conceited or affectedly rude and cynical. "As for my attachment to literature, I sacrificed for the pleasure of pursuing it very fair chances of opulence and professional honours, at a time of life when I fully knew their value; and I am not ashamed to say, that in deriving advantages in compensation from the partial favour of the public, I have added some comforts and elegancies to a bare independence. I am sure your Lordship's good sense will easily put this unimportant egotism to the right account, for--though I do not know the motive would make me enter into controversy with a fair or an 'unfair' literary critic--I may be well excused for a wish to clear my personal character from any tinge of mercenary or sordid feeling in the eyes of a contemporary of genius. Your Lordship will likewise permit me to add that you would have escaped the trouble of this explanation, had I not understood that the satire alluded to had been suppressed, not to be reprinted. For in removing a prejudice on your Lordship's own mind, I had no intention of making any appeal by or through you to the public, since my own habits of life have rendered my defence as to avarice or rapacity rather too easy. "Leaving this foolish matter where it lies, I have to request your Lordship's acceptance of my best thanks for the flattering communication which you took the trouble to make Mr. Murray on my behalf, and which could not fail to give me the gratification which I am sure you intended. I dare say our worthy bibliopolist overcoloured his report of your Lordship's conversation with the Prince Regent, but I owe my thanks to him nevertheless, for the excuse he has given me for intruding these pages on your Lordship. Wishing you health, spirit, and perseverance, to continue your pilgrimage through the interesting countries which you have still to pass with 'Childe Harold', I have the honour to be, my Lord, "Your Lordship's obedient servant, "WALTER SCOTT. "P.S.--Will your Lordship permit me a verbal criticism on 'Childe Harold', were it only to show I have read his Pilgrimage with attention? 'Nuestra Dama de la Pena' means, I suspect, not our Lady of Crime or Punishment, but our Lady of the Cliff; the difference is, I believe, merely in the accentuation of 'peña'." To Scott Byron replied with the letter given in the text. Scott's answer, which followed in due course, will be found in Appendix V. The Prince Regent, it may be added, showed his appreciation of Scott's poetry by offering him, on the death of Pye, the post of poet laureate. Scott refused, on the ground, apparently, that the office had been made ridiculous by the previous holder. "At the time when Scott and Byron were the two 'lions' of London, Hookham Frere observed, 'Great poets formerly (Homer and Milton) were blind; now they are lame'" ('Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', P. 194).] [Footnote 2: The Turkish ambassador and suite were at the ball.] [Footnote 3: Byron had already written his "Stanzas to a Lady Weeping," suggested by the rumour that Princess Charlotte had burst into tears, on being told that there would be no change of Ministry when the Prince of Wales assumed the Regency. They appeared anonymously in the 'Morning Chronicle' for March 7, 1812, under the title of a "Sympathetic 'Address' to a Young Lady." They were published, as Byron's work, with 'The Corsair', in February, 1814. The verses rather betray the influence of Moore than express his own feelings at the time. In 'Don Juan' (Canto XII. stanza lxxxiv.) he thus speaks of the Regent: "There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, With fascination in his very bow, And full of promise, as the spring of prime. Though royalty was written on his brow, He had 'then' the grace, too, rare in every clime, Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, A finish'd gentleman from top to toe." Dallas found him, shortly after his introduction to the prince, "in a full-dress court suit of clothes, with his fine black hair in powder," prepared to attend a levee. But the levee was put off, and the subsequent avowal of the authorship of the stanzas rendered it impossible for him to go ('Recollections', p. 234).] * * * * * 242.--To Lady Caroline Lamb. [August, 1812?] MY DEAREST CAROLINE, [1]--If tears which you saw and know I am not apt to shed,--if the agitation in which I parted from you,--agitation which you must have perceived through the _whole_ of this most _nervous_ affair, did not commence until the moment of leaving you approached,--if all I have said and done, and am still but too ready to say and do, have not sufficiently proved what my real feelings are, and must ever be towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer. God knows, I wish you happy, and when I quit you, or rather you, from a sense of duty to your husband and mother, quit me, you shall acknowledge the truth of what I again promise and vow, that no other in word or deed, shall ever hold the place in my affections, which is, and shall be, most sacred to you, till I am nothing. I never knew till _that moment_ the _madness_ of my dearest and most beloved friend; I cannot express myself; this is no time for words, but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can scarcely conceive, for you do not know me. I am about to go out with a heavy heart, because my appearing this evening will stop any absurd story which the event of the day might give rise to. Do you think _now_ I am _cold_ and _stern_ and _artful_? Will even _others_ think so? Will your _mother_ ever--that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much, more, much more on my part than she shall ever know or can imagine? "Promise not to love you!" ah, Caroline, it is past promising. But I shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive, and never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed, and more than can ever be known but to my own heart,--perhaps to yours. May God protect, forgive, and bless you. Ever, and even more than ever, Your most attached, BYRON. P.S.--These taunts which have driven you to this, my dearest Caroline, were it not for your mother and the kindness of your connections, is there anything on earth or heaven that would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago? and not less _now_ than _then_, but _more_ than ever at this time. You know I would with pleasure give up all here and all beyond the grave for you, and in refraining from this, must my motives be misunderstood? I care not who knows this, what use is made of it,--it is to _you_ and to _you_ only that they are _yourself (sic)_. I was and am yours freely and most entirely, to obey, to honour, love,--and fly with you when, where, and how you yourself _might_ and _may_ determine. [Footnote 1: Lady Caroline's infatuation for Byron, expressed in various ways--once (in July, 1813) by a self-inflicted stab with a table-knife, or a broken glass--became the talk of society. "Your little friend, Caro William," writes the Duchess of Devonshire, May 4, 1812, "as usual, is doing all sorts of imprudent things for him and with him." Again she writes, six days later, of Byron: "The ladies, I hear, spoil him, and the gentlemen are jealous of him. He is going back to Naxos, and then the husbands may sleep in peace. I should not be surprised if Caro William were to go with him, she is so wild and imprudent" (The 'Two Duchesses', pp. 362, 364). But Lady Caroline's extravagant adoration wearied Byron, who felt that it made him ridiculous; Lady Melbourne gave him sound advice about her daughter-in-law; and he was growing attached to Miss Milbanke, and, when rejected by her, at first to Lady Oxford, and later to Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster. When Lady Bessborough endeavoured to persuade her daughter to leave London for Ireland, Lady Caroline is said to have forced herself into Byron's room, and implored him to fly with her. Byron refused, conducted her back to Melbourne House, wrote her the letter printed above, and, as she herself admits, kept the secret. In December, 1812, Lady Caroline burned Byron in effigy, with "his book, ring, and chain," at Brocket Hall. The lines which she wrote for the ceremony are preserved in Mrs. Leigh's handwriting, and given in Appendix III., 2. From Ireland Lady Caroline continued the siege, threatening to follow him into Herefordshire, demanding interviews, and writing about him to Lady Oxford. At length Byron sent her the letter, probably in November, 1812, which she professes to publish in 'Glenarvon' (vol. iii. chap. ix.). The words are acknowledged by Byron to have formed part at least of the real document, which is here quoted as printed in the novel: "Mortanville Priory, November the 9th. "LADY AVONDALE,--I am no longer your lover; and since you oblige me to confess it, by this truly unfeminine persecution, ... learn, that I am attached to another; whose name it would, of course, be dishonourable to mention. I shall ever remember with gratitude the many instances I have received of the predilection you have shown in my favour. I shall ever continue your friend, if your ladyship will permit me so to style myself; and, as a first proof of my regard, I offer you this advice, correct your vanity, which is ridiculous; exert your absurd caprices upon others; and leave me in peace. "Your most obedient servant, "GLENARVON." The first effect of this letter and her unrequited passion was, as she told Lady Morgan, to deprive her temporarily of reason, and it may be added that, when she was a child, her grandmother was so alarmed by her eccentricities as to consult a doctor on the state of her mind. The second effect was to render her temper so ungovernable that William Lamb decided on a separation. All preliminaries were arranged; the solicitor arrived with the documents; but the old charm reasserted itself, and she was found seated by her husband, "feeding him with tiny scraps of transparent bread and butter" (Torrens, 'Memoirs of Lord Melbourne', vol. i. p. 112). The separation did not take place till 1825. Throughout 1812-14 Lady Caroline continued to write to Byron, at first asking for interviews. Two of her last letters to him, written apparently on the eve of his leaving England, in 1816, are worth printing, though they increase the mystery of 'Glenarvon'. (See Appendix III., 4 and 5.) In Isaac Nathan's 'Fugitive Pieces' (1829), a section is devoted to "Poetical Effusions, Letters, Anecdotes, and Recollections of Lady Caroline Lamb." Lady Caroline wrote three novels: 'Glenarvon' (1816); 'Graham Hamilton' (1822); and 'Ada Reis; a Tale' (1823). 'Glenarvon', apart from its biographical interest, is unreadable. "I do not know," writes C. Lemon to Lady H. Frampton ('Journal of Mary Frampton', pp. 286, 287), "all the characters in 'Glenarvon', but I will tell you all I do know. I am not surprised at your being struck with a few detached passages; but before you have read one volume, I think you will doubt at which end of the book you began. There is no connection between any two ideas in the book, and it seems to me to have been written as the sages of Laputa composed their works. 'Glenarvon' is Lord Byron; 'Lady Augusta,' the late Duchess of Devonshire; 'Lady Mandeville'--I think it is Lady Mandeville, but the lady who dictated Glearvon's farewell letter to Calantha--is Lady Oxford. This letter she really dictated to Lord Byron to send to Lady Caroline Lamb, and is now very much offended that she has treated the matter so lightly as to introduce it into her book. The best character in it is the 'Princess of Madagascar' (Lady Holland), with all her Reviewers about her. The young Duke of Devonshire is in the book, but I forget under what name. I need not say that the heroine is Lady Caroline's own self." In July, 1824, she was out riding, when she accidentally met Byron's funeral on its way to Newstead. "I am sure," she wrote to Murray, July 13, 1824, "I am very sorry I ever said one unkind word against him." Her mind never recovered the shock, and she died in January, 1828, in the presence of her husband, at Melbourne House. (See also Appendix III., 6.)] * * * * * 243.--To John Murray. High Street, Cheltenham, Sept. 5, 1812. DEAR SIR,--Pray have the goodness to send those despatches, and a No. of the _E.R._ with the rest. I hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, thanked him in my name for his present, and told him that I shall be truly happy to comply with his request.--How do you go on? and when is the graven image, "with _bays and wicked rhyme upon't_," to grace, or disgrace, some of our tardy editions? Send me "_Rokeby_" [1] who the deuce is he?--no matter, he has good connections, and will be well introduced. I thank you for your inquiries: I am so so, but my thermometer is sadly below the poetical point. What will you give _me_ or _mine_ for a poem [2] of six cantos, (_when complete--no_ rhyme, _no_ recompense,) as like the last two as I can make them? I have some ideas which one day may be embodied, and till winter I shall have much leisure. Believe me, yours very sincerely, BYRON. P. S.--My last question is in the true style of Grub Street; but, like _Jeremy Diddler_ [3], I only "ask for information."--Send me Adair on _Diet and Regimen_, just republished by Ridgway [4]. [Footnote 1: 'Rokeby', completed December 31, 1812, was published in the following year, with a dedication to John Morritt, to whom Rokeby belonged. It was, as Scott admits in the Preface to the edition of 1830, comparatively a failure. In the popularity of Byron he finds the chief cause of the small success which his poem obtained. "To have kept his ground at the crisis when 'Rokeby' appeared," he writes, "its author ought to have put forth his utmost strength, and to have possessed all his original advantages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was advancing on the stage--a rival not in poetical powers only, but in that art of attracting popularity, in which the present writer had hitherto preceded better men than himself. The reader will easily see that Byron is here meant, who, after a little velitation of no great promise, now appeared as a serious candidate, in the first two cantos of 'Childe Harold'." On this rivalry Byron wrote the passage in his Diary for November 17, 1813. A further cause for the cold reception of 'Rokeby' was its inferiority both to the 'Lay' and to 'Marmion'. In Letter vii. of the 'Twopenny Post-bag', Moore writes thus of 'Rokeby' "Should you feel any touch of 'poetical' glow, We've a Scheme to suggest--Mr. Sc--tt, you must know, (Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the 'Row') Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown, Is coming by long Quarto stages, to Town; And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay) Means to 'do' all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way. Now the Scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him) To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to 'meet' him; Who, by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches-- May do a few Villas before Sc--tt approaches-- Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn Abbey."] [Footnote 2: 'The Giaour', published in 1813, for which Murray paid, not Byron, but Dallas, 500 guineas.] [Footnote 3: Kenney's 'Raising the Wind', act i. sc. 1: "'Diddler'. O Sam, you haven't got such a thing as tenpence about you, have you? "'Sam'. Yes. 'And I mean to keep it about me, you see'. "'Diddler'. Oh, aye, certainly. I only asked for information."] [Footnote 4: James MacKittrick (1728-1802), who assumed the name of Adair, published, in 1804, 'An Essay on Diet and Regimen, as indispensable to the Recovery and Preservation of Firm Health, especially to Indolent, Studious, Delicate and Invalid; with appropriate cases'.] * * * * * 244.--To Lord Holland. Cheltenham, September 10, 1812. My Dear Lord,--The lines which I sketched off on your hint are still, or rather _were_, in an unfinished state, for I have just committed them to a flame more decisive than that of Drury [1]. Under all circumstances, I should hardly wish a contest with Philodrama--Philo-Drury--Asbestos, H----, and all the anonymes and synonymes of Committee candidates. Seriously, I think you have a chance of something much better; for prologuising is not my forte, and, at all events, either my pride or my modesty won't let me incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried in next month's Magazine, under "Essays on the Murder of Mr. Perceval." and "Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog," as poor Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior performances [2]. I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know the successful candidate; and, amongst so many, I have no doubt some will be excellent, particularly in an age when writing verse is the easiest of all attainments. I cannot answer your intelligence with the "like comfort," unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you may wish to hear of Mr. Betty [3], whose acting is, I fear, utterly inadequate to the London engagement into which the managers of Covent Garden have lately entered. His figure is fat, his features flat, his voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful, and, as Diggory [4] says, "I defy him to extort that damned muffin face of his into madness." I was very sorry to see him in the character of the "Elephant on the slack rope;" for, when I last saw him, I was in raptures with his performance. But then I was sixteen--an age to which all London condescended to subside. After all, much better judges have admired, and may again; but I venture to "prognosticate a prophecy" (see the 'Courier') that he will not succeed. So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on "the brow of the mighty Helvellyn" [5]--I hope not for ever. My best respects to Lady H.:--her departure, with that of my other friends, was a sad event for me, now reduced to a state of the most cynical solitude. "By the waters of Cheltenham I sat down and _drank_, when I remembered thee, oh Georgiana Cottage! As for our _harps_, we hanged them up upon the willows that grew thereby. Then they said, Sing us a song of Drury Lane," etc.; --but I am dumb and dreary as the Israelites. The waters have disordered me to my heart's content--you _were_ right, as you always are. Believe me, ever your obliged and affectionate servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Drury Lane Theatre was reopened, after the fire of February 24, 1809, on Saturday, October 10, 1812. In the previous August the following advertisement was issued: "'Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre.' "The Committee are desirous of promoting a fair and free competition for an Address, to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next: They have therefore thought fit to announce to the Public, that they will be glad to receive any such Compositions, addressed to their Secretary at the Treasury Office in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription, on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the Author, which will not be opened, unless containing the name of the successful Candidate. Theatre Royal, Drury-Lane, August 13, 1812. "Owing to an accidental delay in the publication of the above Advertisement, the Committee have thought proper to extend the time for receiving Addresses, from the last day of August to the 10th of September." Byron, on the suggestion of Lord Holland, intended to send in an 'Address' in competition with other similar productions. He afterwards changed his mind, and refused to compete. After all the 'Addresses' had been received and rejected, the Committee applied to him to write an 'Address'. This he consented to do.] [Footnote 2: "The public were more importantly employed, than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, Eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog." 'Vicar of Wakefield', chap. xx.] [Footnote 3: See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 63, 'note' 2.[Footnote 2 of Letter 24]] [Footnote 4: "Diggory," one of Liston's parts, a character in Jackman's 'All the World's a Stage', asks (act i. sc. 2), "But how can you extort that damned pudding-face of yours to madness?"] [Footnote 5: Rogers had gone for a tour in the North. Byron alludes to Scott's poem 'Helvellyn': "I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn," etc., etc. The poem was occasioned, as Scott's note states, by the death of "a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition," who was killed on the mountain in 1805.] * * * * * 245.--To John Murray. Cheltenham, Sept. 14, 1812. DEAR SIR,--The parcels contained some letters and verses, all (but one) anonymous and complimentary, and very anxious for my conversion from certain infidelities into which my good-natured correspondents conceive me to have fallen. The books were presents of a _convertible_ kind also,--'Christian Knowledge' and the 'Bioscope' [1], a religious Dial of Life explained:--to the author of the former (Cadell, publisher,) I beg you will forward my best thanks for his letter, his present, and, above all, his good intentions. The 'Bioscope' contained an MS. copy of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, but evidently the composition of some one in the habit of writing, and of writing well. I do not know if he be the author of the 'Bioscope' which accompanied them; but whoever he is, if you can discover him, thank him from me most heartily. The other letters were from ladies, who are welcome to convert me when they please; and if I can discover them, and they be young, as they say they are, I could convince them perhaps of my devotion. I had also a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this world, which I have answered. So you are Lucien's publisher! [2] I am promised an interview with him, and think I shall ask _you_ for a letter of introduction, as "the gods have made him poetical." From whom could it come with a better grace than from _his_ publisher and mine? Is it not somewhat treasonable in you to have to do with a relative of the "direful foe," as the 'Morning Post' calls his brother? But my book on 'Diet and Regimen', where is it? I thirst for Scott's 'Rokeby'; let me have y'e first-begotten copy. The 'Anti-Jacobin Review' [3] is all very well, and not a bit worse than the 'Quarterly', and at least less harmless. By the by, have you secured my books? I want all the Reviews, at least the Critiques, quarterly, monthly, etc., Portuguese and English, extracted, and bound up in one volume for my _old age_; and pray, sort my Romaic books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. Hobhouse--he has had them now a long time. If any thing occurs, you will favour me with a line, and in winter we shall be nearer neighbours. Yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--I was applied to to write the _Address_ for Drury Lane, but the moment I heard of the contest, I gave up the idea of contending against all Grub Street, and threw a few thoughts on the subject into the fire. I did this out of respect to you, being sure you would have turned off any of your authors who had entered the lists with such scurvy competitors; to triumph would have been no glory, and to have been defeated--'sdeath!--I would have choked myself, like Otway, with a quartern loaf [4]; so, remember I had, and have, nothing to do with it, upon _my Honour!_ [Footnote 1: Granville Penn (1761-1844) was the author of numerous works on religious subjects. 'The Bioscope, or Dial of Life Explained' appeared in 1812. The other work referred to by Byron is probably Penn's 'Christian's Survey of all the Primary Events and Periods of the World' (1811), of which a second edition was published in 1812.] [Footnote 2: Lucien Buonaparte (1775-1840), Prince of Canino, since 1810 a landed proprietor in Shropshire, wrote an epic poem, 'Charlemagne, ou l'Église délivrée'. It was translated (1815) by Dr. Butler of Shrewsbury and Francis Hodgson.] [Footnote 3: 'The Anti-Jacobin Review' criticized 'Childe Harold' in August, 1812; the 'Quarterly', in March, 1812.] [Footnote 4: Otway died April, 1685, at the age of thirty-three, from a fever contracted by drinking water when heated by running after an assassin (Spence's 'Anecdotes', p. 44). Theophilus Cibber ('Lives of the Poets', ed. 1753, vol. ii. pp. 333, 334) gives another account of his death, viz. that he begged a shilling of a gentleman, and, being given a guinea, bought a roll, with which he was choked.] * * * * * 246.--To Lord Holland. September 22, 1812. My Dear Lord,--In a day or two I will send you something which you will still have the liberty to reject if you dislike it. I should like to have had more time, but will do my best,--but too happy if I can oblige _you_, though I may offend a hundred scribblers and the discerning public. Ever yours. Keep _my name_ a _secret_; or I shall be beset by all the rejected, and, perhaps, damned by a party. * * * * * 247.--To Lord Holland. Cheltenham, September 23, 1812. Ecco!--I have marked some passages with _double_ readings--choose between them--_cut--add--reject_--or _destroy_--do with them as you will--I leave it to you and the Committee--you cannot say so called "a _non committendo_." What will _they_ do (and I do) with the hundred and one rejected Troubadours? [1] "With trumpets, yea, and with shawms," will you be assailed in the most diabolical doggerel. I wish my name not to transpire till the day is decided. I shall not be in town, so it won't much matter; but let us have a _good deliverer_. I think Elliston [2] should be the man, or Pope [3]; not Raymond [4], I implore you, by the love of Rhythmus! The passages marked thus = =, above and below, are for you to choose between epithets, and such like poetical furniture. Pray write me a line, and believe me Ever, etc. My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you be good enough to decide between the various readings marked, and erase the other; or our _deliverer_ may be as puzzled as a commentator, and belike repeat both. If these _versicles_ won't do, I will hammer out some more endecasyllables. P.S.--Tell Lady H. I have had sad work to keep out the Phoenix--I mean the Fire Office of that name. It has insured the theatre, and why not the Address? [Footnote 1: The genuine rejected addresses were advertised for by B. McMillan, of Bow Street, Covent Garden, and forty-two of them were published by him in November, 1812, with the following title: 'The Genuine Rejected Addresses presented to the Committee of Management for Drury Lane Theatre; preceded by that written by Lord Byron and adopted by the Committee'. The youngest competitor was "Anna, a young lady in the fifteenth year of her age." The actual number sent in was 112, and sixty-nine of the competitors invoked the Phoenix. Among the competitors were Peter Pindar, whose 'Address' was printed in 1813; Whitbread, the manager, who gave the "poulterer's description" of the Phoenix; and Horace Smith, who published his 'Address without a Phoenix', By S. T. P., in 'Rejected Addresses'.] [Footnote 2: Robert William Elliston (1774-1831), according to Genest ('English Stage', vol. ix. p. 338), made his first appearance at Bath in April, 1791, as "Tressel" in 'Richard III'., and from 1796 to 1803 Bath remained his head-quarters. An excellent actor both in tragedy and comedy, he became in 1803 a member of the Haymarket Company. From 1804 to 1809, and again from 1812 to 1815, he acted at Drury Lane. Byron's Prologue was spoken by him on October 10, 1812, at the reopening of the new theatre. It was at Drury Lane in April, 1821, while he was lessee (1819-26), that Byron's 'Marino Faliero' was acted. His last appearance was as "Sheva" in 'The Jew', at the Surrey Theatre, of which (1826-31) he was lessee. In spite of his drunken habits, he won the enthusiastic praise of Charles Lamb as the "joyousest of once embodied spirits" (see 'Essays of Elia', "To the Shade of Elliston" and "Ellistoniana").] [Footnote 3: Alexander Pope (1763-1835), miniaturist, 'gourmand', and actor, was for years the principal tragedian at Covent Garden. Opinion was divided as to his merits as an actor. He owed much to his voice, which had a "mellow richness ... superior to any other performer on the stage." Genest, who quotes the above (vol. ix. p. 377), adds that "in his better days he had more pathos about him than any other actor." He made his first appearance in Cork as "Oroonoko," and subsequently (January, 1785) at Covent Garden in the same part. He ceased acting at Covent Garden in June, 1827.] [Footnote 4: In the cast for 'Hamlet', with which Drury Lane reopened, Raymond played the Ghost. Raymond was also the stage manager of the theatre.] * * * * * 248.--To Lord Holland. September 24. I send a recast of the four first lines of the concluding paragraph. This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The drama's homage by her Herald paid, Receive _our welcome too_, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises, etc., etc. And do forgive all this trouble. See what it is to have to do even with the _genteelest_ of us. Ever, etc. * * * * * 249.--To Lord Holland. Cheltenham, Sept. 25, 1812. Still "more matter for a May morning." [1] Having patched the middle and end of the Address, I send one more couplet for a part of the beginning, which, if not too turgid, you will have the goodness to add. After that flagrant image of the _Thames_ (I hope no unlucky wag will say I have set it on fire, though Dryden [2], in his _Annus Mirabilis_, and Churchill [3], in his _Times_, did it before me), I mean to insert this: As flashing far the new Volcano shone {_meteors_} And swept the skies with {lightnings} not their own, While thousands throng'd around the burning dome, Etc., etc. I think "thousands" less flat than "crowds collected"--but don't let me plunge into the bathos, or rise into Nat. Lee's _Bedlam metaphors_ [4]. By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw from a house-top in Covent-garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the reflection on the Thames. Perhaps the present couplet had better come in after "trembled for their homes," the two lines after;--as otherwise the image certainly sinks, and it will run just as well. The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better thus--("choose," or "refuse"--but please _yourself_, and don't mind "Sir Fretful" [5]): As flash'd the volumed blaze, and {_sadly_/ghastly} shone The skies with lightnings awful as their own. The last _runs_ smoothest, and, I think, best; but you know _better_ than _best_. "Lurid" is also a less indistinct epithet than "livid wave," and, if you think so, a dash of the pen will do. I expected one line this morning; in the mean time, I shall remodel and condense, and, if I do not hear from you, shall send another copy. I am ever, etc. [Footnote 1: 'Twelfth Night', act iii. sc. 4.] [Footnote 2: Dryden's 'Annus Mirabilis', stanza 231: "A key of fire ran all along the shore, And lightened all the river with a blaze; The wakened tides began again to roar, And wondering fish in shining waters gaze."] [Footnote 3: Churchill's 'Times', lines 701, 702: "Bidding in one grand pile this Town expire, Her towers in dust, her Thames a Lake of fire."] [Footnote 4: Nathaniel Lee (circ. 1653-1692), the dramatist, wrote 'The Rival Queens' (1677), in which occurs the line: "When Greek join'd Greek then was the tug of war." He collaborated with Dryden in 'OEdipus' (1679) and 'The Duke of Guise' (1682). His numerous dramas were distinguished, in his own day, for extravagance and bombast. His mind failing, he was confined from 1684 to 1688 in Bethlehem Hospital, where he is said to have composed a tragedy in 25 acts.] [Footnote 5: 'The Critic', act i. sc. I. "Sneer," speaking of "Sir Fretful Plagiary," says, "He is as envious as an old maid verging on the desperation of six and thirty; and then the insidious humility with which he seduces you to give a free opinion on any of his works can be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with which he is sure to reject your observations."] * * * * * 250.--To Lord Holland. September 26, 1812. You will think there is no end to my villanous emendations. The fifth and sixth lines I think to alter thus: Ye who beheld--oh sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd; because "night" is repeated the next line but one; and, as it now stands, the conclusion of the paragraph, "worthy him (Shakspeare) and _you_," appears to apply the "_you_" to those only who were out of bed and in Covent Garden market on the night of conflagration, instead of the audience or the discerning public at large, all of whom are intended to be comprised in that comprehensive and, I hope, comprehensible pronoun. By the by, one of my corrections in the fair copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom: When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write. Ceasing to _live_ is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first; therefore I will let the old couplet stand, with its half rhymes "sought" and "wrote." [1] Second thoughts in every thing are best, but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I am very anxious on this business, and I do hope that the very trouble I occasion you will plead its own excuse, and that it will tend to show my endeavour to make the most of the time allotted. I wish I had known it months ago, for in that case I had not left one line standing on another. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as I can, but never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began _Childe Harold_, I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other. After all, my dear Lord, if you can get a decent _Address_ elsewhere, don't hesitate to put this aside [2]. Why did you not trust your own Muse? I am very sure she would have been triumphant, and saved the Committee their trouble--"'tis a joyful one" to me, but I fear I shall not satisfy even myself. After the account you sent me, 'tis no compliment to say you would have beaten your candidates; but I mean that, in _that_ case, there would have been no occasion for their being beaten at all. There are but two decent prologues in our tongue--Pope's to 'Cato' [3]--Johnson's to Drury-Lane [4]. These, with the epilogue to 'The Distrest Mother' [5] and, I think, one of Goldsmith's [6], and a prologue of old Colman's to Beaumont and Fletcher's 'Philaster' [7], are the best things of the kind we have. P.S.--I am diluted to the throat with medicine for the stone; and Boisragon wants me to try a warm climate for the winter--but I won't. [Footnote 1: "Such are the names that here your plaudits sought, When Garrick acted, and when Brinsley wrote." At present the couplet stands thus: "Dear are the days that made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write."] [Footnote 2: "I am almost ashamed," writes Lord Holland to Rogers, October 22, 1812 (Clayden's 'Rogers and his Contemporaries', vol. i. p. 115), "of having induced Lord Byron to write on so ungrateful a theme (ungrateful in all senses) as the opening of a theatre; he was so good-humoured, took so much pains, corrected so good-humouredly, and produced, as I thought and think, a prologue so superior to the common run of that sort of trumpery, that it is quite vexatious to see him attacked for it. Some part of it is a little too much laboured, and the whole too long; but surely it is good and poetical.... You cannot imagine how I grew to like Lord Byron in my critical intercourse with him, and how much I am convinced that your friendship and judgment have contributed to improve both his understanding and his happiness."] [Footnote 3: Pope wrote the Prologue to Addison's 'Cato' when it was acted at Drury Lane, April 13, 1713.] [Footnote 4: Johnson wrote the Prologue when Garrick opened Drury Lane, September 15, 1747, with 'The Merchant of Venice'. "It is," says Genest ('English Stage', vol. iv. p. 231), "the best Prologue that was ever written." Johnson wrote the Prologue to Milton's 'Comus', played at Drury Lane, April 5, 1750; to Goldsmith's 'Good-Natured Man', played at Covent Garden, January 29, 1769; and to Hugh Kelly's 'A Word to the Wise', played at Drury Lane, March 3, 1770.] [Footnote 5: 'The Distrest Mother', adapted from Racine by Ambrose Philips, was first played at Drury Lane, March 17, 1712. Addison is supposed (Genest, 'English Stage', vol. ii. p. 496) to have written the epilogue.] [Footnote 6: It is impossible to say to which of Goldsmith's epilogues Byron refers. A previous editor of Moore's 'Life, etc'., identified it with his epilogue to Charlotte Lennox's unsuccessful comedy, 'The Sister', which was once played at Covent Garden, February 18, 1769, and then withdrawn.] [Footnote 7: George Colman the Elder, who edited an edition of Beaumont and Fletcher (10 vols., 1778), wrote the prologue to 'Philaster', when it was produced at Drury Lane, October 8, 1763.] * * * * * 251.--To Lord Holland. Sept. 27, 1812. I believe this is the third scrawl since yesterday--all about epithets. I think the epithet "intellectual" won't convey the meaning I intend; and though I hate compounds, for the present I will try (_col' permesso_) the word "genius gifted patriots of our line" [1] instead. Johnson has "many coloured life," a compound----but they are always best avoided. However, it is the only one in ninety lines [2], but will be happy to give way to a better. I am ashamed to intrude any more remembrances on Lady H. or letters upon you; but you are, fortunately for me, gifted with patience already too often tried by Your etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: This, as finally altered, stood thus: "Immortal names emblazon'd on our line."] [Footnote 2: Reduced to seventy-three lines.] * * * * * 252.--To Lord Holland. September 27, 1812. I have just received your very kind letter, and hope you have met with a second copy corrected and addressed to Holland House, with some omissions and this new couplet, As glared each rising flash, [1] and ghastly shone The skies with lightnings awful as their own. As to remarks, I can only say I will alter and acquiesce in any thing. With regard to the part which Whitbread [2] wishes to omit, I believe the 'Address' will go off _quicker_ without it, though, like the agility of the Hottentot, at the expense of its vigour. I leave to your choice entirely the different specimens of stucco-work; and a _brick_ of your own will also much improve my Babylonish turret. I should like Elliston to have it, with your leave. "Adorn" and "mourn" are lawful rhymes in Pope's 'Death of the Unfortunate Lady'.--Gray has "forlorn" and "mourn"--and "torn" and "mourn" are in Smollett's famous 'Tears of Scotland' [3]. As there will probably be an outcry amongst the rejected, I hope the Committee will testify (if it be needful) that I sent in nothing to the congress whatever, with or without a name, as your Lordship well knows. All I have to do with it is with and through you; and though I, of course, wish to satisfy the audience, I do assure you my first object is to comply with your request, and in so doing to show the sense I have of the many obligations you have conferred upon me. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: At present: "As glared the volumed blaze."] [Footnote 2: Samuel Whitbread (1758-1815) married, in 1789, Elizabeth, daughter of General Sir Charles Grey, created (1806) Earl Grey, and sister of the second Earl Grey, of Reform Bill fame. The son of a wealthy brewer, whose fortune he inherited, he entered Parliament as M.P. for Bedford in 1790. Raikes, in his 'Journal' (vol. iv. PP. 50, 51), speaks of him, at the outset of his career, as a staunch Foxite, and "much remarked in society." Comparing him with his brother-in-law Grey, he says, "Mr. Whitbread was a more steady character; his appearance was heavy; he was fond of agriculture, and was very plain and simple in his tastes. Both were reckoned good debaters in the House, but Grey was the most eloquent." An independent Whig, and an advocate for peace with France, Whitbread supported Fox against Pitt throughout the Napoleonic War, strongly opposed its renewal after the return of the emperor from Elba, and interested himself in such measures as moderate Parliamentary reform, the amendment of the poor law, national education, and retrenchment of public expenditure. On April 8, 1805, he moved the resolutions which ended in the impeachment of Lord Melville, and took the lead in the inquiries, which were made, March, 1809, into the conduct of the Duke of York. He was a plain, business-like speaker, and a man of such unimpeachable integrity that Mr., afterwards Lord, Plunket, in a speech on the Roman Catholic claims, February 28, 1821, called him "the incorruptible sentinel of the constitution." When he moved the articles of impeachment against Lord Melville, Canning scribbled the following impromptu parody of his speech ('Anecdotal History of the British Parliament', p. 222): "I'm like Archimedes for science and skill; I'm like a young prince going straight up a hill; I'm like--(with respect to the fair be it said)-- I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed. If you ask why the 11th of June I remember Much better than April, or May, or November, On that day, my lords, with truth I assure ye, My sainted progenitor set up his brewery; On that day, in the morn, he began brewing beer; On that day, too, commenced his connubial career;] On that day he received and he issued his bills; On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills; On that day he died, having finished his summing, And the angels all cried, 'Here's old Whitbread a-coming!' So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh, For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I; And still on that day, in the hottest of weather, The whole Whitbread family dine all together.-- So long as the beams of this house shall support The roof which o'ershades this respectable Court, Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos; So long as that sun shall shine in at those windows, My name shall shine bright as my ancestor's shines, 'Mine' recorded in journals, 'his' blazoned on signs!" An active member of Parliament, a large landed proprietor, the manager of his immense brewery in Chiswell Street, Whitbread also found time to reduce to order the chaotic concerns of Drury Lane Theatre. He was, with Lord Holland and Harvey Combe, responsible for the request to Byron to write an address, having first rejected his own address with its "poulterer's description of the Phoenix." He was fond of private theatricals, and Dibdin ('Reminiscences', vol. ii. pp. 383, 384) gives the play-bill of an entertainment given by him at Southill. In the first play, 'The Happy Return', he took the part of "Margery;" and in the second, 'Fatal Duplicity', that of "Eglantine," a very young lady, loved by "Sir Buntybart" and "Sir Brandywine." In his capacity as manager of Drury Lane, Whitbread is represented by the author of 'Accepted Addresses' (1813) as addressing "the M--s of H--d"-- "My LORD,-- "As I now have the honour to be By 'Man'ging' a 'Playhouse' a double M.P., In this my address I think fit to complain Of certain encroachments on great Drury Lane," etc., etc. Whitbread strongly supported the cause of the Princess of Wales. Miss Berry ('Journal', vol. iii. p. 25) says that he dictated the letters which the Princess wrote to the Queen, who had desired that she should not attend the two drawing-rooms to be held in June, 1814. "They were good," she adds, "but too long, and sometimes marked by Whitbread's want of taste." The strain of his multifarious activities affected both his health and his mind, and he committed suicide July 6, 1815.] [Footnote 3: "By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd." (Pope.) "Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn, Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn." (Gray.) "Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn." (Smollett.)] * * * * * 253.--To John Murray. Cheltenham, September 27, 1812. Dear Sir,--I sent in no 'Address' whatever to the Committee; but out of nearly one hundred (this is _confidential_), none have been deemed worth acceptance; and in consequence of their _subsequent_ application to _me_, I have written a prologue, which _has_ been received, and will be spoken. The MS. is now in the hands of Lord Holland. I write this merely to say, that (however it is received by the audience) you will publish it in the next edition of _Childe Harold_; and I only beg you at present to keep my name secret till you hear further from me, and as soon as possible I wish you to have a correct copy, to do with as you think proper. I am, yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--I should wish a few copies printed off _before_, that the Newspaper copies may be correct _after_ the _delivery_. * * * * * 254.--To Lord Holland. September 28, 1812. Will this do better? The metaphor is more complete. Till slowly ebb'd the {_lava of the_/spent volcanic} wave, And blackening ashes mark'd the Muse's grave. If not, we will say "burning wave," and instead of "burning clime," in the line some couplets back, have "glowing." Is Whitbread determined to castrate all my _cavalry_ lines [1]? I don't see why t'other house should be spared; besides it is the public, who ought to know better; and you recollect Johnson's was against similar buffooneries of Rich's--but, certes, I am not Johnson. [2] Instead of "effects," say "labours"--"degenerate" will do, will it? Mr. Betty is no longer a babe, therefore the line cannot be personal. Will this do? Till ebb'd the lava of {_the burning_}/{that molten} wave [3] with "glowing dome," in case you prefer "burning" added to this "wave" metaphorical. The word "fiery pillar" was suggested by the "pillar of fire" in the book of Exodus, which went before the Israelites through the Red Sea. I once thought of saying "like Israel's pillar," and making it a simile, but I did not know,--the great temptation was leaving the epithet "fiery" for the supplementary wave. I want to work up that passage, as it is the only new ground us prologuizers can go upon-- This is the place where, if a poet Shined in description, he might show it. If I part with the possibility of a future conflagration, we lessen the compliment to Shakspeare. However, we will e'en mend it thus: Yes, it shall be--the magic of that name, That scorns the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame, On the same spot, etc., etc. There--the deuce is in it, if that is not an improvement to Whitbread's content. Recollect, it is the "name," and not the "magic," that has a noble contempt for those same weapons. If it were the "magic," my metaphor would be somewhat of the maddest--so the "name" is the antecedent. But, my dear Lord, your patience is not quite so immortal--therefore, with many and sincere thanks, I am, Yours ever most affectionately. P.S.--I foresee there will be charges of partiality in the papers; but you know I sent in no _Address_; and glad both you and I must be that I did not, for, in that case, their plea had been plausible. I doubt the Pit will be testy; but conscious innocence (a novel and pleasing sensation) makes me bold. [Footnote 1: The lines which were omitted by the Committee ran thus: "'Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores That late she deigned to crawl upon all-fours. When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse, If you command, the steed must come in course. If you decree, the Stage must condescend' To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. _Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, And gratify you more by showing less_. Oh, since your Fiat stamps the Drama's laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; _That public praise be ne'er again disgraced, From_ {brutes to man recall}/{_babes and brutes redeem} a nation's taste_; Then pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, When Reason's voice is echoed back by ours." The last couplet but one was altered in a subsequent copy, thus: "'The past reproach let present scenes refute, Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute'." On February 18, 1811, at Covent Garden, a troop of horses were introduced in 'Bluebeard'. For the manager, Juvenal's words, "_Lucri bonus est odor ex re Qualibet_" ('Sat'. xiv. 204) may have been true; but, as the dressing-room of the equine comedians was under the orchestra, the stench on the first night was to the audience intolerable. At the same theatre, April 29, 1811, the horses were again brought on the stage in Lewis's 'Timour the Tartar'. At the same theatre, on the following December 26, a live elephant appeared. The novelty had, however, been anticipated in the Dublin Theatre during the season of 1771-72 (Genest's 'English Stage', vol. viii. p. 287). At the Haymarket, and Drury Lane, the introduction of live animals was ridiculed. 'The Quadrupeds of Quedlinburgh' was given at the Haymarket, July 26, 1811, as a burlesque on 'Timour the Tartar' and the horses. The Prologue, by Colman the Younger, attacks the passion for German plays and animal actors: "Your taste, recover'd half from foreign quacks, Takes airings, now, on English horses' backs; While every modern bard may raise his name, If not on _lasting praise_, on _stable fame_." At the Lyceum, during the season 1811-12, 'Quadrupeds, or the Manager's Last Kick', in which the tailors were mounted on asses and mules, was given by the Drury Lane Company with success. It was this introduction of animal performers which Byron wished to attack.] [Footnote 2: The following are the lines in Johnson's 'Prologue' to which Byron refers: "Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refined, For years the power of Tragedy declined; From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till Declamation roared, whilst Passion slept. Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remained though Nature fled. But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit; Exulting Folly hailed the joyous Day, And Pantomime and Song confirmed her sway. But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the Stage? Perhaps if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; Perhaps, where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride; Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance." John Rich (circ. 1682-1761) was the creator of pantomime in England, which he introduced at Lincoln's Inn Fields in April, 1716, and in which, under the stage name of Lun, he played the part of Harlequin. At Lincoln's Inn Fields, January 29, 1728, he produced 'The Beggar's Opera', which, after being refused at Drury Lane, made "Gay 'rich', and Rich 'gay'." "Great Faustus" probably alludes to the war between the two theatres, and the rival productions of 'Harlequin Dr. Faustus' at Drury Lane in 1723, and of 'The Necromancer, or the History of Dr. Faustus' at Lincoln's Inn Fields in December of the same year. On December 7, 1732, Rich opened the new theatre at Covent Garden, of which he remained manager till his death in 1761.] [Footnote 3: The form of this couplet, as printed, is as follows: "Till blackening ashes and lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall."] * * * * * 255.--To Lord Holland. September 28. I have altered the _middle_ couplet, so as I hope partly to do away with W.'s objection. I do think, in the present state of the stage, it had been unpardonable to pass over the horses and Miss Mudie [1], etc. As Betty is no longer a boy, how can this be applied to him? He is now to be judged as a man. If he acts still like a boy, the public will but be more ashamed of their blunder. I have, you see, _now_ taken it for granted that these things are reformed. I confess, I wish that part of the _Address_ to stand; but if W. is inexorable, e'en let it go. I have also new-cast the lines, and softened the hint of future combustion, and sent them off this morning. Will you have the goodness to add, or insert, the _approved_ alterations as they arrive? They "come like shadows, so depart," [2] occupy me, and, I fear, disturb you. Do not let Mr. W. put his _Address_ into Elliston's hands till you have settled on these alterations. E. will think it too long:--much depends on the speaking. I fear it will not bear much curtailing, without _chasms_ in the sense. It is certainly too long in the reading; but if Elliston exerts himself, such a favourite with the public will not be thought tedious. _I_ should think it so, if _he_ were not to speak it. Yours ever, etc. P.S.--On looking again, I doubt my idea of having obviated W.'s objection. To the other House allusion is _non sequitur_--but I wish to plead for this part, because the thing really is not to be passed over. Many afterpieces of the Lyceum by the _same company_ have already attacked this "Augean _Stable_"--and Johnson, in his prologue against "Lunn" (the harlequin manager, Rich),--"Hunt,"--"Mahomet," etc. is surely a fair precedent. [3] [Footnote 1: For the horses, see p. 156, 'note' 1. Miss Mudie, another "Phenomenon," with whom the Covent Garden manager hoped to rival the success of Master Betty, was announced in the 'Morning Post', July 29, 1805, as the "Young Roscia of the Dublin Stage." She appeared at Covent Garden, November 23, 1805, in the part of "Peggy" in 'The Country Girl', Miss Brunton being "Alithea," C. Kemble "Harcourt," and Moody "Murray." Being hissed by the audience, she walked with great composure to the front of the stage, and said, as reported in the 'Morning Post' (November 25, 1805) "Ladies and gentlemen,--I know nothing I have done to offend you, and has set ('sic') those who are sent here to hiss me; I will be very much obliged to you to turn them out." This unfortunate speech made matters worse; the audience refused to hear her, and her part was finished by Miss Searle. Miss Mudie was said to be only eight years old. But J. Kemble, being asked if she were really such a child, answered, "'Child'! Why, sir, when I was a very young actor in the York Company, that little creature kept an inn at Tadcaster, and had a large family" (Clark Russell's 'Representative Actors', p. 363, 'note' 2). The 'Morning Post' (April 5, 1806) says that Miss Mudie afterwards joined a children's troupe in Leicester Place, where, "though deservedly discountenanced at a great theatre, she will, no doubt, prove an acquisition to the infant establishment" (Ashton's 'Dawn of the XIXth Century in England', pp. 333-336).] [Footnote 2: Macbeth, act iv. sc. 1.] [Footnote 3: For Lun, or Rich, see p. 157, end of 'note' 1. Hunt, in the notes to Johnson's 'Prologue' (Gilfillan's edition of Johnson's 'Poestical Works', p. 38), is said to be "a famous stage-boxer, Mahomet, a rope-dancer."] * * * * * 256.--To William Bankes. Cheltenham, September 28, 1812. MY DEAR BANKES,--When you point out to one how people can be intimate at the distance of some seventy leagues, I will plead guilty to your charge, and accept your farewell, but not _wittingly_, till you give me some better reason than my silence, which merely proceeded from a notion founded on your own declaration of _old_, that you hated writing and receiving letters. Besides, how was I to find out a man of many residences? If I had addressed you _now_, it had been to your borough, where I must have conjectured you were amongst your constituents. So now, in despite of Mr. N. and Lady W., you shall be as "much better" as the Hexham post-office will allow me to make you. I do assure you I am much indebted to you for thinking of me at all, and can't spare you even from amongst the superabundance of friends with whom you suppose me surrounded. You heard that Newstead [1] is sold--the sum £140,000; sixty to remain in mortgage on the estate for three years, paying interest, of course. Rochdale is also likely to do well--so my worldly matters are mending. I have been here some time drinking the waters, simply because there are waters to drink, and they are very medicinal, and sufficiently disgusting. In a few days I set out for Lord Jersey's [2], but return here, where I am quite alone, go out very little, and enjoy in its fullest extent the _dolce far niente_. What you are about I cannot guess, even from your date;--not dauncing to the sound of the gitourney in the Halls of the Lowthers? one of whom is here, ill, poor thing, with a phthisic. I heard that you passed through here (at the sordid inn where I first alighted) the very day before I arrived in these parts. We had a very pleasant set here; at first the Jerseys, Melbournes [3], Cowpers [4], and Hollands, but all gone; and the only persons I know are the Rawdons [5] and Oxfords [6], with some later acquaintances of less brilliant descent. But I do not trouble them much; and as for your rooms and your assemblies "they are not dreamed of in our philosophy!!"--Did you read of a sad accident in the Wye t'other day [7]? A dozen drowned; and Mr. Rossoe, a corpulent gentleman, preserved by a boat-hook or an eel-spear, begged, when he heard his wife was saved--no--_lost_--to be thrown in again!!--as if he could not have thrown himself in, had he wished it; but this passes for a trait of sensibility. What strange beings men are, in and out of the Wye! I have to ask you a thousand pardons for not fulfilling some orders before I left town; but if you knew all the cursed entanglements I _had_ to wade through, it would be unnecessary to beg your forgiveness.--When will Parliament (the new one) meet [8]?--in sixty days, on account of Ireland, I presume: the Irish election will demand a longer period for completion than the constitutional allotment. Yours, of course, is safe, and all your side of the question. Salamanca is the ministerial watchword, and all will go well with you. I hope you will speak more frequently, I am sure at least you _ought_, and it will be expected. I see Portman means to stand again. Good night. Ever yours most affectionately, [Greek: Mpairon.] [Footnote 1: Newstead was put up at Garraway's in the autumn of 1812; but only £90,000 were bid, and the property was therefore withdrawn. Subsequently it was privately sold to a Mr. Claughton, who found himself unable to complete the purchase, and forfeited £25,000 on the contract. Newstead was eventually sold, in November, 1817, to Colonel Wildman, Byron's Harrow schoolfellow, for £94,500.] [Footnote 2: For Lady Jersey, see p. 112, 'note' 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 230]. The following passage, from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts', gives an account of the party at Middleton: "In 1812 at Middelton (Lord Jersey's), amongst a goodly company of Lords, Ladies, and wits, etc., there was poor old Vice Leach, the lawyer, attempting to play off the fine gentleman. His first exhibition, an attempt on horseback, I think, to escort the women--God knows where--in the month of November, ended in a fit of the Lumbago--as Lord Ogleby says, 'a grievous enemy to Gallantry and address'--and if he could have but heard Lady Jersey quizzing him (as I did) next day for the _cause_ of his malady, I don't think that he would have turned a 'Squire of dames' in a hurry again. He seemed to me the greatest fool (in that line) I ever saw. This was the last I saw of old Vice Leach, except in town, where he was creeping into assemblies, and trying to look young--and gentlemanly. "Erskine too!--Erskine was there--good but intolerable. He jested, he talked, he did everything admirably, but then he 'would' be applauded for the same thing twice over. He would read his own verses, his own paragraphs, and tell his own story again and again; and then 'the trial by Jury!!!'--I almost wished it abolished, for I sate next him at dinner, and, as I had read his published speeches, there was no occasion to repeat them to me. Chester (the fox-hunter), surnamed 'Cheek Chester,' and I sweated the Claret, being the only two who did so. Cheek, who loves his bottle, and had no notion of meeting with a 'bonvivant' in a scribbler, in making my eulogy to somebody one evening, summed it up in 'by G-d, he 'drinks like a Man'!'"] [Footnote 3: Sir Peniston Lamb, created an Irish baron as Lord Melbourne in 1770, an Irish viscount in 1780, and an English peer in 1815, married, in 1769, Elizabeth, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, of Halnaby, Yorkshire, one of the cleverest and most beautiful women of the day. Horace Walpole, writing to Mason, May 12, 1778, mentions her when she was at the height of her beauty. "On Tuesday," he says, "I supped, after the opera, at Mrs. Meynel's with a set of the most fashionable company, which, take notice, I very seldom do now, as I certainly am not of the age to mix often with young people. Lady Melbourne was standing before the fire, and adjusting her feathers in the glass. Says she, 'Lord, they say the stocks will blow up! That will be very comical.'" Greville ('Memoirs', ed. 1888, vol. vi. p. 248) associates her name with that of Lord Egremont. Reynolds painted her with her eldest son in his well-known picture 'Maternal Affection'. Her second son, William, afterwards Prime Minister, used to say, "Ah! my mother was a most remarkable woman; not merely clever and engaging, but the most sagacious woman I ever knew" ('Memoirs of Viscount Melbourne', vol. i. p. 135). Lady Melbourne, whom Byron spoke of as "the best, the kindest, and ablest female I have ever known, old or young," died in 1818, her husband in 1828. He thus described her to Lady Blessington ('Conversations', p. 225): "Lady M., who might have been my mother, excited an interest in my feelings that few young women have been able to awaken. She was a charming person--a sort of modern Aspasia, uniting the energy of a man's mind with the delicacy and tenderness of a woman's. She wrote and spoke admirably, because she felt admirably. Envy, malice, hatred, or uncharitableness, found no place in her feelings. She had all of philosophy, save its moroseness, and all of nature, save its defects and general 'faiblesse'; or if some portion of 'faiblesse' attached to her, it only served to render her more forbearing to the errors of others. I have often thought, that, with a little more youth, Lady M. might have turned my head, at all events she often turned my heart, by bringing me back to mild feelings, when the demon passion was strong within me. Her mind and heart were as fresh as if only sixteen summers had flown over her, instead of four times that number."] [Footnote 4: Peter, fifth Earl Cowper (1778-1837), married, in 1805 Emily Mary Lamb, daughter of Lord Melbourne; she married, secondly, in 1839, Lord Palmerston.] [Footnote 5: Francis Rawdon, second Earl of Moira (1754-1826), created Lord Rawdon (1783), and Marquis of Hastings (1817), married, in 1804, the Countess of Loudoun.] [Footnote 6: Edward Harley (1773-1848) succeeded his uncle as fifth Earl of Oxford in 1790, and married, in 1794, Jane Elizabeth, daughter of the Rev. James Scott, Vicar of Itchin, Hants. It is probably of Lady Oxford, whose picture was painted by Hoppner, that Byron spoke to Lady Blessington ('Conversations', p. 255), "Even now the autumnal charms of Lady----are remembered by me with more than admiration. She resembled a landscape by Claude Lorraine, with a setting sun, her beauties enhanced by the knowledge that they were shedding their last dying beams, which threw a radiance around. A woman... is only grateful for her 'first' and 'last' conquest. The first of poor dear Lady----'s was achieved before I entered on this world of care; but the 'last', I do flatter myself, was reserved for me, and a 'bonne bouche' it was." The following passage certainly relates to Lady Oxford: "There was a lady at that time," said Byron (Medwin's 'Conversations', pp. 93, 94), "double my own age, the mother of several children who were perfect angels, with whom I had formed a 'liaison' that continued without interruption for eight months. The autumn of a beauty like her's is preferable to the spring in others. She told me she was never in love till she was thirty; and I thought myself so with her when she was forty. I never felt a stronger passion; which she returned with equal ardour.... She had been sacrificed, almost before she was a woman, to one whose mind and body were equally contemptible in the scale of creation; and on whom she bestowed a numerous family, to which the law gave him the right to be called father. Strange as it may seem, she gained (as all women do) an influence over me so strong, that I had great difficulty in breaking with her, even when I knew she had been inconstant to me: and once was on the point of going abroad with her, and narrowly escaped this folly." To be near the Oxfords at Eywood, in Herefordshire, Byron took Kinsham Court, a dower-house of the family, where Bishop Harley died in 1788. At one time, as is evident from his correspondence with Hanson, he was bent on going abroad with Lady Oxford. In the end he only accompanied her to Portsmouth. Of Lady Oxford, Uvedale Price wrote thus to Rogers (Clayden, 'Rogers and his Contemporaries', vol. i. pp. 397, 398): "This is a melancholy subject"--[the death, by consumption of Lord Aberdeen's children]--"and I must go to another. Poor Lady Oxford! I had heard with great concern of her dangerous illness, but hoped she might get through it, and was much, very much grieved to hear that it had ended fatally. I had, as you know, lived a great deal with her from the time she came into this country, immediately after her marriage; but for some years past, since she went abroad, had scarcely had any correspondence or intercourse with her, till I met her in town last spring. I then saw her twice, and both times she seemed so overjoyed to see an old friend, and expressed her joy so naturally and cordially, that I felt no less overjoyed at seeing her after so long an absence. She talked, with great satisfaction, of our meeting for a longer time this next spring, little thinking of an eternal separation. There could not, in all respects, be a more ill-matched pair than herself and Lord Oxford, or a stronger instance of the cruel sports of Venus, or, rather, of Hymen-- 'Cui placet impares Formas atque animos sub juga ahenea Sævo mittere cum joco.' "It has been said that she was, in some measure, forced into the match. Had she been united to a man whom she had loved, esteemed, and respected, she herself might have been generally respected and esteemed, as well as loved; but in her situation, to keep clear of all misconduct required a strong mind or a cold heart; perhaps both, and she had neither. Her failings were in no small degree the effect of circumstances; her amiable qualities all her own. There was something about her, in spite of her errors, remarkably attaching, and that something was not merely her beauty. 'Kindness has resistless charms,' and she was full of affectionate kindness to those she loved, whether as friends or as lovers. As a friend, I always found her the same, never at all changeful or capricious. As I am not a very rigid moralist, and am extremely open to kindness, 'I could have better spared a better woman.'"] [Footnote 7: An account of the accident is given in the Chronicle of the 'Annual Register', September 21, 1812. The party consisted of ten people, three of whom were saved. Among those rescued was Mr. Rothery--not Rossoe, as Byron gives it.] [Footnote 8: The new Parliament met November 30, 1812. Wellington won the battle of Salamanca on the previous July 22.] * * * * * 257.--To Lord Holland. September 29, 1812. Shakespeare certainly ceased to reign in _one_ of his kingdoms, as George III. did in America, and George IV. [1] may in Ireland? Now, we have nothing to do out of our own realms, and when the monarchy was gone, his majesty had but a barren sceptre. I have _cut away_, you will see, and altered, but make it what you please; only I do implore, for my _own_ gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds--"a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me." [2] I have altered "wave," etc., and the "fire," and so forth for the timid. Let me hear from you when convenient, and believe me, etc. P.S.--Do let _that_ stand, and cut out elsewhere. I shall choke, if we must overlook their damned menagerie. [Footnote 1: Some objection, it appears, had been made to the passage, "and Shakspeare _ceased to reign_."] [Footnote 2: Bob Acres, in 'The Rivals' (act v. se. 3), says, "A long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me."] * * * * * 258.--To Lord Holland. September 30, 1812. I send you the most I can make of it; for I am not so well as I was, and find I "pull in resolution." [1] I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury by twelve on Saturday; and from thence I go on to Lord Jersey's. It is impossible not to allude to the degraded state of the Stage, but I have lightened _it_, and endeavoured to obviate your _other_ objections. There is a new couplet for Sheridan, allusive to his Monody [2]. All the alterations I have marked thus ],--as you will see by comparison with the other copy. I have cudgelled my brains with the greatest willingness, and only wish I had more time to have done better. You will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory couplet inserted for the quiet of the Committee [3], and I have added, towards the end, the couplet you were pleased to _like_. The whole Address is seventy-three lines, still perhaps too long; and, if shortened, you will save time, but, I fear, a little of what I meant for sense also. With myriads of thanks, I am ever, etc. My sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H.--How she must laugh at all this! I wish Murray, my publisher, to print off some copies as soon as your Lordship returns to town--it will ensure correctness in the papers afterwards. [Footnote 1: 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 5.] [Footnote 2: Sheridan's 'Monody on Garrick'.] [Footnote 3: The Committee of Selection consisted, says the 'Satirist' (November 1, 1812, p. 395), "of one peer and two commoners, one poet and two prosers, one Lord and two Brewers; and the only points in which they coincided were in being all three parliament men, all three politicians, all three in opposition to the Government of the country. Their names, as we understand, were Vassal Holland, Samuel Whitbread, and Harvey Christian Combe."] * * * * * 259.--To Lord Holland. Far be from him that hour which asks in vain Tears such as flow for Garrick in his strain; _or_, Far be that hour that vainly asks in turn Such verse for him as {_crown'd his_/wept o'er} Garrick's urn. September 30, 1812. Will you choose between these added to the lines on Sheridan [1]? I think they will wind up the panegyric, and agree with the train of thought preceding them. Now, one word as to the Committee--how could they resolve on a rough copy of an _Address_ never sent in, unless you had been good enough to retain in memory, or on paper, the thing they have been good enough to adopt? By the by, the circumstances of the case should make the Committee less _avidus gloriæ_, for all praise of them would look plaguy suspicious. If necessary to be stated at all, the simple facts bear them out. They surely had a right to act as they pleased. My sole object is one which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown; viz. that I did nothing insidious--sent in no Address _whatever_--but, when applied to, did my best for them and myself; but, above all, that there was no undue partiality, which will be what the rejected will endeavour to make out. Fortunately--most fortunately--I sent in no lines on the occasion. For I am sure that had they, in that case, been preferred, it would have been asserted that _I_ was known, and owed the preference to private friendship. This is what we shall probably have to encounter; but, if once spoken and approved, we sha'n't be much embarrassed by their brilliant conjectures; and, as to criticism, an _old_ author, like an old bull, grows cooler (or ought) at every baiting. The only thing would be to avoid a party on the night of delivery--afterwards, the more the better, and the whole transaction inevitably tends to a good deal of discussion. Murray tells me there are myriads of ironical Addresses [2] ready--_some_, in imitation of what is called _my style_. If they are as good as the 'Probationary Odes' [3], or Hawkins's 'Pipe of Tobacco' [4], it will not be bad fun for the imitated. Ever, etc. [Footnote 1: These added lines, as may be seen by reference to the printed Address, were not retained.] [Footnote 2: Probably the reference is to 'Rejected Addresses, or the New Theatrum Poetarum' (1812), by James (1775-1839) and Horace (1779-1849) Smith. "Cui Bono?" the parody on Byron, is the joint composition of James and Horace. The manuscript was offered to Murray for £20, but declined by him. It was afterwards published by John Miller, of Bow Street, Covent Garden, who also published 'Horace in London'.] [Footnote 3: 'Probationary Odes', which generally forms, with 'Political Eclogues', the third portion of the 'Rolliad', is really distinct from that work. It is the result of an imaginary contest for the laureate-ship. Each candidate was to deliver a "Probationary Birthday Ode," and among the candidates are Dr. Pretyman, Archbishop Markham, Thomas and Joseph Warton, Sir Cecil Wray, Sir Joseph Mawbey, Henry Dundas, Lord Thurlow, and other Tories of the day. The plan of the work is said to have been suggested by Joseph Richardson (1755-1803), who wrote Odes iv. (Sir Richard Hill) and xix. (Lord Mountmorres).] [Footnote 4: 'In Praise of a Pipe of Tobacco' (1736), written by Isaac Hawkins Browne (1705-1760), was an ode in imitation of Swift, Pope, Thomson, and other contemporary poets. Browne represented Wenlock in the Whig interest in the Parliaments of 1744 and 1747. Johnson spoke of him (Boswell, 'Johnson', April 5, 1775) as "one of the first wits of this country," who "got into Parliament, and never opened his mouth."] * * * * * 260.--To Lord Holland. October 2, 1812. A copy of this _still altered_ is sent by the post, but this will arrive first. It must be "humbler"--"_yet aspiring_" does away the modesty, and, after all, _truth is truth_. Besides, there is a puff direct altered, to please your _plaguy renters_. I shall be at Tetbury by 12 or 1--but send this for you to ponder over. There are several little things marked thus / altered for your perusal. I have dismounted the cavalry, and, I hope, arranged to your general satisfaction. Ever, etc. At Tetbury by noon.--I hope, after it is sent, there will be no more elisions. It is not now so long--73 lines--two less than allotted. I will alter all Committee objections, but I hope you won't permit _Elliston_ to have any _voice_ whatever,--except in speaking it. * * * * * 261.--To John Murray. Cheltenham, Oct. 12, 1812. DEAR SIR,--I have a _very strong objection_ to the engraving of the portrait [1], and request that it may, on no account, be prefixed; but let _all_ the proofs be burnt, and the plate broken. I will be at the expense which has been incurred; it is but fair that _I_ should, since I cannot permit the publication. I beg, as a particular favour, that you will lose no time in having this done, for which I have reasons that I will state when I see you. Forgive all the trouble I have occasioned you. I have received no account of the reception of the _Address_ [2], but see it is vituperated in the papers, which does not much embarrass an _old author_. I leave it to your own judgment to add it, or not, to your next edition when required. Pray comply _strictly_ with my wishes as to the engraving, and believe me, etc. Yours very truly, BYRON. P.S.--Favour me with an answer, as I shall not be easy until I hear that the _proofs_, etc., are destroyed. I hear that the _Satirist_ has reviewed _Childe Harold_ [3], in what manner I need not ask; but I wish to know if the old personalities are revived? I have a better reason for asking this than any that merely concerns myself; but in publications of that kind, others, particularly female names, are sometimes introduced. [Footnote 1: A miniature by Sanders. Besides this miniature, Sanders had also painted a full-length of Byron, from which the portrait prefixed to the quarto edition of Moore's 'Life' is engraved. In reference to the latter picture, Byron says, in a note to Rogers, "If you think the picture you saw at Murray's worth your acceptance, it is yours; and you may put a glove or mask on it, if you like" (Moore).] [Footnote 2: On Saturday, October 10, Drury Lane reopened with 'The Devil to Pay' and 'Hamlet'. Then, after the whole body of actors had sung "God save the King" and "Rule, Britannia," Elliston delivered Byron's address.] [Footnote 3: 'The Satirist, a Monthly Meteor' (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 321, 'note' 3 [Footnote 3 of Letter 159]), ran from October, 1807, to 1814. Up to 1812 it was the property of George Manners, who sold it in that year to W. Jerdan. It reviewed 'Childe Harold' in October, 1812 (pp. 344-358); and again in December of the same year (pp. 542-550). In the first of the two notices, the 'Satirist' quotes the "judgment of our predecessors," that unless Byron "improved wonderfully, he could never be a poet," and continues thus: "It is with unaffected satisfaction we find that he has improved wonderfully, and that he is a poet. Indeed, when we consider the comparatively short interval which has elapsed, and contrast the character of his recent with that of his early work, we confess ourselves astonished at the intellectual progress which Lord Byron has made, and are happy to hold him up as another example of the extraordinary effects of study and cultivation, 'even' on minds apparently of the most unpromising description." The reviewer severely condemns the morbid bitterness of the poet's thought and feeling, but yet affirms that the poems "abound with beautiful imagery, clothed in a diction free, forcible, and various. 'Childe Harold', although avowedly a fragment, contains many fragments which would do honour to any poet, of any period, in any country."] * * * * * 262.--To Lord Holland. Cheltenham, Oct. 14, 1812. MY DEAR LORD,--I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry's [1], are somewhat ruffled at the injudicious preference of the Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, 'et tu, Brute'-d me rather scurvily, for which I will send him, for the 'Morning Chronicle', the next epigram I scribble, as a token of my full forgiveness. Do the Committee mean to enter into no explanation of their proceedings? You must see there is a leaning towards a charge of partiality. You will, at least, acquit me of any great anxiety to push myself before so many elder and better anonymous, to whom the twenty guineas (which I take to be about two thousand pounds 'Bank' currency) and the honour would have been equally welcome. "Honour," I see, "hath skill in paragraph-writing." I wish to know how it went off at the second reading, and whether any one has had the grace to give it a glance of approbation. I have seen no paper but Perry's and two Sunday ones. Perry is severe, and the others silent. If, however, you and your Committee are not now dissatisfied with your own judgments, I shall not much embarrass myself about the brilliant remarks of the journals. My own opinion upon it is what it always was, perhaps pretty near that of the public. Believe me, my dear Lord, etc., etc. P.S.--My best respects to Lady H., whose smiles will be very consolatory, even at this distance. [Footnote 1: James Perry (1756-1821) purchased, in 1789, the 'Morning Chronicle', originally established by Woodfall in 1769. In Perry's hands the paper became the leading organ of the Whigs. He was the first editor to introduce a succession of parliamentary reporters. He gathered round him a remarkable staff of contributors, including Ricardo, Sir James Mackintosh, Porson (who married his sister), Charles Lamb, Sheridan, Coleridge, Hazlitt, Lord Campbell, Moore, Campbell, Byron, and Burns. The 'Morning Chronicle' (October 12, 1812) says: "Mr. Elliston then came forward and delivered the following 'Prize' Address. We cannot boast of the eloquence of the delivery. It was neither gracefully nor correctly recited. The merits of the production itself we submit to the criticism of our readers. We cannot suppose that it was selected as the most poetical composition of all the scores that were submitted to the Committee. But, perhaps by its tenor, by its allusions to the fire, to Garrick, to Siddons, and to Sheridan, it was thought most applicable to the occasion, notwithstanding its being in parts unmusical, and in general tame." Again (October 14), in a notice of 'Rejected Addresses', the 'Morning Chronicle' returns to the subject: "A wag has already published a small volume of 'Addresses rejected', in which, with admirable wit, all the poets of the day are assembled, contesting for the Prize Address at Drury Lane. And certainly he has assigned to the pen of Lord B. a superior 'poem' to that which has gained the prize." The Address was also severely handled in 'A Critique on the Address written by Lord Byron, which was Spoken at the opening of the New Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, October' 10, 1812. By Lord--------(London, no date). The author is "astonished at the glaring faults and general insipidity" of the address, and, after a detailed criticism, concludes that "public indignation" will sympathize with the rejected poets, and "pursue the rival patrons and the rival bard." Rogers, writing to Moore, October 22, 1812 ('Memoirs, etc., of Thomas Moore', vol. viii. p. 123), says, "Poor Byron! what I hear and read of his prologue makes me very angry. Of such value is public favour! So a man is to be tried by a copy of verses thrown off perhaps at hazard, and 'invitâ Minervâ!'"] * * * * * 263.--To John Hanson. Cheltenham, Octr. 18th, 1812. Dear Sir,--With perfect confidence in you I sign the note; but is not Claughton's delay very strange? let us take care what we are about. I answered his letter, which I enclose to you, very _cautiously;_ the wines and China, etc., I will not demur much upon; but the _vase_ and cup (not the _skull cup_) and some little coffee things brought from the East, or made for the purpose of containing relics brought from thence, I will not part with, and if he refuses to ratify, I will take such steps as the Law will allow on the form of the contract for compelling him to ratify it. Pray write. I am invited to Lord O.'s and Lord H.'s; but if you wish very much to meet me I can come to town. I suppose the tythe purchase will be made in my name. What is to be done with Deardon? [1] Mrs. M[assingberd] [2] is dead, and I would wish something settled for the Daughter who is still responsible. Will you give a glance into that business, and if possible first settle something about the Annuities. I shall perhaps draw within a £100 next week, but I will delay for your answer on C.'s business. Ever yours, sincerely and affectionately, BYRON. My love to all the family. I wish to do something for young Rushton, if practicable at _Rochdale_; if not, think of some situation where he might occupy himself to avoid Idleness, in the mean time. [Footnote 1: Deardon was the lessee of the Rochdale coal-pits. "When Mr. France was here," writes Mrs. Byron to Hanson, July 13, 1811 (Kölbing's 'Englische Studien', vol. xxv. p. I53), "he told me there had been an injunction procured to prevent Deardin from working the Coal Pits that was in dispute between Lord Byron and him, but since France was here, there has been a Man from Lancashire who says they are worked by Deardin the same as ever. I also heard that the Person you sent down to take an account of the Coals was bribed by Deardin, and did not give an account of half of what was got."] [Footnote 2: For Mrs. Massingberd, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 100, at end of 'note' 3 [Footnote 1 of Letter 52]. Byron's pecuniary transactions, though not unimportant in their influence on his career, are difficult to unravel. The following statement, in his own handwriting, with regard to the Annuities was apparently prepared for some legal proceedings, and is dated January 16, 1812: "Lord Byron, to the best of his knowledge and recollection, in Dec., 1805--January, 1806 applied to King, in consequence of an advertisement in the papers, who acquainted Lord Byron that his minority prevented all money transactions without the security of competent persons. Through Mr. K. he became acquainted with Mr. Dellevelly, another of the tribe of Israel, and subsequently with a Mr. Howard of Golden Square. "After many delays, during which Lord B. had interviews with Howard, once, he thinks, in Golden Square, but more frequently in Piccadilly, Mrs. M[assingberd] agreed to become security jointly with her daughter. Lord B. knows Howard's person perfectly well, has not seen him subsequent to the transaction, but recollects Howard's mentioning to him that he, Lord B., was acting imprudently, stating that he made it a rule to advise young men against such proceedings. Lord B. recollects, on the day on which the money was paid, that he remained in the next room till the papers were signed, Mrs. M[assingberd] having stated that the parties wished him to be kept out of sight during the business, and wished to avoid even mentioning his name. Mrs. M[assingberd] deducted the interest for two years and a half, and £100 for Howard's papers." Two other Annuities were effected, in both of which Mrs. Massingberd figured as a security, and in one the manager of Dorant's Hotel. It was the interest on these minority loans which crippled Byron. Two were still unpaid in 1817.] * * * * * 264.--To John Murray. Cheltenham, Oct. 18, 1812, Dear Sir,--Will you have the goodness to get this Parody of a peculiar kind [1] (for all the first lines are _Busby's_ entire), inserted in several of the papers (_correctly_--and copied _correctly; my hand_ is difficult)--particularly the 'Morning Chronicle'? Tell Mr. Perry I forgive him all he has said, and may say against _my address_, but he will allow me to deal with the Doctor--(_audi alteram partem_)--and not _betray_ me. I cannot think what has befallen Mr. Perry, for of yore we were very good friends;--but no matter, only get this inserted. I have a poem on Waltzing for _you_, of which I make _you_ a present; but it must be anonymous. It is in the old style of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. Ever yours, BYRON. P.S.--With the next edition of 'Childe Harold' you may print the first fifty or a hundred opening lines of the 'Curse of Minerva' [2] down to the couplet beginning Mortal ('twas thus she spake), etc. Of course, the moment the Satire begins, there you will stop, and the opening is the best part. [Footnote 1: The 'Parenthetical Address', "By Dr. Plagiary," is a parody by Byron of Dr, Busby's 'Address', the original of which will be found in the 'Genuine Rejected Addresses', as well as parodied in 'Rejected Addresses' ("Architectural Atoms"). On October 14 young Busby forced his way on to the stage of Drury Lane, attempted to recite his father's address, and was taken into custody. On the next night, Dr. Busby, speaking from one of the boxes, obtained a hearing for his son, who could not, however, make his voice heard in the theatre. Then another "rejected" author tried to recite his composition, but was hooted down. Order was restored by Raymond reminding the audience that the Chamberlain's licence was necessary for all stage speeches. To the failure of the younger Busby (himself a competitor and the author of an "Unalogue" of fifty-six lines) to make himself heard, Byron alludes in the stage direction to the 'Parenthetical Address'--"to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P." The 'Parenthetical Address' appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' for October 23, 1812. In the same issue was printed a long statement by Dr. Busby, in which, after paying a compliment to Byron's "poetical genius," he insisted that the Committee of Drury Lane had broken faith by not choosing one of the addresses sent in by competitors. (See references to Dr. Busby in 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 481 and 485, 'note' 1.) Dr. Thomas Busby (1755-1838) composed the music for Holcroft's 'Tale of Mystery', the first musical melodrama produced on the English stage (Covent Garden, November 13, 1802). He was for some time assistant editor of the 'Morning Post', and Parliamentary reporter for the 'London Courant'; wrote on musical subjects, taught languages and music, and translated Lucretius into rhymed verse (1813).] [Footnote 2: 'The Curse of Minerva,' written at Athens, in 1811, was not published as a whole till 1828. But the first fifty-four lines appeared in Canto III. of 'The Corsair' (1814). (See 'The Curse of Minerva:' Introductory note, 'Poems,' 1898, vol. i. p. 453.)] * * * * * 265.--To Robert Rushton. Cheltenham, Oct. 18th, 1812. Robert,--I hope you continue as much as possible to apply yourself to _Accounts_ and Land-Measurement, etc. Whatever change may take place about Newstead, there will be none as to you and Mr. Murray. It is intended to place you in a situation in Rochdale for which your pursuance of the Studies I recommend will best fit you. Let me hear from you; is your health improved since I was last at the Abbey? In the mean time, if any accident occur to me, you are provided for in my will, and if not, you will always find in your Master a sincere Friend. B. * * * * * 266.--To John Murray. Oct. 19, 1812. Dear Sir,--Many thanks, but I _must_ pay the 'damage', and will thank you to tell me the amount for the engraving. I think the 'Rejected Addresses' by far the best thing of the kind since the 'Rolliad', and wish _you_ had published them. Tell the author "I forgive him, were be twenty times our satirist;" and think his imitations not at all inferior to the famous ones of Hawkins Browne. He must be a man of very lively wit, and much less scurrilous than Wits often are: altogether, I very much admire the performance, and wish it all success. The 'Satirist' has taken a _new_ tone, as you will see: we have now, I think, finished with 'C. H.'s' critics. I have in 'hand' a 'Satire' on 'Waltzing', which you must publish anonymously: it is not long, not quite 200 lines, but will make a very small boarded pamphlet. In a few days you shall have it. Ever yours, BYRON. P.S.--The editor of the 'Satirist' almost ought to be thanked for his revocation; it is done handsomely, after five years' warfare. * * * * * 267.--To John Hanson. Octr. 22d, 1812. DEAR SIR,--I enclose you Mr. C[laughton]'s letter, from which you yourself will judge of my own. I insisted on the _contract_, and said, _if_ I gave up the wines, etc., it would be as a _gift_. He admits the validity, as you perceive. I told him that _I_ wished to avoid raising difficulties and in all respects to fulfil the bargain. I am going to Lord Oxford's, _Eywood, Presteigne, Hereford_. In my way back I will take Farleigh, if you are not returned to London before. I wish to take a small _house_ for the winter any where not remote from St. James's. Will you arrange this for me?--and think of young Rushton, whom I promised to provide for, and must begin to think of it; he might be a _sub_-Tythe _collector_, or a Bailiff to our agent at Rochdale, or many other things. He has had a fair education and was well disposed; at all events, he must no longer remain in idleness. Let the Mule be sold and the dogs. Pray let me hear from you when convenient, and Believe me, ever yours truly, BYRON. My best remembrances to all. I shall draw for _fifty_ this week. Is anything done about Miss M[assingberd]? You have not mentioned her. * * * * * 268.--To John Murray. Oct. 23, 1812. DEAR SIR,--Thanks, as usual. You go on boldly; but have a care of _glutting_ the public, who have by this time had enough of 'C. H.' 'Waltz' shall be prepared. It is rather above 200 lines, with an introductory letter to the Publisher. I think of publishing, with 'C. H.', the opening lines of the '_Curse of Minerva_' as far as the first speech of Pallas,--because some of the readers like that part better than any I have ever written; and as it contains nothing to affect the subject of the subsequent portion, it will find a place as a _descriptive fragment_. The _plate_ is _broken_? between ourselves, it was unlike the picture; and besides, upon the whole, the frontispiece of an author's visage is but a paltry exhibition. At all events, _this_ would have been no recommendation to the book. I am sure Sanders would not have _survived_ the engraving. By the by, the _picture_ may remain with _you_ or _him_ (which you please), till my return. The _one_ of two remaining copies is at your service till I can give you a _better_; the other must be _burned peremptorily_. Again, do not forget that I have an account with you, and _that_ this is _included_. I give you too much TROUBLE to allow you to incur EXPENSE also. You best know how far this "Address Riot" will affect the future sale of 'C. H.' I like the volume of "_rejected A._" better and better. The other parody which Perry has received is _mine_ also (I believe). It is Dr. Busby's speech versified. You are removing to Albemarle Street, I find, and I rejoice that we shall be nearer neighbours. I am going to Lord Oxford's, but letters here will be forwarded. When at leisure, all communications from you will be willingly received by the humblest of your scribes. Did Mr. Ward write the review of H. Tooke's Life? [1] It is excellent. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: See 'Quarterly Review', vol. vii. p. 313. The article alluded to was written by the Hon. J. W. Ward, afterwards Earl of Dudley.] * * * * * 269.--To John Hanson. Eywood, Presteign, Hereford, Octr. 31st, 1812. DEAR SIR,--The inclosed bill [1] will convince you how anxious I must be for the payment of Claughton's first instalment; though it has been sent in without due notice, I cannot blame Mr. Davies who must feel very anxious to get rid of the business. Press C., and let me have an answer whenever you can to this Place. Yours ever, B. P.S.--I am at _Lord Oxford's_, Eywood, as above. [Footnote 1: The bill was Byron's for £1500, and the enclosure ran as follows: "Lord Byron. "A Bill for £1500, drawn by Scrope B. Davies, lies due at Sir _James Esdaile_ and Co's., No. 21, _Lombard-Street_. "All Drafts intended for the Payment of Bills, to be brought before Half past Three o'Clock. "Please to call between 3 and Five o'Clock." The same day Byron writes a second letter to Hanson: "Do pray press Claughton, as Mr. D.'s business must be settled at all events. I send you his letter, and I am more uncomfortable than I can possibly express myself upon the subject. Pray write."] * * * * * 270.--To John Hanson. Presteign, Novr. 8th, 1812. DEAR SIR,--Not being able (and to-day being Sunday also) to procure a stamp, as the Post town is very remote, I must request this letter to be considered as an Order for paying fifteen hundred pounds to S.B. Davies, Esq., and the same sum to your own account for the Tythe purchase. Mr. D.'s receipt can be indorsed on the bond. I shall be in London the latter end of the week. I set out from this place on the 12th. As to Mr. C., the Law must decide between us; I shall abide by the Contract. Your answer will not reach me in time, so do not write to me while here. Pray let Mr. D. be paid and you also--come what may.[1] I always foresaw that C. would _shirk_; but he did it with his eyes open. What question can arise as to the title? has it never been examined? I never heard of it before, and surely, in all our law suits, that question must have come to issue. I hope we shall meet in town. I will wait on you the moment I arrive. My best respects to your family; believe me, Ever yours sincerely, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Byron was prepared to make some sacrifices to extricate himself from debt, or go abroad. The following letter to Hanson is dated December 10, 1812: "DEAR SIR,--I have to request that you will pay the bearer (my Groom) the wages due to him (12 pds. 10s.), and dismiss him immediately, as I have given up my horses, and place the sum to my account. "Ever yours, "BYRON." Four days later, December 14, 1812, he writes again to Hanson: "DEAR SIR,--I request your attention to the enclosed. See what can be done with Howard, and urge Claughton. If this kind of thing continues, I must quit a country which my debts render uninhabitable, notwithstanding every sacrifice on my part. "Yours ever, "B."] * * * * * 271.--To John Hanson. Presteign, Novr. 16th, 1812. DEAR SIR,--The floods having rendered the road impassable, I am detained here, but trust by the latter end of the week to proceed to Cheltenham, where I shall expect a letter from you to tell me if I am wanted in town. I shall not be in time for the Prince's address; but I wish you to write down for my _Parliamentary_ robes (Mrs. Chaworth had them, at least Mrs. Clarke the mother); though I rather think those were the Coronation and not the House robes. At least enquire. I hope Mr. D. is paid; and, if Mr. C. demurs, we must bring an action according to Contract. I trust you are well, and well doing in my behalf and your own. Ever yours most sincerely, B. * * * * * 272.--To John Murray. Cheltenham, November 22, 1812. DEAR SIR,--On my return here from Lord Oxford's, I found your obliging note, and will thank you to retain the letters, and any other subsequent ones to the same address, till I arrive in town to claim them, which will probably be in a few days. I have in charge a curious and very long MS. poem, written by Lord Brooke (the _friend_ of Sir _Philip Sidney_), which I wish to submit to the inspection of Mr. Gifford, with the following queries:--first, whether it has ever been published, and secondly (if not), whether it is worth publication? It is from Lord Oxford's Library, and must have escaped or been overlooked amongst the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. The writing is Lord Brooke's, except a different hand towards the close. It is very long, and in the six-line stanza. It is not for me to hazard an opinion upon its merits; but I would take the Liberty, if not too troublesome, to submit it to Mr. Gifford's judgment, which, from his excellent edition of Massinger, I should conceive to be as decisive on the writings of that age as on those of our own. Now for a less agreeable and important topic.--How came Mr. Mac-Somebody [1], without consulting you or me, to prefix the Address to his volume of "_dejected addresses?"_ Is not this somewhat larcenous? I think the ceremony of leave might have been asked, though I have no objection to the thing itself; and leave the "hundred and eleven" to tire themselves with "base comparisons." I should think the ingenuous public tolerably sick of the subject, and, except the parodies, I have not interfered, nor shall; indeed I did not know that Dr. Busby had published his apologetical letter and postscript [2], or I should have recalled them. But, I confess, I looked upon his conduct in a different light before its appearance. I see some mountebank has taken Alderman Birch's name [3] to vituperate the Doctor; he had much better have pilfered his pastry, which I should imagine the more valuable ingredient--at least for a Puff.--Pray secure me a copy of Woodfall's new 'Junius' [4], and believe me, Dear Sir, yours very sincerely, B. [Footnote 1: B. McMillan] [Footnote 2: This probably refers to Busby's apologetic letter in the 'Morning Chronicle' for October 23, 1812.] [Footnote 3: Alderman Birch was a pastry-cook in Cornhill.] [Footnote 4: In the Catalogue of Byron's books, sold April 5, 1816, appear two copies of 'Junius': "Junius's Letters, 2 vol. _russia_, 1806." "Junius's Letters, by Woodfall, 3 vol., _Large Paper_, 1812."] * * * * * 273.--To William Bankes. December 26, [1812]. The multitude of your recommendations has already superseded my humble endeavours to be of use to you; and, indeed, most of my principal friends are returned, Leake from Joannina, Canning and Adair from the city of the Faithful, and at Smyrna no letter is necessary, as the consuls are always willing to do every thing for personages of respectability. I have sent you _three_; one to Gibraltar, which, though of no great necessity, will, perhaps, put you on a more intimate footing with a very pleasant family there. You will very soon find out that a man of any consequence has very little occasion for any letters but to ministers and bankers, and of them we have already plenty, I will be sworn. It is by no means improbable that I shall go in the spring; and if you will fix any place of rendezvous about August, I will _write_ or _join_ you.--When in Albania, I wish you would inquire after Dervise Tahiri and Vascillie (or Bazil), and make my respects to the viziers, both there and in the Morea. If you mention my name to Suleyman of Thebes, I think it will not hurt you; if I had my dragoman, or wrote Turkish, I could have given you letters of _real service;_ but to the English they are hardly requisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of little advantage. Liston [1] you know already, and I do not, as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephesus and the Troad, and let me hear from you when you please. I believe G. Forresti is now at Yanina; but if not, whoever is there will be too happy to assist you. Be particular about _firmauns;_ never allow yourself to be bullied, for you are better protected in Turkey than any where; trust not the Greeks; and take some knicknackeries for _presents--watches, pistols,_ etc., etc., to the Beys and Pachas. If you find one Demetrius, at Athens or elsewhere, I can recommend him as a good dragoman. I hope to join you, however; but you will find swarms of English now in the Levant. Believe me, etc. [Footnote 1: Robert Liston, afterwards Sir Robert Liston (1742-1836), succeeded Adair as Ambassador at Constantinople in 1811.] * * * * * 274.--To John Murray. Eywood, Presteign, January 8, 1813. Dear Sir,--You have been imposed upon by a letter forged in my name to obtain the picture left in your possession. This I know by the confession of the culprit [1] and as she is a woman (and of rank), with whom I have unfortunately been too much connected, you will for the present say very little about it; but if you have the letter _retain_ it--write to me the particulars. You will also be more cautious in future, and not allow anything of mine to pass from your hands without my _Seal_ as well as Signature. I have not been in town, nor have written to you since I left it. So I presume the forgery was a skilful performance.--I shall endeavour to get back the picture by fair means, if possible. Yours ever, BYRON. P.S.--Keep the letter if you have it. I did not receive your parcel, and it is now too late to send it on, as I shall be in town on the 17th. The _delinquent_ is one of the first families in this kingdom; but, as Dogberry says, this is "flat burglary." [2] Favour me with an answer. I hear I am scolded in the 'Quarterly'; but you and it are already forgiven. I suppose that made you bashful about sending it. [Footnote 1: The culprit was Lady Caroline Lamb, who imitated Byron's handwriting with remarkable skill.] [Footnote 2: 'Much Ado about Nothing', act iv. sc. 2.] * * * * * 275.--To Francis Hodgson. February 3, 1813. My Dear Hodgson,--I will join you in any bond for the money you require, be it that or a larger sum. With regard to security, as Newstead is in a sort of abeyance between sale and purchase, and my Lancashire property very unsettled, I do not know how far I can give more than personal security, but what I can I will. At any rate you can try, and as the sum is not very considerable, the chances are favourable. I hear nothing of my own concerns, but expect a letter daily. Let me hear from you where you are and will be this month. I am a great admirer of the 'R. A.' ['Rejected Addresses'], though I have had so great a share in the cause of their publication, and I like the 'C. H.' ['Childe Harold'] imitation one of the best. [1] Lady Oxford has heard me talk much of you as a relative of the Cokes, etc., and desires me to say she would be happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance. You must come and see me at K[insham]. I am sure you would like _all_ here if you knew them. The "Agnus" is furious. You can have no idea of the horrible and absurd things she has said and done [2] since (really from the best motives) I withdrew my homage. "Great pleasure" is, certes, my object, but "_why brief_, Mr. Wild?" [3] I cannot answer for the future, but the past is pretty secure; and in it I can number the last two months as worthy of the gods in 'Lucretius'. I cannot review in the "_Monthly;_" in fact I can just now do nothing, at least with a pen; and I really think the days of Authorship are over with me altogether. I hear and rejoice in Eland's and Merivale's intentions [4]. Murray has grown great, and has got him new premises in the fashionable part of the town [5]. We live here so shut out of the _monde_ that I have nothing of general import to communicate, and fill this up with a "happy new year," and drink to you and Drury. Ever yours, dear H., B. I have no intention of continuing "_Childe Harold._" There are a few additions in the "body of the book" of description, which will merely add to the number of pages in the next edition. I have taken Kinsham Court. The business of last summer I broke off [6], and now the amusement of the gentle fair is writing letters literally threatening my life, and much in the style of "Miss Mathews" in "_Amelia_," or "Lucy" in the "_Beggar's Opera_." Such is the reward of restoring a woman to her family, who are treating her with the greatest kindness, and with whom I am on good terms. I am still in _palatia Circes_, and, being no Ulysses, cannot tell into what animal I may be converted; as you are aware of the turn of both parties, your conjectures will be very correct, I daresay, and, seriously, I am very much _attached_. She has had her share of the denunciations of the brilliant Phryne, and regards them as much as I do. I hope you will visit me at K. which will not be ready before spring, and I am very sure you would like my neighbours if you knew them. If you come down now to Kington [7], pray come and see me. [Footnote 1: "Byron often talks of the authors of the 'Rejected Addresses', and always in terms of unqualified praise. He says that the imitations, unlike all other imitations, are full of genius. 'Parodies,' he said, 'always give a bad impression of the original, but in the 'Rejected Addresses' the reverse was the fact;' and he quoted the second and third stanzas, in imitation of himself, as admirable, and just what he could have wished to write on a similar subject" (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations', p. 134).] [Footnote 2: "The Bessboroughs," writes Lady H. Leveson Gower to Lady G. Morpeth, September 12, 1812 ('Letters of Harriet, Countess Granville', vol. i. pp. 40, 41), "have been unpacked about a couple of hours. My aunt looks stout and well, but poor Caroline most terribly the contrary. She is worn to the bone, as pale as death and her eyes starting out of her head. She seems indeed in a sad way, alternately in tearing spirits and in tears. I hate her character, her feelings, and herself when I am away from her, but she interests me when I am with her, and to see her poor careworn face is dismal, in spite of reason and speculation upon her extraordinary conduct. She appears to me in a state very (little) short of insanity, and my aunt describes it as at times having been decidedly so."] [Footnote 3: The context and allusion seem to require another word than "_brief_;" but the sentence is written as printed. In Fielding's 'Life of Mr. Jonathan Wild' (Bk. III. chap. viii.) and in "a dialogue matrimonial, which passed between Jonathan Wild, Esquire, and Laetitia his wife" ('née' Laetitia Snap), "Laetitia asks, 'But pray, Mr. Wild, why b--ch? Why did you suffer such a word to escape you?'"] [Footnote 4: The republication of the 'Anthology'] [Footnote 5: Murray's removal from 32, Fleet Street, to 50, Albemaile Street.] [Footnote 6: With Lady Caroline Lamb.] [Footnote 7: Near Lower Moor, the residence of Hodgson's relatives, the Cokes.] * * * * * 276.--To John Hanson. 3d Feb'y, 1813. Dear Sir,--Will you forward the inclosed immediately to Corbet, whose address I do not exactly remember? It is of consequence, relative to a foolish woman [1] I never saw, who fancies I want to marry her. Yours ever, B. P.S.--I wish you would see Corbet and talk to him about it, for she plagues my soul out with her damned letters. [Footnote 1: The lady in question seems to have been Lady Falkland (see 'Letters', vol. 1, p. 216, 'note' 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 117], and the letter dated March 5, 1813 [Letter 281 in this volume.])] * * * * * 277.--To John Murray. February 20, 1813. Dear Sir,--In "_Horace in London_" [1] I perceive some stanzas on Lord Elgin in which (waving the kind compliment to myself [2]) I heartily concur. I wish I had the pleasure of Mr. Smith's acquaintance, as I could communicate the curious anecdote you read in Mr. T.'s letter. If he would like it, he can have the _substance_ for his second Edition; if not, I shall add it to _our_ next, though I think we already have enough of Lord Elgin. What I have read of this work seems admirably done. My praise, however, is not much worth the Author's having; but you may thank him in my name for _his_. The idea is new--we have excellent imitations of the Satires, etc. by Pope; but I remember but one imitative Ode in his works, and _none_ any where else. I can hardly suppose that _they_ have lost any fame by the fate of the Farce [3]; but even should this be the case, the present publication will again place them on their pinnacle. Yours truly, B. [Footnote 1: 'Horace in London; consisting of Imitations of the First Two Books of the Odes of Horace', by James and Horace Smith (1813), was a collection of imitations, the best of which are by James Smith, republished from Hill's 'Monthly Mirror', where they originally appeared.] [Footnote 2: In Book 1. ode xv. of 'Horace in London', entitled "The Parthenon," Minerva thus speaks: "All who behold my mutilated pile Shall brand its ravager with classic rage, And soon a titled bard from Britain's Isle, Thy country's praise and suffrage shall engage, And fire with Athens' wrongs an angry age!" [Footnote 3: Horace Smith's unsuccessful comedy, 'First Impressions; or, Trade in the West', was performed at Drury Lane. The prologue, spoken by Powell, beseeches a judgment from the audience: "Such as mild Justice might herself dispense, To _Inexperience and a First Offence_."] * * * * * 278.--To Robert Rushton. 4, Bennet Street, St. James's, Feb. 24th, 1813. I feel rather surprised to have heard nothing from you or your father in answer to Fletcher's last letter. I wish to know whether you intend taking a share in a farm with your brother, or prefer to wait for some other situation in Lancashire;--the first will be the best, because, at your time of life, it is highly improper to remain idle. If this _marriage_ which is spoken of for you is at all advantageous, I can have no objection; but I should suppose, after being in my service from your infancy, you will at least let me know the name of your _intended_, and her expectations. If at all respectable, nothing can be better for your settlement in life, and a proper provision will be made for you; at all events let me hear something on the subject, for, as I have some intention of leaving England in the Summer, I wish to make my arrangements with regard to yourself before that period. As you and Mr. Murray have not received any money for some time, if you will draw on _me_ for _fifty_ pounds (payable at Messrs. Hoare's, Bankers, Fleet Street), and tell Mr. J[oseph] Murray to draw for the _same sum_ on his _own_ account, both will be paid by me. Etc., etc., B. * * * * * 279.--To John Hanson. F'y. 27th, 1813. Dear Sir,--I have called several times, and you may suppose am very anxious to hear something from or of Mr. Claughton. It is my determination, on account of a malady to which I am subject, and for other weighty reasons, to go abroad again almost immediately. To this you will object; but, as my intention cannot be altered, I have only to request that you will assist me as far as in your power to make the necessary arrangements. I have every confidence in you, and will leave the fullest powers to act in my absence. If this man still hesitates, I must sell my part of Rochdale for what it will bring, even at a loss, and fight him out about Newstead; without this, I have no funds to go on with, and I do not wish to incur further debts if possible. Pray favour me with a short reply to this, and say when I can see you. Excuse me to Mrs. H. for my non-appearance last night; I was detained in the H. of L. till too late to dress for her party. Compliments to all. Ever yours, BN. * * * * * 280.--To John Hanson. March 1st, 1813. Dear Sir,--I am sorry that I could not call today but will tomorrow. Your objections I anticipated and can only repeat that I cannot act otherwise; so pray hasten some arrangement--for with, or without, I must go. A person told me yesterday there was one who would give within 10000 of C.'s price and take the title as it was. C. is a fool or is shuffling. Think of what I said about _Rochdale_, for I will sell it for what I can get, and will not stay three months longer in this country. I again repeat I will leave all with full powers to you. I commend your objection which is a proof of an honourable mind--which however I did not need to convince me of your character. If you have any news send a few lines. Ever yours, BN. * * * * * 281.--To----Corbet. Mh. 5th, 1813. Dear Sir,--Lady F[alkland?] has returned by Mr. Hanson the only two letters I ever wrote her, both some time ago, and neither containing the least allusion which could make any person suppose that I had any intention further than regards the children of her husband. My servant returned the packet and letter of yesterday at the moment of receiving them; by her letter to Mr. H. it should seem they have not been redelivered. I am sorry for this, but it is not my fault, and they ought never to have been sent. After her Ladyship's mistakes, so often repeated, you will not blame me for declining all further interference in her affairs, and I rely much upon your word in contradicting her foolish assertions, and most absurd imaginations. She now says that "I need not leave the country on her account." How the devil she knew that I was about to leave it I cannot guess; but, however, for the first time she has _dreamed_ right. But _her_ being the cause is still more ludicrous than the rest. First, she would have it that I returned here for love of a woman I _never saw_, and now that I am going, for the same whom I _have never seen_, and certainly never wished, nor wish, to see! The maddest _consistency_ I ever heard of. I trust that she has regained her senses, as she tells Mr. H. she will not scribble any more, which will also save _you_ from the troublesome correspondence of Your obliged and obedient servant, BYRON. * * * * * 282.--To John Hanson. March 6th, 1813. Dear Sir,--I must be ready in April at whatever risk,--at whatever loss. You will therefore advertize Rochdale; if you decline this, I will sell it for what it will bring, even though but a few thousand pounds. With regard to Claughton, I shall only say that, if he knew the ruin,--the misery, he occasions by his delay, he would be sorry for his conduct, and I only hope that he and I may not meet, or I shall say something he will not like to hear. I have called often. I shall call today at three or between three and four; again and again, I can only beg of you to forward my plans, for here no power on earth shall make me remain six weeks longer. Ever yours, B. * * * * * 283.--To Charles Hanson. Mh. 24th, 1813. My Dear Charles,--This is very evasive and dissatisfactory. What is to be done I cannot tell, but your father had better see his letter and this of mine. A long litigation neither suits my inclination nor circumstances; it were better to take back the estate, and raise it to what it will bear, which must be at least double, to dismantle the house and sell the materials, and sell Rochdale. Something I must determine on and that quickly. I want to go abroad immediately; it is utterly impossible for me to remain here; every thing I have done to extricate myself has been useless. Your father said "_sell_;" I have sold, and see what has become of it! If I go to Law with this fellow, after five years litigation at the present depreciation of money, the _price_ will not be worth the _property_; besides how much of it will be spent in the contest! and how am I to live in the interim? Every day land rises and money falls. I shall tell Mr. Cn. he is a _scoundrel_, and have done with him, and I only hope he will have spirit enough to resent the appellation, and defend his own rascally conduct. In the interim of his delay in his journey, I shall leave town; on Sunday I shall set out for Herefordshire, from whence, when wanted, I will return. Pray tell your father to get the money on Rochdale, or I must sell it directly. I must be ready by the last week in _May_, and am consequently pressed for time. I go first to Cagliari in Sardinia, and on to the Levant. Believe me, dear Charles, Yours truly, B. * * * * * 284.--To Samuel Rogers. [1] March 25, 1813. I enclose you a draft for the usurious interest due to Lord B[oringdon]'s _protégé_;--I also could wish you would state thus much for me to his Lordship. Though the transaction speaks plainly in itself for the borrower's folly and the lender's usury, it never was my intention to _quash_ the demand, as I _legally_ might, nor to withhold payment of principal, or, perhaps, even _unlawful_ interest. You know what my situation has been, and what it is. I have parted with an estate (which has been in my family for nearly three hundred years, and was never disgraced by being in possession of a _lawyer_, a _churchman_, or a _woman_, during that period,) to liquidate this and similar demands; and the payment of the purchase is still withheld, and may be, perhaps, for years. If, therefore, I am under the necessity of making those persons _wait_ for their money, (which, considering the terms, they can afford to suffer,) it is my misfortune. When I arrived at majority in 1809,1 offered my own security on _legal_ interest, and it was refused. _Now_, I will not accede to this. This man I may have seen, but I have no recollection of the names of any parties but the _agents_ and the securities. The moment I can, it is assuredly my intention to pay my debts. This person's case may be a hard one; but, under all circumstances, what is mine? I could not foresee that the purchaser of my estate was to demur in paying for it. I am glad it happens to be in my power so far to accommodate my Israelite, and only wish I could do as much for the rest of the Twelve Tribes. Ever yours, dear R., BN. [Footnote 1: The following was Rogers's reply:-- "Friday Morning. "My Dearest Byron,--I have just received your note, but I _will not_ execute your Commission; and, moreover, I will tell Lord Boringdon that I refused to do it. I know your situation; and I should never sleep again, if by any interference of mine, for by so harsh a word I must call it, you should be led by your generosity, your pride, or any other noble motive, to do more than you are called upon to do. "I mentioned the thing to Lord Holland last night, and he entirely agreed with me, that you are not called upon to do it. The Principal and the legal interest are all that these extortioners are entitled to; and, you must forgive me, but I will not do as you require. I shall keep the draft till I see you. "Yours ever and ever, "SAML. ROGERS."] * * * * * 285.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. 4, Bennet Street, St. James's, March 26th, 1813. My Dearest Augusta,--I did not answer your letter, because I could not answer as I wished, but expected that every week would bring me some tidings that might enable me to reply better than by apologies. But Claughton has not, will not, and, I think, cannot pay his money, and though, luckily, it was stipulated that he should never have possession till the whole was paid, the estate is still on my hands, and your brother consequently not less embarrassed than ever. This is the truth, and is all the excuse I can offer for inability, but not unwillingness, to serve you. I am going abroad again in June, but should wish to see you before my departure. You have perhaps heard that I have been fooling away my time with different "_regnantes_;" but what better can be expected from me? I have but one _relative_, and her I never see. I have no connections to domesticate with, and for marriage I have neither the talent nor the inclination. I cannot fortune-hunt, nor afford to marry without a fortune. My parliamentary schemes are not much to my taste--I spoke twice last Session, [1] and was told it was well enough; but I hate the thing altogether, and have no intention to "strut another hour" on that stage. I am thus wasting the best part of life, daily repenting and never amending. On Sunday, I set off for a fortnight for Eywood, near Presteign, in Herefordshire--with the _Oxfords_. I see you put on a _demure_ look at the name, which is very becoming and matronly in you; but you won't be sorry to hear that I am quite out of a more serious scrape with another singular personage which threatened me last year, and trouble enough I had to steer clear of it I assure you. I hope all my nieces are well, and increasing in growth and number; but I wish you were not always buried in that bleak common near Newmarket. I am very well in health, but not happy, nor even comfortable; but I will not bore you with complaints. I am a fool, and deserve all the ills I have met, or may meet with, but nevertheless very _sensibly_, dearest Augusta, Your most affectionate brother, BYRON. [Footnote 1: What is generally supposed to have been Byron's second speech (see Appendix II. (2)) was made, April 21, 1813, on Lord Donoughmore's motion for a Committee on Roman Catholic claims. The following impressions of his short parliamentary career are recorded by Byron himself: "I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near it, but for his harlequin delivery. Pitt I never heard. Fox but once, and then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems as different from an orator as an improvisatore, or a versifier, from a poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. Canning is sometimes very like one. Windham I did not admire, though all the world did; it seemed sad sophistry. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of bad taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Lord Lansdowne good, but still a debater only. Grenville I like vastly, if he would prune his speeches down to an hour's delivery. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial himself, and I think the greatest favourite in Pandemonium; at least I always heard the country gentlemen and the ministerial devilry praise his speeches _up_ stairs, and run down from Bellamy's when he was upon his legs. I heard Bob Milnes make his _second_ speech; it made no impression. I like Ward--studied, but keen, and sometimes eloquent. Peel, my school and form fellow (we sat within two of each other), strange to say, I have never heard, though I often wished to do so; but, from what I remember of him at Harrow, he _is_, or _should_ be, among the best of them. Now I do _not_ admire Mr. Wilberforce's speaking; it is nothing but a flow of words--'words, words, alone.' "I doubt greatly if the English _have_ any eloquence, properly so called; and am inclined to think that the Irish _had_ a great deal, and that the French _will_ have, and have had in Mirabeau. Lord Chatham and Burke are the nearest approaches to orators in England. I don't know what Erskine may have been at the _bar_, but in the House, I wish him at the bar once more. Lauderdale is shrill, and Scotch, and acute. Of Brougham I shall say nothing, as I have a personal feeling of dislike to the man. "But amongst all these, good, bad, and indifferent, I never heard the speech which was not too long for the auditors, and not very intelligible, except here and there. The whole thing is a grand deception, and as tedious and tiresome as maybe to those who must be often present. I heard Sheridan only once, and that briefly, but I liked his voice, his manner, and his wit: and he is the only one of them I ever wished to hear at greater length. "The impression of Parliament upon me was, that its members are not formidable as _speakers_, but very much so as an _audience_; because in so numerous a body there may be little eloquence, (after all, there were but _two_ thorough orators in all antiquity, and I suspect still _fewer_ in modern times,) but there must be a leaven of thought and good sense sufficient to make them _know_ what is right, though they can't express it nobly. "Horne Tooke and Roscoe both are said to have declared that they left Parliament with a higher opinion of its aggregate integrity and abilities than that with which they entered it. The general amount of both in most Parliaments is probably about the same, as also the number of _speakers_ and their talent. I except _orators_, of course, because they are things of ages, and not of septennial or triennial reunions. Neither House ever struck me with more awe or respect than the same number of Turks in a divan, or of Methodists in a barn, would have done. Whatever diffidence or nervousness I felt (and I felt both, in a great degree) arose from the number rather than the quality of the assemblage, and the thought rather of the _public without_ than the persons within,--knowing (as all know) that Cicero himself, and probably the Messiah, could never have altered the vote of a single lord of the bedchamber, or bishop. I thought _our_ House dull, but the other animating enough upon great days. "I have heard that when Grattan made his first speech in the English Commons, it was for some minutes doubtful whether to laugh at or cheer him. The _débût_ of his predecessor, Flood, had been a complete failure, under nearly similar circumstances. But when the ministerial part of our senators had watched Pitt (their thermometer) for the cue, and saw him nod repeatedly his stately nod of approbation, they took the hint from their huntsman, and broke out into the most rapturous cheers. Grattan's speech, indeed, deserved them; it was a _chef-d'oeuvre_. I did not hear _that_ speech of his (being then at Harrow), but heard most of his others on the same question--also that on the war of 1815. I differed from his opinions on the latter question, but coincided in the general admiration of his eloquence. "When I met old Courtenay, the orator, at Rogers's the poet's, in 1811-12, I was much taken with the portly remains of his fine figure, and the still acute quickness of his conversation. It was _he_ who silenced Flood in the English House by a crushing reply to a hasty _débût_ of the rival of Grattan in Ireland. I asked Courtenay (for I like to trace motives) if he had not some personal provocation; for the acrimony of his answer seemed to me, as I read it, to involve it. Courtenay said 'he had; that, when in Ireland (being an Irishman), at the bar of the Irish House of Commons, Flood had made a personal and unfair attack upon _himself_, who, not being a member of that House, could not defend himself, and that some years afterwards, the opportunity of retort offering in the English Parliament, he could not resist it.' He certainly repaid Flood with interest, for Flood never made any figure, and only a speech or two afterwards, in the English House of Commons. I must except, however, his speech on Reform in 1790, which Fox called 'the best he ever heard upon that subject.'"] * * * * * 286.--To John Murray. March 29th, 1813. Dear Sir,--Westall has, I believe, agreed to illustrate your book [1], and I fancy one of the engravings will be from the pretty little girl [2] you saw the other day, though without her name, and merely as a model for some sketch connected with the subject. I would also have the portrait (which you saw to-day) of the friend who is mentioned in the text at the close of Canto 1st, and in the notes,--which are subjects sufficient to authorise that addition. Believe me, yours truly, B'N. [Footnote 1: An edition of the first two cantos of 'Childe Harold', to be illustrated by Richard Westall (1765-1836), who painted Byron's portrait in 1813-14.] [Footnote 2: Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of Lord Oxford, to whom, under the name of Ianthe, the introductory lines to 'Childe Harold' were afterwards addressed. Lady Charlotte married, in 1820, Brigadier-General Bacon.] * * * * * 287.--To John Hanson. Presteigne, April 15th, 1813. Dear Sir,--I wrote to you requesting an answer last week, and again apprising you of my determination of leaving England early in May, and proceeding no further with Claughton. Now, having arrived, I shall write to that person immediately to give up the whole business. I am sick of the delays attending it, and can wait no longer, and I have had too much of _law_ already at Rochdale to place Newstead in the same predicament. I shall only be able to see you for a few days in town, as I shall sail before the 20th of May. Believe me, yours ever, B. P.S.--My best compliments to Mrs. H. and the family. * * * * * 288.--To John Hanson. Presteigne, April 17th, 1813. Dear Sir,--I shall follow your advice and say nothing to our shuffling purchaser, but leave him to you, and the fullest powers of _Attorney_, which I hope you will have ready on my arrival in town early next week. I wish, if possible, the arrangement with Hoare to be made immediately, as I must set off forthwith. I mean to remain _incog_. in London for the short time previous to my embarkation. I have not written to Claughton, nor shall, of course, after your counsel on the subject. I wish you would turn in your mind the expediency of selling Rochdale. I shall never make any thing of it, as it is. I beg you will provide (as before my last voyage) the fullest powers to act in my absence, and bring my cursed concerns into some kind of order. You must at least allow that I have acted according to your advice about Newstead, and I shall take no step without your being previously consulted. I hope I shall find you and Mrs. H., etc., well in London, and that you have heard something from this dilatory gentleman. Believe me, ever yours truly, B. * * * * * 289.--To John Murray. April 21, 1813. Dear Sir,--I shall be in town by Sunday next, and will call and have some conversation on the subject of Westall's proposed designs. I am to sit to him for a picture at the request of a friend of mine [1]; and as Sanders's is not a good one, you will probably prefer the other. I wish you to have Sanders's taken down and sent to my lodgings immediately--before my arrival. I hear that a certain malicious publication on Waltzing [2] is attributed to me. This report, I suppose, you will take care to contradict, as the Author, I am sure, will not like that I should wear his cap and bells. Mr. Hobhouse's quarto will be out immediately; pray send to the author for an early copy which I wish to take abroad with me. Dear Sir, I am, yours very truly, B. P.S.--I see the 'Examiner' [3] threatens some observations upon you next week. What can you have done to share the wrath which has heretofore been principally expended upon the Prince? I presume all your Scribleri will be drawn up in battle array in defence of the modern Tonson--Mr. Bucke [4], for instance. Send in my account to Bennet Street, as I wish to settle it before sailing. [Footnote 1: This picture, exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1815, is now in the possession of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts.] [Footnote 2: Byron's 'Waltz' was published anonymously in the spring of 1813, not, apparently, by Murray, but by Sherwood, Neely, and Jones, Paternoster Row.] [Footnote 3: In the 'Examiner' for April, 1813, occurs the paragraph: "A word or two on Mr. Murray's (the 'splendid bookseller') judgment in the Fine Arts--next week, 'if room'."] [Footnote 4: Charles Bucke (1781-1846), a voluminous writer of verse, plays, and miscellaneous subjects, published, in 1813, his 'Philosophy of Nature; or, the Influence of Scenery on the Mind and Heart'. He supported himself by his pen, and that indifferently. Byron seems to suggest that he was a dependent of Murray's. In 1817 he sent to the Committee of Management at Drury Lane his tragedy, 'The Italians; or, the Fatal Accusation', and it was accepted. In February, 1819, he withdrew the play, in consequence of a quarrel with Edmund Kean, and published it with extracts from the correspondence and a Preface, which sent it through numerous editions. The play itself was, after being withdrawn, played at Drury Lane, April 3, 1819. Bucke and his Preface were answered in 'The Assailant Assailed', and in 'A Defence of Edmund Kean, Esq'. (both in 1819), and the opinion of the town condemned both him and his tragedy.] * * * * * CHAPTER VII. MAY, 1813-DECEMBER, 1813. THE 'GIAOUR' AND 'BRIDE OF ABYDOS'. * * * * * 290.--To John Murray. May 13, 1813. Dear Sir,--I send a corrected, and, I hope, amended copy of the lines for the "fragment" already sent this evening. [1] Let the enclosed be the copy that is sent to the Devil (the printers) and burn the other. Yours, etc., B'N. [Footnote 1: 'The Giaour', which was now in the press, was expanded, either in the course of printing, or in the successive editions, from 400 lines to 1400. It was published in May, 1813.] * * * * * 291.--To Thomas Moore. May 19, 1813. Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, [1]-- For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag; * * * * * But now to my letter--to _yours_ 'tis an answer-- To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon [2]-- Pray Phoebus at length our political malice May not get us lodgings within the same palace! I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers, And for Sotheby's [3] Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. But to-morrow at four, we will both play the _Scurra_, And you'll be Catullus, the Regent, Mamurra. [4] Dear M.,--having got thus far, I am interrupted by----. 10 o'clock. Half-past 11.----is gone. I must dress for Lady Heathcote's.--Addio. [Footnote 1: Moore's 'Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post-bag. By Thomas Brown, the Younger', was published in 1813.] [Footnote 2: The "wit in the dungeon" was James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), who was educated at Christ's Hospital, and began his literary life with "a collection of poems, written between the ages of twelve and sixteen," and published in 1801 as 'Juvenilia'. In 1808 he and his brother John started a weekly newspaper called the 'Examiner', which advocated liberal principles with remarkable independence. On February 24, 1811, Hunt published an article in defence of Peter Finnerty, convicted for a libel on Castlereagh, and exhorting public writers to be bold in the cause of individual liberty. The same number contained an article on the savagery of military floggings, for which he was prosecuted, defended by Brougham, and acquitted. His acquittal drew from Shelley a letter of congratulation, addressed to Hunt as "one of the most fearless enlighteners of the public mind" (Dowden's 'Life of Shelley', vol. i. p. 113). In March, 1812, the 'Morning Post' printed a poem, speaking of the Prince Regent as the "Mæcenas of the Age," the "Exciter of Desire," the "Glory of the People," an "Adonis of Loveliness," etc. The 'Examiner' for March 12, 1812, thus translated this adulation into "the language of truth:" "What person, unacquainted with the true state of the case, would imagine, in reading these astounding eulogies, that this 'Glory of the People' was the subject of millions of shrugs and reproaches!... that this 'Exciter of Desire' (bravo! Messieurs of the 'Post'!), this 'Adonis in Loveliness,' was a corpulent man of fifty!--in short, this 'delightful, blissful, wise, pleasureable, honourable, virtuous, true', and 'immortal' prince was a violator of his word, a libertine over head and ears in disgrace, a despiser of domestic ties, the companion of gamblers and demireps, a man who has just closed half a century without one single claim on the gratitude of his country or the respect of posterity." Crabb Robinson, who met Leigh Hunt, four days later, at Charles Lamb's, says ('Diary', vol. i. p. 376), "Leigh Hunt is an enthusiast, very well intentioned, and, I believe, prepared for the worst. He said, pleasantly enough, 'No one can accuse me of not writing a libel. Everything is a libel, as the law is now declared, and our security lies only in their shame.'" For this libel John and Leigh Hunt were convicted in the Court of King's Bench on December 9, 1812. In the following February they were sentenced to two years' imprisonment and a fine of £500 a-piece. John was imprisoned in Coldbath-fields, Leigh in the Surrey County Gaol. They were released on February 2 or 3, 1815. Shelley, on reading the sentence, proposed a subscription for "the brave and enlightened man... to whom the public owes a debt as the champion of their liberties and virtues" (Dowden, 'Life of Shelley', vol. i. p. 325). Keats wrote a sonnet to Hunt on the day he left his prison, beginning: "What though for showing truth to flatter'd state, Kind Hunt was shut in prison." A political alliance was thus cemented, which, for the time, was disastrous to the literary prospects of Shelley and Keats. To Hunt Shelley dedicated the 'Cenci', and Keats his first volume of 'Poems' (1817). He is the "gentlest of the wise" in Shelley's 'Adonais'; and, in a suppressed stanza of the same poem, the poet speaks of Hunt's "sweet and earnest looks," "soft smiles," and "dark and night-like eyes." The words inscribed on Shelley's tomb--"_Cor Cordium_"--were Hunt's choice. In his various papers Hunt zealously championed his friends. In the 'Examiner' for September to October, 1819, he defended Shelley's personal character; in the same paper for June to July, 1817, he praised Keats's first volume of 'Poems'; he reviewed "Lamia" in the 'Indicator' for August 2-9, 1820, and "La Belle Dame sans Merci" in that for May 10, 1820. In his 'Foliage' (1818) are three sonnets addressed to Keats. Shelley believed in Hunt to the end. It was mainly through him that Hunt came to Pisa in June, 1822, to join with Byron in 'The Liberal'. But he doubted whether the alliance between the "wren and the eagle" could continue ('Life of Shelley', vol. ii. p. 519). Keats, on the other hand, lost his faith in Hunt. In a letter to Haydon (May, 1817), speaking of Hunt, he says, "There is no greater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great Poet." Again (March, 1818) he writes, "It is a great Pity that People should, by associating themselves with the finest things, spoil them. Hunt has damned Hampstead, and masks, and sonnets, and Italian tales." He writes still more severely (December, 1818-January, 1819), "If I were to follow my own inclinations, I should never meet any one of that set again, not even Hunt, who is certainly a pleasant fellow in the main when you are with him; but in reality he is vain, egotistical, and disgusting in matters of taste and morals. Hunt does one harm by making fine things petty, and beautiful things hateful. Through him I am indifferent to Mozart. I care not for white Busts--and many a glorious thing when associated with him becomes a nothing." Haydon considered that Hunt was the "great unhinger" of Keats's best dispositions ('Works of Keats', ed. H.B. Forman, vol. iv. p. 359); and Severn attributes Keats's temporary "mawkishness" to Hunt's society ('ibid'., p. 376). Nathaniel Hawthorne ('Our Old Home', p. 229, ed. 1884) says of Hunt, and means it as high praise, that "there was not an English trait in him from head to foot--morally, intellectually, or physically. Beef, ale or stout, brandy or port-wine, entered not at all into his composition." He was, in fact, a man of weak fibre, who allowed himself to sponge upon his friends, such as Talfourd, Haydon, and Shelley. Though Dickens denied ('All the Year Round', Dec. 24, 1859) that "Harold Skimpole" was intended for Hunt, the picture was recognized as a portrait. On the other hand, Hunt was a man of kindly and genial disposition. "He loves everything," says Crabb Robinson ('Diary', vol. ii. p. 192), "he catches the sunny side of everything, and, excepting that he has a few polemical antipathies, finds everything beautiful." In his essays, the best of which appeared in the 'Indicator' (1819-21), he communicates some of his own sense of enjoyment to those of his readers who are content to take him as he is. His circle is limited; but in it his observation is minute and suggestive. The Vale of Health is to him, in a degree proportioned to their respective powers, what the Temple was to Lamb. His style is neat, pretty, and would be affected if it were not the man himself. As a literary journalist, a dramatic critic, and an essayist, he has a place in literature. His poetry is less successful; his affectations, innate vulgarity, and habit of pawing his subjects repel even those who are attracted by its sweetness. Yet his 'Story of Rimini' (1816), which he dedicated to Byron, was admired in its day. Byron, though he condemned its affected style, thought the poem a "devilish good one." Moore held the same opinion; and Jeffrey, writing to him May 28, 1816 ('Memoirs, etc., of Thomas Moon,' vol. ii. p. 100), says, "I certainly shall not be ill-natured to 'Rimini'. It is very sweet and very lively in many places, and is altogether piquant, as being by far the best imitation of Chaucer and some of his Italian contemporaries that modern times have produced." No two men could be more unlike than Byron and Hunt, or have less in common. Yet, with a singular capacity for self-delusion, Hunt told his wife that the texture of Byron's mind resembled his to a thread ('Correspondence of L. Hunt', vol. i. p. 88). The friendship began in political sympathy; but two years later (see Byron's letter to Moore, June 1, 1818) it had, on one side at least, cooled. In June, 1822, Hunt came to Pisa to launch The Liberal, with the aid of Shelley and Byron. 'The Liberal: Verse and Prose from the South', started in 1822, lived through four numbers, and died in July, 1823. During that time Byron expressed to Lady Blessington ('Conversations', p. 77) "a very good opinion of the talents and principle of Mr. Hunt, though, as he said, 'our tastes are so opposite that we are totally unsuited to each other ... in short, we are more formed to be friends at a distance, than near.'" For the best part of two years Hunt was Byron's guest: he repaid his hospitality by publishing his 'Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries' (1828). Though Lady Blessington said the book "gave, in the main, a fair account" of Byron (Crabb Robinson's 'Diary', vol. iii. p. 13), its publication was a breach of honour. As such it was justly attacked by Moore in "The 'Living Dog' and the 'Dead Lion'": "Next week will be published (as 'Lives' are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog, that lived once in the cage Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change. "Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call 'sad,' 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how Lions behave--among friends. "How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the Lion was no such great things after all. "Though he roared pretty well--this the puppy allows-- It was all, he says, borrowed--all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour. "'Tis, indeed, as good fun as a 'Cynic' could ask, To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task, And judges of Lions by puppy-dog habits. "Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) With sops every day from the Lion's own pan, He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass, And--does all a dog, so diminutive, can. "However, the book's a good book, being rich in Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, Who'll feed on them living, and foul them when dead. "Exeter 'Change'. T. PIDCOCK." For the reply of Hunt or one of his friends, "The Giant and the Dwarf," see Appendix VI.] [Footnote 3: William Sotheby (1757-1833), once a cavalry officer, afterwards a man of letters and of fortune, published his 'Oberon' in 1798, and his 'Georgics' in 1800 (see 'English Bards, etc.', line 818, and 'note'). The following passage from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts' (1821) refers to him: "Sotheby is a good man; rhymes well (if not wisely), but is a bore. He seizes you by the button. One night of a rout, at Mrs. Hope's, he had fastened upon me (something about Agamemnon or Orestes--or some of his plays), notwithstanding my symptoms of manifest distress, (for I was in love and had just nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips, were near my then idol, who was beautiful as the Statues of the Gallery where we stood at the time). Sotheby, I say, had seized upon me by the button, and the heart-strings, and spared neither. W. Spencer, who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief, saw my case, and, coming up to us both, took me by the hand and pathetically bade me farewell, 'for,' said he, 'I see it is all over with you.' Sotheby then went away. 'Sic me servavit Apollo.'"] [Footnote 4: See Catullus, xxix. 3: "Quis hoc potest videre, quis potest pati, Nisi impudicus et vorax, et aleo, Mamurram habere, quod Comata Gallia Habebat uncti et ultima Britannia?" See also xli. 4, xliii. 5 (compare Horace, 'Sat'. i. 5. 37), and lvii. 2.] * * * * * 292.--To John Murray. May 22nd, 1813. Dear Sir,--I return the "_Curiosities of Literature_." [1] Pray is it fair to ask if the "_Twopenny Postbag_" is to be reviewed in this No.? because, if not, I should be glad to undertake it, and leave it to Chance and the Editor for a reception into your pages. Yours truly, B. P.S.--You have not sent me Eustace's 'Travels'. [2] [Footnote 1: The first volume of Isaac Disraeli's 'Curiosities of Literature' was published in 1791. The remaining volumes were published at intervals: vol. ii., 1793; vol. iii., 1817; vols. iv. and v., in 1823; vol. vi., 1834.] [Footnote 2: John Chetwode Eustace ('circ'. 1762-1815) published his 'Tour through Italy' in 1813.] * * * * * 293.--To John Murray. May 23rd, 1813. Dear Sir,--I question whether ever author before received such a compliment from his _master_. I am glad you think the thing is tolerably _vamped_ and will be _vendible_. Pray look over the proof again. I am but a careless reviser, and let me have 12 struck off, and one or two for yourself to serve as MS. for the thing when published in the body of the volume. If Lady Caroline Lamb sends for it, do _not_ let her have it, till the copies are all ready, and then you can send her one. Yours truly, [Greek: Mpairon]. P.S.--H.'s book is out at last; I have my copy, which I have lent already. * * * * * 294.--To John Murray. June 2, 1813. Dear Sir,--I presented a petition to the house yesterday, [1] which gave rise to some debate, and I wish you to favour me for a few minutes with the 'Times' and 'Herald' to look on their hostile report. You will find, if you like to look at my 'prose', my words nearly 'verbatim' in the 'M. Chronicle'. B'N. [Footnote 1: The petition was from Major Cartwright, and was presented June 1, 1813. (For Byron's speech, see Appendix II. (3).) Returning from the House, he called on Moore, and, while the latter was dressing for dinner, walked up and down the next room, "spouting in a sort of mock heroic voice, detached sentences of the speech he had just been delivering. 'I told them,' he said, 'that it was a most flagrant violation of the Constitution--that, if such things were permitted, there was an end of English freedom, and that--' "'But what was this dreadful grievance?' asked Moore. "'The grievance?' he repeated, pausing as if to consider, 'oh, _that_ I forget.'"] * * * * * 295.--To Thomas Moore. My Dear Moore,--"When Rogers" [1] must not see the inclosed, which I send for your perusal. I am ready to fix any day you like for our visit. Was not Sheridan good upon the whole? The "Poulterer" was the first and best. [2] Ever yours, etc. 1. When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent), Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 2. And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise To common sense his thoughts could raise-- Why _would_ they let him print his lays? 3. * * * * * 4. * * * * * 5. To me, divine Apollo, grant--O! Hermilda's first and second canto, I'm fitting up a new portmanteau; 6. And thus to furnish decent lining, My own and others' bays I'm twining-- So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. * * * * * 296.--To John Hanson. June 3d, 1813. Dear Sir,--When you receive this I shall have left town for a week, and, as it is perfectly right we should understand each other, I think you will not be surprised at my persisting in my intention of going abroad. If the Suit can be carried on in my absence,--_well_; if not, it must be given up. One word, one letter, to Cn. would put an end to it; but this I shall not do, at all events without acquainting you before hand; nor at all, provided I am able to go abroad again. But at all hazards, at all losses, on this last point I am as determined as I have been for the last six months, and you have always told me that you would endeavour to assist me in that intention. Every thing is ordered and ready now. Do not trifle with me, for I am in very solid serious earnest, and if utter ruin _were_, or _is_ before me, on the one hand--and wealth at home on the other,--I have made my choice, and go I will. If you wish to write, address a line before Saturday to Salthill Post Office; Maidenhead, I believe, but am not sure, is the Post town; but I shall not be in town till Wednesday next. Believe me, yours ever, BN. P.S.--Let all the books go to Mr. Murray's immediately, and let the plate, linen, etc., which I find _excepted_ by the _contract_, be sold, particularly a large silver vase--with the _contents_ not removed as they are curious, and a silver cup (not the skull) be sold also--both are of value. The Pictures also, and every moveable that is mine, and can be converted into cash; all I want is a few thousand pounds, and then adieu. You shan't be troubled with me these ten years, if ever. * * * * * 297.--To Francis Hodgson. June 6, 1813. MY DEAR HODGSON,--I write to you a few lines on business. Murray has thought proper at his own risk, and peril, and profit (if there be any) to publish 'The Giaour'; and it may possibly come under your ordeal in the 'Monthly' [1] I merely wish to state that in the published copies there are additions to the amount of ten pages, _text_ and _margin_ (_chiefly_ the last), which render it a little less unfinished (but more unintelligible) than before. If, therefore, you review it, let it be from the published copies and not from the first sketch. I shall not sail for this month, and shall be in town again next week, when I shall be happy to hear from you but more glad to see you. You know I have no time or turn for correspondence(!). But you also know, I hope, that I am not the less Yours ever, [Greek: MPAIRON]. [Footnote 1: 'The Giaour' was reviewed in the 'Monthly Review' for June, 1813 (N.S. vol. lxxi. p. 202). In the Editor's copy is added in MS. at the end of the article, as indicating the author of the review, the word "Den."] * * * * * 298.--To Francis Hodgson. June 8th, 1813. My dear Hodgson,--In town for a night I find your card. I had written to you at Cambridge merely to say that Murray has thought it expedient to publish 'The Giaour' at his own risk (and reimbursement, if he can), and that, as it will probably be in your department in the 'Monthly', I wished to state that, in the published copies, there are additions to the tune of 300 lines or so towards the end, and, if reviewed, it should _not_ be from the privately printed copy. So much for scribbling. I shall manage to see you somewhere before I sail, which will be next month; till then I am yours here, and afterwards any where and every where, Dear H., _tutto tuo_, BN. * * * * * 299.--To John Murray. Je. 9, 1813. Dear Sir,--I regret much that I have no profane garment to array you with for the masquerade. As my motions will be uncertain, you need not write nor send the proofs till my return. Yours truly, BN. P.S.--My wardrobe is out of town--or I could have dressed you as an Albanian--or a Turk--or an officer--or a Waggoner. * * * * * 300.--To John Murray. June 12, 1813. Dear Sir,--Having occasion to send a servant to London, I will thank you to inform me whether I left with the other things 3 miniatures in your care (--if not--I know where to find them), and also to "report progress" in unpacking the books? The bearer returns this evening. How does Hobhouse's work go on, or rather off--for that is the essential part? In yesterday's paper, immediately under an advertisement on "Strictures in the Urethra," I see--most appropriately consequent--a poem with "_strictures_ on Ld B., Mr. Southey and others,"[1] though I am afraid neither "Mr. S.'s" poetical distemper, nor "mine," nor "others," is of the suppressive or stranguary kind. You may read me the prescription of this kill or cure physician. The medicine is compounded at White and Cochrane's, Fleet Street. As I have nothing else to do, I may enjoy it like Sir Fretful, or the Archbishop of Grenada, or any other personage in like predicament. Recollect that my lacquey returns in the Evening, and that I set out for Portsmouth [2] to-morrow. All here are very well, and much pleased with your politeness and attention during their stay in town. Believe me, yours truly, B. P.S.--Are there anything but books? If so, let those _extras_ remain untouched for the present. I trust you have not stumbled on any more "Aphrodites," and have burnt those. I send you both the advertisements, but don't send me the first treatise--as I have no occasion for _Caustic_ in that quarter. [Footnote 1: In the 'Morning Chronicle' (June 10, 1813) appeared advertisements of the two following books:--'Practical Observations on the best mode of curing Strictures, etc., with Remarks on Inefficacy, etc., of Caustic Applications'. By William Wadd. Printed for J. Callow, Soho. 'Modern Poets; a Dialogue in Verse, containing some Strictures on the Poetry of Lord Byron, Mr. Southey, and Others'. Printed for White, Cochrane, and Co., Fleet Street. In a note on 'Modern Poets' (p. 7) occurs the following passage: "In 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' the same respectable corps of critics is successively exhibited, in the course of only ten lines, under the following significant but somewhat incongruous forms, viz. (1) Northern Wolves, (2) Harpies, (3) Bloodhounds." In proof the writer quotes lines 426-437 of the Satire. Then follows a long review of 'Childe Harold', in which the critic condemns Harold, the hero, as "an uncouth incumbrance of this flighty Lord;" the want of "plot ... action and fable, interest, order, end;" and asks: "Shall he immortal bays aspire to wear Who immortality from man would tear, Repress the sigh which hopes a happier home, And chase the visions of a life to come?"] [Footnote 2: For Byron's intention to go abroad with Lord and Lady Oxford, see p. 164, 'note' 3 [Footnote 6 of Letter 256.]] * * * * * 301.--To John Murray. [Maidenhead], June 13, 1813. Dear Sir,--Amongst the books from Bennet St. is a small vol. of abominable poems by the Earl of Haddington which must not be in ye Catalogue on Sale--also--a vol. of French Epigrams in the same predicament. On the title page of Meletius is an inscription in writing which must be _erased_ and made illegible. I have read the strictures, which are just enough, and not grossly abusive, in very fair couplets. There is a note against Massinger near the end, but one cannot quarrel with one's company, at any rate. The author detects some incongruous figures in a passage of 'E. Bds'., page 23., but which edition I do not know. In the _sole_ copy in your possession--I mean the _fifth_ edition--you may make these alterations, that I may profit (though a little too late) by his remarks:--For "_hellish_ instinct," substitute "_brutal_ instinct;" "_harpies_" alter to "_felons_;" and for "blood-hounds" write "hell-hounds." These be "very bitter words, by my troth," and the alterations not much sweeter; but as I shall not publish the thing, they can do no harm, but are a satisfaction to me in the way of amendment. The passage is only 12 lines. You do not answer me about H.'s book; I want to write to him, and not to say anything unpleasing. If you direct to Post Office, Portsmouth, till _called_ for, I will send and receive your letter. You never told me of the forthcoming critique on 'Columbus' [1] which is not _too_ fair; and I do not think justice quite done to the 'Pleasures', which surely entitles the author to a higher rank than that assigned to him in the 'Quarterly'. But I must not cavil at the decisions of the _invisible infallibles_; and the article is very well written. The general horror of "_fragments_" [2] makes me tremulous for "_The Giaour_;" but you would publish it--I presume, by this time, to your repentance. But as I consented, whatever be its fate, I won't now quarrel with you, even though I detect it in my pastry; but I shall not open a pye without apprehension for some weeks. The Books which may be marked G.O. I will carry out. Do you know Clarke's 'Naufragia' [3]? I am told that he asserts the _first_ volume of 'Robinson Crusoe' was written by the first Lord Oxford, when in the Tower, and given by him to Defoe; if true, it is a curious anecdote. Have you got back Lord Brooke's MS.? and what does Heber say of it? Write to me at Portsmouth. Ever yours, etc., Bn. [Footnote 1: Rogers's _Columbus_ was reviewed by Ward in the _Quarterly_ for March, 1813. The reviewer detects "evident marks of haste" in the poem.] [Footnote 2: _The Giaour_, like _Columbus_, was written in fragments.] [Footnote 3: James Stanier Clarke, a Navy Chaplain (1765-1834), published, in 1805, 'Naufragia, or Historical Memoirs of Shipwrecks'. In that work he does not himself attribute the _first_ volume of 'Robinson Crusoe' to Lord Oxford. The following is the passage to which Byron refers ('Naufragia', vol. i. pp. 12, 13): "But before I conclude this Section, I wish to make the admirers of this Nautical Romance mindful of a Report, which prevailed many years ago; that Defoe, after all, was not the real author of Robinson Crusoe. This assertion is noticed in an article in the seventh volume of the 'Edinburgh Magazine' [vol. vii. p. 269]. Dr. Towers, in his 'Life' of Defoe in the 'Biographia', is inclined to pay no attention to it; but was that writer aware of the following letter, which also appeared in the 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1788? (vol. lviii. part i. p. 208). At least no notice is taken of it in his 'Life' of Defoe: "'Dublin, February 25. "Mr. Urban,--In the course of a late conversation with a nobleman of the first consequence and information in this kingdom, he assured me, that Mr. Benjamin Holloway, of Middleton Stony, assured him, some time ago: that he knew for fact, that the celebrated Romance of 'Robinson Crusoe' was really written by the Earl of Oxford, when confined in the Tower of London: that his Lordship gave the manuscript to Daniel Defoe, who frequently visited him during his confinement: and that Defoe, having afterwards added the second volume, published the whole as his own production. This anecdote I would not venture to send to your valuable magazine, if I did not think my information good, and imagine it might be acceptable to your numerous readers, not-withstanding the work has heretofore been generally attributed to the latter. W. W.' "It is impossible for me to enter on a discussion of this literary subject; though I thought the circumstance ought to be more generally known. And yet I must observe, that I always discerned a very striking falling off between the composition of the first and second volumes of this Romance--they seem to bear evident marks of having been the work of different writers." A volume of memoranda in the handwriting of Warton, the Laureate, preserved in the British Museum, contains the following: "Mem. Jul. 10, 1774. In the year 1759, I was told by the Rev. Mr. Benjamin Holloway, rector of Middleton Stony, in Oxfordshire, then about 70 years old, and in the early part of his life domestic Chaplain to Lord Sunderland, that he had often heard Lord Sunderland say that Lord Oxford, while a prisoner in the Tower of London, wrote the first volume of the History of Robinson Crusoe, merely as an amusement under confinement; and gave it to Daniel De Foe, who frequently visited Lord Oxford in the Tower, and was one of his Pamphlet writers. That De Foe, by Lord Oxford's permission, printed it as his own, and, encouraged by its extraordinary success, added himself the second volume, the inferiority of which is generally acknowledged. Mr. Holloway also told me, from Lord Sunderland, that Lord Oxford dictated some parts of the manuscript to De Foe. Mr. Holloway was a grave conscientious clergyman, not vain of telling anecdotes, very learned, particularly a good orientalist, author of some theological tracts, bred at Eton School, and a Master of Arts at St. John's College, Cambridge. He lived many years with great respect in Lord Sunderland's family, and was like to the late Duke of Marlborough. He died, as I remember, about the year 1761." ] * * * * * 302.--To John Murray. June 18, 1813. Dear Sir,--Will you forward the enclosed answer to the kindest letter I ever received in my life, my sense of which I can neither express to Mr. Gifford himself nor to any one else? Ever yours, B'N. * * * * * 303.--To W. Gifford. June 18, 1813. My Dear Sir,--I feel greatly at a loss how to write to you at all--still more to thank you as I ought. If you knew the veneration with which I have ever regarded you, long before I had the most distant prospect of becoming your acquaintance, literary or personal, my embarrassment would not surprise you. Any suggestion of yours, even were it conveyed in the less tender shape of the text of the 'Baviad', or a Monk Mason note in Massinger, [1] would have been obeyed; I should have endeavoured to improve myself by your censure: judge then if I shall be less willing to profit by your kindness. It is not for me to bandy compliments with my elders and my betters: I receive your approbation with gratitude, and will not return my brass for your Gold by expressing more fully those sentiments of admiration, which, however sincere, would, I know, be unwelcome. To your advice on Religious topics, I shall equally attend. Perhaps the best way will be by avoiding them altogether. The already published objectionable passages have been much commented upon, but certainly have been rather _strongly_ interpreted. I am no Bigot to Infidelity, and did not expect that, because I doubted the immortality of Man, I should be charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative insignificance of ourselves and _our world_, when placed in competition with the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to eternity might be over-rated. This, and being early disgusted with a Calvinistic Scotch school, where I was cudgelled to Church for the first ten years of my life, afflicted me with this malady; for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind as much as other kinds of hypochondria. I regret to hear you talk of ill-health. May you long exist! not only to enjoy your own fame, but outlive that of fifty such ephemeral adventurers as myself. As I do not sail quite so soon as Murray may have led you to expect (not till July) I trust I have some chance of taking you by the hand before my departure, and repeating in person how sincerely and affectionately I am Your obliged servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 198 [Footnote 4 of Letter 192.]] * * * * * 304.--To John Murray. June 22, 1813. Dear Sir,--I send you a _corrected_ copy of the lines with several _important_ alterations,--so many that this had better be sent for proof rather than subject the other to so many blots. You will excuse the eternal trouble I inflict upon you. As you will see, I have attended to your Criticism, and softened a passage you proscribed this morning. Yours veritably, B. * * * * * 305.--To Thomas Moore. June 22, 1813. Yesterday I dined in company with Stael, the "Epicene," [1] whose politics are sadly changed. She is for the Lord of Israel and the Lord of Liverpool--a vile antithesis of a Methodist and a Tory--talks of nothing but devotion and the ministry, and, I presume, expects that God and the government will help her to a pension. Murray, the [Greek: anax] of publishers, the Anak of stationers, has a design upon you in the paper line. He wants you to become the staple and stipendiary editor of a periodical work. What say you? Will you be bound, like "Kit Smart, to write for ninety-nine years in the _Universal Visitor?_" [2] Seriously, he talks of hundreds a year, and--though I hate prating of the beggarly elements--his proposal may be to your honour and profit, and, I am very sure, will be to our pleasure. I don't know what to say about "friendship." I never was in friendship but once, in my nineteenth year, and then it gave me as much trouble as love. I am afraid, as Whitbread's sire said to the king, when he wanted to knight him, that I am "too old;" [3] but nevertheless, no one wishes you more friends, fame, and felicity, than Yours, etc. [Footnote 1: "'And ah! what verse can grace thy stately mien, Guide of the world, preferment's golden queen, Neckar's fair daughter, Staël the 'Epicene'! Bright o'er whose flaming cheek and pumple nose The bloom of young desire unceasing glows! Fain would the Muse--but ah! she dares no more, A mournful voice from lone 'Guyana's' shore, Sad Quatremer, the bold presumption checks, Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex.' "These lines contain the Secret History of Quatremer's deportation. He presumed, in the Council of Five Hundred, to arraign Madame de Staël's conduct, and even to hint a doubt of her sex. He was sent to 'Guyana'. The transaction naturally brings to one's mind the dialogue between Falstaff and Hostess Quickly in Shakespeare's 'Henry IV'." 'Canning's New Morality', lines 293-301 (Edmonds' edition of the 'Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin', pp. 282, 283). Anne Louise Germaine Necker (1766-1817), only child of the Minister Necker and his wife Suzanne Curchod, Gibbon's early love, married, in 1786, the Swedish Ambassador Baron de Staël Holstein, who died in 1802. She married, as her second husband, in 1811, M. de Rocca, a young French officer, who had been severely wounded in Spain, but survived her by a year (Madame de Récamier, 'Souvenirs', vol. i. p. 272). Her book, 'De l'Allemagne', seized and destroyed by Napoleon, was brought out in June, 1813, by John Murray. Byron thought her "certainly the cleverest, though not the most agreeable woman he had ever known. 'She declaimed to you instead of conversing with you,' said he, 'never pausing except to take breath; and if during that interval a rejoinder was put in, it was evident that she did not attend to it, as she resumed the thread of her discourse as though it had not been interrupted'" (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations', p. 26). Croker ('Croker Papers', vol. i. p. 327) describes her as "ugly, and not of an intellectual ugliness. Her features were coarse, and the ordinary expression rather vulgar, she had an ugly mouth, and one or two irregularly prominent teeth, which perhaps gave her countenance an habitual gaiety. Her eye was full, dark, and expressive; and when she declaimed, which was almost whenever she spoke, she looked eloquent, and one forgot that she was plain." Madame de Staël "did not affect to conceal her preference for the society of men to that of her own sex," and was entirely above, or below, studying the feminine arts of pleasing. In 1802 Miss Berry called on her in Paris. "Found her in an excessively dirty 'cabinet'--sofa singularly so; her own dress, a loose spencer with a bare neck" ('Journal', vol. ii. p. 145). A similar experience is mentioned by Crabb Robinson ('Diary', 1804). "On the 28th of January," he writes, "I first waited on Madame de Staël. I was shown into her bedroom, for which, not knowing Parisian customs, I was unprepared. She was sitting, most decorously, 'in' her bed, and writing. She had her night-cap on, and her face was not made up for the day. It was by no means a captivating spectacle; but I had a very cordial reception, and two bright black eyes smiled benignantly on me." Of her political opinions Sir John Bowring ('Autobiographical Recollections', pp. 375, 376) has left a sketch. "Madame de Staël was a perfect aristocrat, and her sympathies were wholly with the great and prosperous. She saw nothing in England but the luxury, stupidity, and pride of the Tory aristocracy, and the intelligence and magnificence of the Whig aristocracy. These latter talked about truth, and liberty and herself, and she supposed it was all as it should be. As to the millions, the people, she never inquired into their situation. She had a horror of the 'canaille', but anything of 'sangre asul' had a charm for her. When she was dying she said, 'Let me die in peace; let my last moments be undisturbed.' Yet she ordered the cards of every visitor to be brought to her. Among them was one from the Duc de Richelieu. 'What!' exclaimed she indignantly, 'What! have you sent away the 'Duke'? Hurry! Fly after him. Bring him back. Tell him that, though I die for all the world, I live for 'him'.'" Napoleon's hatred of her was intense. "Do not allow that jade, Madame de Staël," he writes to Fouché, December 31, 1806 ('New Letters of Napoleon I.', p. 35), "to come near Paris." Again, March 15, 1807 ('ibid.', p. 39), "You are not to allow Madame de Staël to come within forty leagues of Paris. That wicked schemer ought to make up her mind to behave herself at last." In a third letter, April 19, 1807 ('ibid.', p. 40), he speaks of her as "paying court, one day to the great--a patriot, a democrat, the next!... a fright, ... a worthless woman" (Léon Lecestre's 'Lettres inédites de Napoléon I'er', 2nd ed. vol. i. pp. 84, 88, 93).] [Footnote 2: "Old Gardner the bookseller employed Rolt and Smart to write a monthly miscellany called the 'Universal Visitor'. There was a formal written contract, which Allen the printer saw.... They were bound to write nothing else; they were to have, I think, a third of the profits of his sixpenny pamphlet; and the contract was for ninety-nine years" (Boswell's 'Life of Dr. Johnson', ed. Birrell, vol. iii. p. 192).] [Footnote 3: "But first the Monarch, so polite, Ask'd Mister Whitbread if he'd be a 'Knight'. Unwilling in the list to be enroll'd, Whitbread contemplated the Knights of 'Peg', Then to his generous Sov'reign made a leg, And said, 'He was afraid he was 'too old','" etc. Peter Pindar's 'Instructions to a Laureat'.] * * * * * 306.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. 4, Bennet Street, June 26th, 1813. MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--Let me know when you arrive, and when, and where, and how, you would like to see me,--any where in short but at _dinner_. I have put off going into ye country on purpose to _waylay_ you. Ever yours, Byron * * * * * 307.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [June, 1813.] MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--And if you knew _whom_ I had put off besides my journey--you would think me grown strangely fraternal. However I won't overwhelm you with my _own praises_. Between one and two be it--I shall, in course, prefer seeing you all to myself without the incumbrance of third persons, even of _your_ (for I won't own the relationship) fair cousin of _eleven page_ memory [1], who, by the bye, makes one of the finest busts I have seen in the Exhibition, or out of it. Good night! Ever yours, BYRON. P.S.--Your writing is grown like my Attorney's, and gave me a qualm, till I found the remedy in your signature. [Footnote 1: 'Letters', vol. i. p. 54 [end of Footnote 3 of Letter 13.], Lady Gertrude Howard married, in 1806, William Sloane Stanley, and died in 1870.] * * * * * 308.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Sunday], June 27th, 1813. MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,--If you like to go with me to ye Lady Davy's [1] [ to-night, I _have_ an invitation for you. There you will see the _Stael_, some people whom you know, and _me_ whom you do _not_ know,--and you can talk to which you please, and I will watch over you as if you were unmarried and in danger of always being so. Now do as you like; but if you chuse to array yourself before or after half past ten, I will call for you. I think our being together before 3d people will be a new _sensation_ to _both_. Ever yours, B. [Footnote 1: Sir Humphry Davy (1778-1829), the son of a wood-carver of Penzance, was apprenticed to John Borlase, a surgeon at Penzance, in whose dispensary he became a chemist. He wrote poetry as a young man, but soon abandoned the pursuit for science. Two poems on Byron by Davy, one written in 1823, the other in 1824, will be found in Dr. Davy's 'Memoirs of the Life of Sir H. Davy', vol. ii. pp. 168, 169. In October, 1798, he joined Dr. Beddoes at Bristol, where he superintended the laboratory at his Pneumatic Institution. His 'Researches, Chemical and Philosophical' (1799), made him famous. At the Royal Institution in London, founded in 1799, Davy became assistant-lecturer in chemistry, and director of the chemical laboratory. There his lecture-room was crowded by some of the most distinguished men and women of the day. Within the next few years his discoveries in electricity and galvanism, (1806-7) brought him European celebrity; his lectures on agricultural chemistry (1810) marked a fresh era in farming, and inaugurated the new movement of "science with practice." His famous discovery of the Safety Lamp was made in 1816. He was created a baronet in 1818. A skilful fisherman, he wrote, when in declining health, 'Salmonia, or Days of Fly-fishing', published in 1827. Ticknor ('Life', vol. i. p. 57), speaking of Davy in 1815, says, "He is now about thirty-three, but with all the freshness and bloom of five-and-twenty, and one of the handsomest men I have seen in England. He has a great deal of vivacity, talks rapidly, though with great precision, and is so much interested in conversation, that his excitement amounts to nervous impatience, and keeps him in constant motion." Davy married, in 1812, a rich widow, Jane Aprecce, 'née' Kerr (1780-1855). The marriage brought him wealth; but it also, it is said, impaired the simplicity of his character, and made him ambitious of social distinction. Miss Berry ('Journal', vol. ii. p. 535) supped with Lady Davy in May, 1813, to meet the Princess of Wales, and notes that among the other guests was Byron. Lady Davy, who was so dark a brunette that Sydney Smith said she was as brown as a dry toast, was for many years a prominent figure in the society of London and Rome. It was of her that Madame de Staël said that she had "all Corinne's talents without her faults or extravagances." Ticknor, who called on her in June, 1815, "found her in her parlour, working on a dress, the contents of her basket strewed about the table, and looking more like home than anything since I left it. She is small, with black eyes and hair, a very pleasant face, an uncommonly sweet smile, and, when she speaks, has much spirit and expression in her countenance. Her conversation is agreeable, particularly in the choice and variety of her phraseology, and has more the air of eloquence than I have ever heard before from a lady." ('Life of George Ticknor', vol. i. P. 57).] * * * * * 309.--To John Murray. July 1st, 1813. DEAR SIR,--There is an error in my dedication. [1] The word "_my_" must be struck out--"my" admiration, etc.; it is a false construction and disagrees with the signature. I hope this will arrive in time to prevent a _cancel_ and serve for a proof; recollect it is only the "my" to be erased throughout. There is a critique in the 'Satirist', [2] which I have read,--fairly written, and, though _vituperative_, very fair in judgment. One part belongs to you, _viz_., the 4_s_. and 6_d_ charge; it is unconscionable, but you have no conscience. Yours truly, B. [Footnote 1: The dedication was originally printed thus: "To Samuel Rogers, Esq., as a slight but most sincere token of my admiration of his genius."] [Footnote 2: 'The Satirist' for July 1, 1813 (pp. 70-88), reviews the 'Giaour' at length. It condemns it for its fragmentary character and consequent obscurity, its carelessness and defects of style; but it also admits that the poem "abounds with proofs of genius:" "A word in conclusion. The noble lord appears to have an aristocratical solicitude to be read only by the opulent. Four shillings and sixpence for forty-one octavo pages of poetry! and those pages verily happily answering to Mr. Sheridan's image of a rivulet of text flowing through a meadow of margin. My good Lord Byron, while you are revelling in all the sensual and intellectual luxury which the successful sale of Newstead Abbey has procured for you, you little think of the privations to which you have subjected us unfortunate Reviewers, ... in order to enable us to purchase your lordship's expensive publication."] * * * * * 310.--To Thomas Moore. 4, Benedictine Street, St. James's, July 8, 1813. I presume by your silence that I have blundered into something noxious in my reply to your letter, for the which I beg leave to send beforehand a sweeping apology, which you may apply to any, or all, parts of that unfortunate epistle. If I err in my conjecture, I expect the like from you in putting our correspondence so long in quarantine. God he knows what I have said; but he also knows (if he is not as indifferent to mortals as the _nonchalant_ deities of Lucretius), that you are the last person I want to offend. So, if I have,--why the devil don't you say it at once, and expectorate your spleen? Rogers is out of town with Madame de Stael, who hath published an Essay against Suicide, [1] which, I presume, will make somebody shoot himself;--as a sermon by Blenkinsop, in _proof_ of Christianity, sent a hitherto most orthodox acquaintance of mine out of a chapel of ease a perfect atheist. Have you found or founded a residence yet? and have you begun or finished a poem? If you won't tell me what _I_ have done, pray say what you have done, or left undone, yourself. I am still in equipment for voyaging, and anxious to hear from, or of, you _before_ I go, which anxiety you should remove more readily, as you think I sha'n't cogitate about you afterwards. I shall give the lie to that calumny by fifty foreign letters, particularly from any place where the plague is rife,--without a drop of vinegar or a whiff of sulphur to save you from infection. The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight, and my sister is in town, which is a great comfort,--for, never having been much together, we are naturally more attached to each other. I presume the illuminations have conflagrated to Derby (or wherever you are) by this time. [2] We are just recovering from tumult and train oil, and transparent fripperies, and all the noise and nonsense of victory. Drury Lane had a large _M.W._, which some thought was Marshal Wellington; others, that it might be translated into Manager Whitbread; while the ladies of the vicinity of the saloon conceived the last letter to be complimentary to themselves. I leave this to the commentators to illustrate. If you don't answer this, I sha'n't say what _you_ deserve, but I think _I_ deserve a reply. Do you conceive there is no Post-Bag but the Twopenny? [3] Sunburn me, if you are not too bad. [Footnote 1: "Madame de Stael treats me as the person whom she most delights to honour; I am generally ordered with her to dinner, as one orders beans and bacon: she is one of the few persons who surpass expectation; she has every sort of talent, and would be universally popular, if, in society, she were to confine herself to her inferior talents-- pleasantry, anecdote, and literature. I have reviewed her 'Essay on Suicide' in the last 'Edinburgh Review': it is not one of her best, and I have accordingly said more of the author and the subject than of the work." Sir J. Mackintosh ('Life', vol. ii. p. 269).] [Footnote 2: One result of the illuminations in honour of the battle of Vittoria (June 21, 1813), which took place July 7, was a great fire at Woolwich. Moore was at this time living at Mayfield Cottage near Ashbourne, in Derbyshire.] [Footnote 3: Moore's 'Intercepted Letters, or the Twopenny Post-bag', was published, without his name, in 1813.] * * * * * 311.--To Thomas Moore. July 13, 1813. Your letter set me at ease; for I really thought (as I hear of your susceptibility) that I had said--I know not what--but something I should have been very sorry for, had it, or I, offended you;--though I don't see how a man with a beautiful wife--_his own_ children,--quiet--fame --competency and friends, (I will vouch for a thousand, which is more than I will for a unit in my own behalf,) can be offended with any thing. Do you know, Moore, I am amazingly inclined--remember I say but _inclined_--to be seriously enamoured with Lady A[delaide] F[orbes] [1]--but this----has ruined all my prospects. However, you know her; is she _clever_, or sensible, or good-tempered? either _would_ do--I scratch out the _will_. I don't ask as to her beauty--that I see; but my circumstances are mending, and were not my other prospects blackening, I would take a wife, and that should be the woman, had I a chance. I do not yet know her much, but better than I did. I want to get away, but find difficulty in compassing a passage in a ship of war. They had better let me go; if I cannot, patriotism is the word--"nay, an they'll mouth, I'll rant as well as they." [2] Now, what are you doing?--writing, we all hope, for our own sakes. Remember you must edit my posthumous works, with a Life of the Author, for which I will send you Confessions, dated "Lazaretto," Smyrna, Malta, or Palermo--one can die any where. There is to be a thing on Tuesday ycleped a national fête [3]. The Regent and----are to be there, and every body else, who has shillings enough for what was once a guinea. Vauxhall is the scene--there are six tickets issued for the modest women, and it is supposed there will be three to spare. The passports for the lax are beyond my arithmetic. P. S.--The Stael last night attacked me most furiously--said that I had "no right to make love--that I had used----barbarously--that I had no feeling, and was totally _in_sensible to _la belle passion_, and _had_ been all my life." I am very glad to hear it, but did not know it before. Let me hear from you anon. [Footnote 1: "Lady A. F----'was' also very handsome. It is melancholy to talk of women in the past tense. What a pity, that of all flowers, none fade so soon as beauty! Poor Lady A. F--has not got married. Do you know, I once had some thoughts of her as a wife; not that I was in love, as people call it, but I had argued myself into a belief that I ought to marry, and, meeting her very often in society, the notion came into my head, not heart, that she would suit me. Moore, too, told me so much of her good qualities--all which was, I believe, quite true--that I felt tempted to propose to her, but did not, whether 'tant mieux' or 'tant pis', God knows, supposing my proposal accepted." (Lady Blessington's 'Conversations', pp. 108, 109). Lady Adelaide Forbes, whom Byron in Rome compared to the "Belvedere Apollo," was the daughter of George, sixth Earl of Granard, and his wife, Lady Selina Rawdon, daughter of the first Earl of Moira. Born in 1789, she died at Dresden, in 1858, unmarried. Lord Moira was Moore's patron, and, through this connection and political sympathies, Moore was acquainted with Lord Granard and his family.] [Footnote 2: Byron possibly quoted the actual words from 'Hamlet' (act v. sc. 1), referring to Moore's attack on the Regent in 'The Two-penny Post-bag': "Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou." But the letter is destroyed.] [Footnote 3: The 'Morning Chronicle' for July 12 contains the announcement that "the Prince Regent has projected a 'Grand National Fête' in honour of the battle of Vittoria. It is to be held at Vauxhall Gardens." The 'fête' was held on Tuesday, July 20, beginning with a banquet, at which such toasts were drunk as "The Marquis of Wellington," "Sir Thomas Graham and the other officers engaged," "The Spanish Armies and the brave Guerillas." The 'báton' of Marshal Jourdan was "disposed among the plate, so as to be obvious to all." The proceedings ended with illuminations and dancing.] * * * * * 312.--To John Hanson. Sunday, July 18th, 1813. DEAR SIR,--A Report is in general circulation (which has distressed my friends, and is not very pleasing to me), that the Purchaser of Newstead is a _young_ man, who has been over-reached, ill-treated, and ruined, by me in this transaction of the sale, and that I take an unfair advantage of the _law_ to enforce the contract. This must be contradicted by a true and open statement of the circumstances attending, and subsequent to, the sale, and that immediately and publicly. Surely, if anyone is ill treated it is myself. He bid his own price; he took time before he bid at all, and now, when I am actually granting him further time as a favour, I hear from all quarters that I have acted unfairly. Pray do not delay on this point; see him, and let a proper and true statement be drawn up of the sale, etc., and inserted in the papers. Ever yours, B. P.S.--Mr. C. himself, if he has either honour or feeling, will be the first to vindicate me from so unfounded an implication. It is surely not for his credit to be supposed _ruined_ or _over-reached_. * * * * * 313.--To John Murray. July 22nd, 1813. Dear Sir,--I have great pleasure in accepting your invitation to meet anybody or nobody as you like best. Pray what should you suppose the book in the inclosed advertisement to be? is it anything relating to Buonaparte or Continental Concerns? If so, it may be worth looking after, particularly if it should turn out to be your purchase--Lucien's _Epic_. Believe me, very truly yours, BYRON. * * * * * 314.--To Thomas Moore. July 25, 1813. I am not well versed enough in the ways of single woman to make much matrimonial progress. I have been dining like the dragon of Wantley [1] for this last week. My head aches with the vintage of various cellars, and my brains are muddled as their dregs. I met your friends the Daltons:--she sang one of your best songs so well, that, but for the appearance of affectation, I could have cried; he reminds me of Hunt, but handsomer, and more musical in soul, perhaps. I wish to God he may conquer his horrible anomalous complaint. The upper part of her face is beautiful, and she seems much attached to her husband. He is right, nevertheless, in leaving this nauseous town. The first winter would infallibly destroy her complexion,--and the second, very probably, every thing else. I must tell you a story. Morris [2] (of indifferent memory) was dining out the other day, and complaining of the Prince's coldness to his old wassailers. D'Israeli (a learned Jew) bored him with questions--why this? and why that? "Why did the Prince act thus?"--"Why, sir, on account of Lord----, who ought to be ashamed of himself."--"And why ought Lord----to be ashamed of himself?"--"Because the Prince, sir, --------"--"And why, sir, did the Prince cut _you_?"--"Because, G--d d--mme, sir, I stuck to my principles."--"And why did you stick to your principles?" Is not this last question the best that was ever put, when you consider to whom? It nearly killed Morris. Perhaps you may think it stupid, but, as Goldsmith said about the peas, [3] it was a very good joke when I heard it--as I did from an ear-witness--and is only spoilt in my narration. The season has closed with a dandy ball; [4]--but I have dinners with the Harrowbys, Rogers, and Frere and Mackintosh [5], where I shall drink your health in a silent bumper, and regret your absence till "too much canaries" wash away my memory, or render it superfluous by a vision of you at the opposite side of the table. Canning has disbanded his party by a speech from his [----]--the true throne of a Tory [6]. Conceive his turning them off in a formal harangue, and bidding them think for themselves. "I have led my ragamuffins where they are well peppered. There are but three of the 150 left alive," [7] and they are for the _Townsend_ (_query_, might not Falstaff mean the Bow Street officer? I dare say Malone's posthumous edition will have it so) for life. Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. I journeyed by night--no incident, or accident, but an alarm on the part of my valet on the outside, who, in crossing Epping Forest, actually, I believe, flung down his purse before a mile-stone, with a glow-worm in the second figure of number XIX--mistaking it for a footpad and dark lantern. I can only attribute his fears to a pair of new pistols wherewith I had armed him; and he thought it necessary to display his vigilance by calling out to me whenever we passed any thing--no matter whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a fearfully long letter. This sheet must be blank, and is merely a wrapper, to preclude the tabellarians [8] of the post from peeping. You once complained of my _not_ writing;--I will "heap coals of fire upon your head" by _not_ complaining of your _not_ reading. Ever, my dear Moore, your'n (isn't that the Staffordshire termination?), BYRON. [Footnote 1: Under the title of "An excellent Ballad of a most dreadful combat, fought between Moore of Moore-Hall and the Dragon of Wantley," this ballad forms (in the 12th edition) the Argument of 'The Dragon of Wantley, a Burlesque Opera', performed at Covent Garden, the libretto of which is by Sig. Carini, 'i.e.' Henry Carey: "Have you not heard of the 'Trojan' Horse; With Seventy Men in his Belly? This Dragon was not quite so big, But very near, I'll tell you; Devoured he poor Children three, That could not with him grapple; And at one sup he eat them up, As one would eat an Apple. "All sorts of Cattle this Dragon did eat, Some say he eat up Trees, And that the Forest sure he would Devour by degrees. For Houses and Churches were to him Geese and Turkies; He eat all, and left none behind, But some Stones, dear Jack, which he could not crack, Which on the Hills you'll find."] [Footnote 2: Charles Morris (1745-1838) served in the 17th Foot, the Royal Irish Dragoons, and finally in the Second Life Guards. He was laureate and punch-maker to the Beef-steak Club, founded in 1735 by John Rich, patentee of Covent Garden Theatre. The Prince of Wales became a member of the Club in 1785, and Morris was a frequent guest at Carlton House. Another member of the Club was the Duke of Norfolk, who gave Morris the villa at Brockham, near Betchworth, where he lived and died. Morris, who was an admirable song-writer and singer, attached himself politically to the Prince's party, and attacked Pitt in such popular ballads as "Billy's too young to drive us," and "Billy Pitt and the Farmer." He was, however, disappointed in his hope of reward from his political patrons, and vented his spleen in his ode, "The Old Whig Poet to his Old Buff Waistcoat" "Farewell, thou poor rag of the Muse! In the bag of the clothesman go lie; A farthing thou'lt fetch from the Jews, Which the hard-hearted Christians deny," etc. Some of his poems deserve the censure of 'The Shade of Pope' (line 225): "There reeling Morris and his bestial songs." But others, in their ease and vivacity, hold their own with all but the best of Moore's songs. A collection of them was printed in two volumes by Bentley, in 1840, under the title of 'Lyra Urbanica'.] [Footnote 3: In Forster's 'Life of Goldsmith' (vol. i. p. 34) it is related that Goldsmith ran away from Trinity College, Dublin, because he had been beaten by one of the Fellows. He started for Cork with a shilling in his pocket, on which he lived for three days. He told Reynolds that he thought "a handful of grey pease, given him by a girl at a wake (after fasting for twenty-four hours) the most comfortable repast he had ever made." Byron may mean that any joke seems good to a man who had not heard one for a day.] [Footnote 4: "I liked the Dandies," says Byron, in his 'Detached Thoughts'; "they were always very civil to _me_, though in general they disliked literary people, and persecuted and mystified Madme. de Staël, Lewis, Horace Twiss, and the like, damnably. They persuaded Madme. de Staël that Alvanley had a hundred thousand a year, etc., etc., till she praised him to his _face_ for his _beauty!_ and made a set at him for Albertine ('Libertine', as Brummell baptized her, though the poor girl was, and is, as correct as maid or wife can be, and very amiable withal), and a hundred other fooleries besides. The truth is, that, though I gave up the business early, I had a tinge of Dandyism in my minority, and probably retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at four and twenty. I had gamed and drunk and taken my degrees in most dissipations, and, having no pedantry, and not being overbearing, we ran quietly together. I knew them all more or less, and they made me a member of Watier's (a superb club at that time), being, I take it, the only literary man (except 'two' others, both men of the world, M[oore] and S[pencer]) in it. Our Masquerade was a grand one; so was the Dandy Ball too--at the Argyle,--but 'that' (the latter) was given by the four chiefs--B[rummel?], M[idmay?], A[lvanley?], and P[ierreoint?], if I err not."] [Footnote 5: Sir James Mackintosh (1765-1832), after studying medicine, was called to the English Bar in 1795. Originally a supporter of the French Revolution, he answered Burke's 'Reflections' with his 'Vindiciæ Gallicæ' (1791). He is "Mr. Macfungus" in the 'Anti-Jacobin's' account of the "Meeting of the Friends of Freedom." But his revolutionary sympathies rapidly cooled, and he publicly disavowed them in his 'Introductory Discourse on the Study of the Law of Nature and Nations' (1799). He remained, however, throughout his life, a Whig. His lectures on "'The Law of Nature and Nations'," delivered at Lincoln's Inn, in 1799, brought him into prominence, both at the Bar and in society. In 1803 he was knighted on accepting the Recordership of Bombay. He returned to England in 1812, entered Parliament as member for Nairn, advocated some useful measures, became a Privy Councillor in 1828, and held office in the Whig Ministry of 1830 as Commissioner of the Board of Control. In politics, as well as in literature, he disappointed expectation. His principal works, besides those mentioned above, were his 'Dissertation on the Progress of Ethical Philosophy' (1830), and his 'History of the Revolution in England in 1688' (1834). His great intellectual powers were shown to most advantage in society. Rogers ('Table-Talk', pp. 197, 198) thought him one of the three acutest men he had ever known. "He had a prodigious memory, and could repeat by heart more of Cicero than you could easily believe.... I never met a man with a fuller mind than Mackintosh,--such readiness on all subjects, such a talker." "Till subdued by age and illness," wrote Sydney Smith ('Life of Mackintosh', vol. ii. p. 500), "his conversation was more brilliant and instructive than that of any human being I ever had the good fortune to be acquainted with." As in political life, so in society, he was too much of the lecturer. Ticknor ('Life', vol. i. p. 265) thought him "a little too precise, a little too much made up in his manners and conversation." But on all sides there is evidence to confirm the testimony of Rogers ('Table-Talk', p. 207) that he was a man "who had not a particle of envy or jealousy in his nature."] [Footnote 6: George Canning (1770-1827) had been offered the Foreign Office in 1812 after the assassination of Perceval, on condition that Castlereagh should lead the House of Commons. He refused the offer. Elected M.P. for Liverpool in 1812, he had, in July, 1813, disbanded his followers, and in 1814 left England. He supported Lord Liverpool in carrying the repressive measures known as the Six Acts (1817-20), and, on the death of Lord Londonderry, in 1822, entered the Government as Secretary for Foreign Affairs. It is to the private speech to his followers, in July, 1813, that Byron refers. The 'Morning Chronicle' for July 29, 1813, has the following paragraph: "Mr. Canning it seems has (to use a French phrase) 'reformed' his political corps. He assembled them at the close of the Session, and with many expressions of regret for the failure of certain negociations, which might have been favourable to them as a body, relieved them from their oaths of allegiance, and recommended them to pursue in future their objects separately. The Right Honourable gentleman, perhaps, finds it more convenient for himself to act unencumbered; and both he and one or two others may find their interest in disbanding the squad; but some of them are turned off 'without a character'." The 'Courier' for July 29, quoting the first part of the statement, adds, "We believe ... that Mr. Canning is not indisposed to join the present Cabinet, and may wish one or two of his particular friends to come in with him."] [Footnote 7: "I have led my ragamuffins where they are pepper'd: there's but three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life." ('Henry IV'., Part I. act v. sc. 3). Townshend, the Bow Street officer, is described by Cronow ('Reminiscences', vol. i. p. 286) as "a little fat man with a flaxen wig, Kersey-mere breeches, a blue straight-cut coat, and a broad-brimmed white hat. To the most daring courage he added great dexterity and cunning; and was said, 'in propria persona', to have taken more thieves than all the other Bow Street officers put together."] [Footnote 8: "Epistolam, quam attulerat Phileros tabellarius." (Cic., 'Fam'.,9, 15).] * * * * * 315.--To Thomas Moore. July 27, 1813. When you next imitate the style of "Tacitus," pray add, _de moribus Germannorum_;--this last was a piece of barbarous silence, and could only be taken from the _Woods_, and, as such, I attribute it entirely to your sylvan sequestration at Mayfield Cottage. You will find, on casting up accounts, that you are my debtor by several sheets and one epistle. I shall bring my action;--if you don't discharge, expect to hear from my attorney. I have forwarded your letter to Ruggiero [1]; but don't make a postman of me again, for fear I should be tempted to violate your sanctity of wax or wafer. Believe me, ever yours _ indignantly_, BN. [Footnote 1: _i. e._ Samuel Rogers.] * * * * * 316.--To Thomas Moore. July 28, 1813. Can't you be satisfied with the pangs of my jealousy of Rogers, without actually making me the pander of your epistolary intrigue? This is the second letter you have enclosed to my address, notwithstanding a miraculous long answer, and a subsequent short one or two of your own. If you do so again, I can't tell to what pitch my fury may soar. I shall send you verse or arsenic, as likely as any thing,--four thousand couplets on sheets beyond the privilege of franking; that privilege, sir, of which you take an undue advantage over a too susceptible senator, by forwarding your lucubrations to every one but himself. I won't frank _from_ you, or _for_ you, or _to_ you--may I be curst if I do, unless you mend your manners. I disown you--I disclaim you--and by all the powers of Eulogy, I will write a panegyric upon you--or dedicate a quarto--if you don't make me ample amends. P.S.--I am in training to dine with Sheridan [1] and Rogers this evening. I have a little spite against R., and will shed his "Clary wines pottle-deep." [2] This is nearly my ultimate or penultimate letter; for I am quite equipped, and only wait a passage. Perhaps I may wait a few weeks for Sligo, but not if I can help it. [Footnote 1: In his 'Detached Thoughts' Byron has noted the following impressions of Sheridan: "In society I have met Sheridan frequently: he was superb! He had a sort of liking for me, and never attacked me, at least to my face, as he did every body else--high names, and wits, and orators, some of them poets also. I have seen him cut up Whitbread, quiz Madame de Staël, annihilate Colman, and do little less by some others (whose names, as friends, I set not down) of good fame and ability. Poor fellow! he got drunk very thoroughly and very soon. It occasionally fell to my lot to pilot him home--no sinecure, for he was so tipsy that I was obliged to put on his cocked hat for him. To be sure, it tumbled off again, and I was not myself so sober as to be able to pick it up again. "The last time I met him was, I think, at Sir Gilbert Elliot's, where he was as quick as ever--no, it was not the last time; the last time was at Douglas Kinnaird's. I have met him in all places and parties--at Whitehall with the Melbournes, at the Marquis of Tavistock's, at Robins's the auctioneer's, at Sir Humphry Davy's, at Sam Rogers's,--in short, in most kinds of company, and always found him very convivial and delightful. "I have seen Sheridan weep two or three times. It may be that he was maudlin; but this only renders it more impressive, for who would see 'From Marlborough's eyes the tears of dotage flow, And Swift expire a driveller and a show'? "Once I saw him cry at Robins's the auctioneer's, after a splendid dinner, full of great names and high spirits. I had the honour of sitting next to Sheridan. The occasion of his tears was some observation or other upon the subject of the sturdiness of the Whigs in resisting office and keeping to their principles: Sheridan turned round: 'Sir, it is easy for my Lord G. or Earl G. or Marquis B. or Lord H. with thousands upon thousands a year, some of it either 'presently' derived, or 'inherited' in sinecure or acquisitions from the public money, to boast of their patriotism and keep aloof from temptation; but they do not know from what temptation those have kept aloof who had equal pride, at least equal talents, and not unequal passions, and nevertheless knew not in the course of their lives what it was to have a shilling of their own.' And in saying this he wept. "There was something odd about Sheridan. One day, at dinner, he was slightly praising that pert pretender and impostor, Lyttelton (the Parliamentary puppy, still alive, I believe). I took the liberty of differing from him; he turned round upon me, and said, 'Is that your real opinion?' I confirmed it. Then said he, 'Fortified by this concurrence, I beg leave to say that it, in fact, is 'my' opinion also, and that he is a person whom I do absolutely and utterly despise, abhor, and detest.' He then launched out into a description of his despicable qualities, at some length, and with his usual wit, and evidently in earnest (for he hated Lyttelton). His former compliment had been drawn out by some preceding one, just as its reverse was by my hinting that it was unmerited. "I have more than once heard him say, 'that he never had a shilling of his own.' To be sure, he contrived to extract a good many of other people's. "In 1815 I had occasion to visit my lawyer in Chancery Lane; he was with Sheridan. After mutual greetings, etc., Sheridan retired first. Before recurring to my own business, I could not help inquiring 'that' of Sheridan. 'Oh,' replied the attorney, 'the usual thing! to stave off an action from his wine-merchant, my client.'--'Well,' said I, 'and what do you mean to do?'--'Nothing at all for the present,' said he: 'would you have us proceed against old Sherry? what would be the use of it?' and here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan's good gifts of conversation. "Now, from personal experience, I can vouch that my attorney is by no means the tenderest of men, or particularly accessible to any kind of impression out of the statute or record; and yet Sheridan, in half an hour, had found the way to soften and seduce him in such a manner, that I almost think he would have thrown his client (an honest man, with all the laws, and some justice, on his side) out of the window, had he come in at the moment. "Such was Sheridan! he could soften an attorney! There has been nothing like it since the days of Orpheus. "One day I saw him take up his own ''Monody on Garrick'.' He lighted upon the Dedication to the Dowager Lady Spencer. On seeing it, he flew into a rage, and exclaimed 'that it must be a forgery, that he had never dedicated any thing of his to such a damned canting bitch,' etc., etc.--and so went on for half an hour abusing his own dedication, or at least the object of it. If all writers were equally sincere, it would be ludicrous. "He told me that, on the night of the grand success of his 'School for Scandal' he was knocked down and put into the watch-house for making a row in the street, and being found intoxicated by the watchmen. Latterly, when found drunk one night in the kennel, and asked his name by the watchmen, he answered, 'Wilberforce.' "When dying he was requested to undergo 'an operation.' He replied that he had already submitted to two, which were enough for one man's lifetime. Being asked what they were, he answered, 'having his hair cut, and sitting for his picture." "I have met George Colman occasionally, and thought him extremely pleasant and convivial. Sheridan's humour, or rather wit, was always saturnine, and sometimes savage; he never laughed (at least that 'I' saw, and I watched him), but Colman did. If I had to 'choose' and could not have both at a time I should say, 'Let me begin the evening with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' Sheridan for dinner, Colman for supper; Sheridan for claret or port but Colman for every thing, from the madeira and champagne at dinner the claret with a 'layer' of 'port' between the glasses up to the punch of the night, and down to the grog, or gin and water, of daybreak;--all these I have threaded with both the same. Sheridan was a grenadier company of life guards, but Colman a whole regiment--of 'light infantry', to be sure, but still a regiment."] [Footnote 2: "Potations pottle deep" 'Othello', act ii. sc. 3, line 54.] * * * * * 317.--To John Murray. July 31, 1813. Dear Sir--As I leave town early tomorrow, the proof must be sent to-night, or many days will be lost. If you have any _reviews_ of the 'Giaour' to send, let me have them now. I am not very well to day. I thank you for the 'Satirist', which is short but savage on this unlucky affair, and _personally_ facetious on me which is much more to the purpose than a tirade upon other peoples' concerns [1]. Ever yours, B. [Footnote 1: In the 'Satirist' (vol. xiii. pp. 150, 151) is an article headed "Scandalum Magnatum," with the motto from 'Rejected Addresses': With horn-handled knife, To kill a tender lamb as dead as mutton." "A short time back (say the newspapers, and newspapers never say 'the thing which is not') Lady H. gave a ball and supper. Among the company were Lord B--n, Lady W--, and Lady C. L--b. Lord B., it would appear, is a favourite with the latter Lady; on this occasion, however, he seemed to lavish his attention on another fair object. This preference so enraged Lady C. L. that in a paroxysm of jealousy she took up a dessert-knife and stabbed herself. The gay circle was, of course, immediately plunged in confusion and dismay, which however, was soon succeeded by levity and scandal. The general cry for medical assistance was from Lady W--d: Lady W--d!!! And why? Because it was said that, early after her marriage, Lady W--also took a similar liberty with her person for a similar cause, and was therefore considered to have learned from experience the most efficacious remedy for the complaint. It was also whispered that the Lady's husband had most to grieve, that the attempt had not fully succeeded. Lady C. L. is still living. "The poet has told us how 'Ladies wish to be who love their Lords;' but this is the first public demonstration in our times to show us how Ladies wish to be who love, not their own, but others' Lords. 'Better be with the dead than thus,' cried the jealous fair; and, casting a languishing look at Lord B--, who, Heaven knows, is more like Pan than Apollo, she whipt up as pretty a little dessert-knife as a Lady could desire to commit suicide with, 'And stuck it in her wizzard.' "The desperate Lady was carried out of the room, and the affair endeavoured to be hushed up, etc., etc." ] * * * * * 318.--To John Wilson Croker [1]. Bt. Str., August 2, 1813. Dear Sir,--I was honoured with your unexpected and very obliging letter, when on the point of leaving London, which prevented me from acknowledging my obligation as quickly as I felt it sincerely. I am endeavouring all in my power to be ready before Saturday--and even if I should not succeed, I can only blame my own tardiness, which will not the less enhance the benefit I have lost. I have only to add my hope of forgiveness for all my trespasses on your time and patience, and with my best wishes for your public and private welfare, I have the honour to be, most truly, Your obliged and most obedient servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: J. W. Croker (1780-1857),--the "Wenham" of Thackeray, the "Rigby" of Disraeli, and the "Con Crawley" of Lady Morgan's 'Florence Macarthy', had been made Secretary to the Admiralty in 1809. At his request Captain Carlton of the 'Boyne', "just then ordered to re-enforce Sir Edward Pellew" in the Mediterranean, had consented to receive Byron into his cabin for the voyage,] * * * * * 319.--To John Murray. If you send more proofs, I shall never finish this infernal story--"_Ecce signum_"--thirty-three more lines enclosed! to the utter discomfiture of the printer, and, I fear, not to your advantage. B. * * * * * 320.--To John Murray. Half-past two in the morning, Aug. 10, 1813. Dear Sir,--Pray suspend the _proofs_, for I am _bitten_ again, and have _quantities_ for other parts of the bravura. Yours ever, B. P. S.--You shall have them in the course of the day. * * * * * 321.--To James Wedderburn Webster. August 12, 1813. My Dear Webster,--I am, you know, a detestable correspondent, and write to no one person whatever; you therefore cannot attribute my silence to any thing but want of good breeding or good taste, and not to any more atrocious cause; and as I confess the fault to be entirely mine--why--you will pardon it. I have ordered a copy of the 'Giaour' (which is nearly doubled in quantity in this edition) to be sent, and I will first scribble my name in the title page. Many and sincere thanks for your good opinion of book, and (I hope to add) author. Rushton shall attend you whenever you please, though I should like him to stay a few weeks, and help my other people in forwarding my chattels. Your taking him is no less a favor to me than him; and I trust he will behave well. If not, your remedy is very simple; only don't let him be idle; honest I am sure he is, and I believe good-hearted and quiet. No pains has been spared, and a good deal of expense incurred in his education; accounts and mensuration, etc., he ought to know, and I believe he does. I write this near London, but your answer will reach me better in Bennet Street, etc. (as before). I am going very soon, and if you would do the same thing--as far as Sicily--I am sure you would not be sorry. My sister, Mrs. L. goes with me--her spouse is obliged to retrench for a few years (but _he_ stays at home); so that his _link boy_ prophecy (if ever he made it) recoils upon himself. I am truly glad to hear of Lady Frances's good health. Have you added to your family? Pray make my best respects acceptable to her Ladyship. Nothing will give me more pleasure than to hear from you as soon and as fully as you please. Ever most truly yours, BYRON. * * * * * 322.--To Thomas Moore. Bennet Street, August 22, 1813. As our late--I might say, deceased--correspondence had too much of the town-life leaven in it, we will now, _paulo majora_, prattle a little of literature in all its branches; and first of the first--criticism. The Prince is at Brighton, and Jackson, the boxer, gone to Margate, having, I believe, decoyed Yarmouth to see a milling in that polite neighbourhood [1]. Mad'e. de Stael Holstein has lost one of her young barons [2], who has been carbonadoed by a vile Teutonic adjutant,--kilt and killed in a coffee-house at Scrawsenhawsen. Corinne is, of course, what all mothers must be,--but will, I venture to prophesy, do what few mothers could--write an Essay upon it. She cannot exist without a grievance--and somebody to see, or read, how much grief becomes her. I have not seen her since the event; but merely judge (not very charitably) from prior observation. In a "mail-coach copy" of the _Edinburgh_ [3] I perceive _The Giaour_ is second article. The numbers are still in the Leith smack--_pray which way is the wind?_ The said article is so very mild and sentimental, that it must be written by Jeffrey _in love_ [4];--you know he is gone to America to marry some fair one, of whom he has been, for several _quarters, éperdument amoureux_. Seriously--as Winifred Jenkins [5] says of Lismahago--Mr. Jeffrey (or his deputy) "has done the handsome thing by me," and I say _nothing_. But this I will say, if you and I had knocked one another on the head in this quarrel, how he would have laughed, and what a mighty bad figure we should have cut in our posthumous works. By the by, I was call'd _in_ the other day to mediate between two gentlemen bent upon carnage, and--after a long struggle between the natural desire of destroying one's fellow-creatures, and the dislike of seeing men play the fool for nothing,--I got one to make an apology, and the other to take it, and left them to live happy ever after [6]. One was a peer, the other a friend untitled, and both fond of high play;--and one, I can swear for, though very mild, "not fearful," and so dead a shot, that, though the other is the thinnest of men, he would have split him like a cane. They both conducted themselves very well, and I put them out of _pain_ as soon as I could. There is an American _Life_ of G. F. Cooke [7], _Scurra_ deceased, lately published. Such a book!--I believe, since _Drunken Barnaby's Journal_ [8] nothing like it has drenched the press. All green-room and tap-room--drams and the drama--brandy, whisky-punch, and, _latterly_, toddy, overflow every page. Two things are rather marvellous,--first, that a man should live so long drunk, and, next, that he should have found a sober biographer. There are some very laughable things in it, nevertheless;--but the pints he swallowed, and the parts he performed, are too regularly registered. All this time you wonder I am not gone; so do I; but the accounts of the plague are very perplexing--not so much for the thing itself as the quarantine established in all ports, and from all places, even from England. It is true, the forty or sixty days would, in all probability, be as foolishly spent on shore as in the ship; but one likes to have one's choice, nevertheless. Town is awfully empty; but not the worse for that. I am really puzzled with my perfect ignorance of what I mean to do;--not stay, if I can help it, but where to go? Sligo is for the North;--a pleasant place, Petersburgh, in September, with one's ears and nose in a muff, or else tumbling into one's neckcloth or pocket-handkerchief! If the winter treated Buonaparte with so little ceremony, what would it inflict upon your solitary traveller?--Give me a _sun_, I care not how hot, and sherbet, I care not how cool, and _my_ Heaven is as easily made as your Persian's [9]. _The Giaour_ is now a thousand and odd lines. "Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day," [10] eh, Moore?--thou wilt needs be a wag, but I forgive it. Yours ever, BYRON. P. S.--I perceive I have written a flippant and rather cold-hearted letter! let it go, however. I have said nothing, either, of the brilliant sex; but the fact is, I am at this moment in a far more serious, and entirely new, scrape [11] than any of the last twelve months,--and that is saying a good deal. It is unlucky we can neither live with nor without these women. I am now thinking of regretting that, just as I have left Newstead, you reside near it. Did you ever see it? _do_--but don't tell me that you like it. If I had known of such intellectual neighbourhood, I don't think I should have quitted it. You could have come over so often, as a bachelor,--for it was a thorough bachelor's mansion--plenty of wine and such sordid sensualities--with books enough, room enough, and an air of antiquity about all (except the lasses) that would have suited you, when pensive, and served you to laugh at when in glee. I had built myself a bath and a _vault_--and now I sha'n't even be buried in it. It is odd that we can't even be certain of a _grave_, at least a particular one. I remember, when about fifteen, reading your poems there, which I can repeat almost now,--and asking all kinds of questions about the author, when I heard that he was not dead according to the preface; wondering if I should ever see him--and though, at that time, without the smallest poetical propensity myself, very much taken, as you may imagine, with that volume. Adieu--I commit you to the care of the gods--Hindoo, Scandinavian, and Hellenic! P.S. 2d.--There is an excellent review of Grimm's _Correspondence_ and Madame de Stael in this No. of the _E[dinburgh] R[eview]_ [12]. Jeffrey, himself, was my critic last year; but this is, I believe, by another hand. I hope you are going on with your _grand coup_--pray do--or that damned Lucien Buonaparte will beat us all. I have seen much of his poem in MS., and he really surpasses every thing beneath Tasso. Hodgson is translating him _against_ another bard. You and (I believe Rogers,) Scott, Gifford, and myself, are to be referred to as judges between the twain,--that is, if you accept the office. Conceive our different opinions! I think we, most of us (I am talking very impudently, you will think--_us_, indeed!) have a way of our own,--at least, you and Scott certainly have. [Footnote 1: The fight, in which Harry Harmer, "the Coppersmith" (1784-1834), beat Jack Ford, took place at St. Nicholas, near Margate, August 23, 1813. Francis Charles Seymour Conway, Earl of Yarmouth (1777-1842), succeeded his father as second Marquis of Hertford in 1822. The colossal libertinism and patrician splendour of his life inspired Disraeli to paint him as "Monmouth" in 'Coningsby', and Thackeray as "Steyne" in 'Vanity Fair'. He married, in 1798, Maria Fagniani, claimed as a daughter by George Selwyn and by "Old Q.," and enriched by both. Yarmouth, as an intimate friend of the Regent, and the son of the Prince's female favourite, was the butt of Moore and the Whig satirists. Byron gibes at Yarmouth's red whiskers, which helped to gain him the name of "Red Herrings" in the 'Waltz', line 142, 'note' 1. Yarmouth, like Byron, patronized the fancy, and, like him also, was a frequenter of Manton's shooting-gallery in Davies Street; but there is no record of their being acquainted, though the house, which Byron occupied (13, Piccadilly Terrace) during his brief married life, was in the occupation of Lord Yarmouth before Byron took it from the Duchess of Devonshire.] [Footnote 2: Albert de Staël "led an irregular life, and met a deplorable death at Doberan, a small city of the duchy of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, on the coast of the Baltic Sea, a favourite resort in summer for bathing, gambling, etc. Some officers of the état-major of Bernadotte had gone to try their luck in this place of play and pleasure. They quarrelled over some louis, and a duel immediately ensued. I well remember that the Grand-Duke Paul of Mecklenburg-Schwerin told me he was there at the time, and, while walking with his tutors in the park, suddenly heard the clinking of swords in a neighbouring thicket. They ran to the place, and reached it just in time to see the head of Albert fall, cleft by one of those long and formidable sabres which were carried by the Prussian cavalry." The above passage is quoted from the unpublished 'Souvenirs' of M. Pictet de Sergy, given by A. Stevens in his 'Life of Madame de Staël', vol. ii. pp. 204, 205.] [Footnote 3: Only special copies of books published in Edinburgh came to London by coach: the bulk was forwarded in Leith smacks. In the 'Edinburgh Review' for July, 1813, the 'Giaour' was reviewed as a poem "full of spirit, character, and originality," and producing an effect at once "powerful and pathetic." But the reviewer considers that "energy of character and intensity of emotion... presented in combination with worthlessness and guilt," are "most powerful corrupters and perverters of our moral nature," and he deplores Byron's exclusive devotion to gloomy and revolting subjects.] [Footnote 4: Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) succeeded Sidney Smith as editor of the 'Edinburgh Review' (founded 1802), and held the editorship till 1829. The first number of the 'Review', says Francis Horner, brought to light "the genius of that little man." During the first six years of its existence, he wrote upwards of seventy articles. At the same time, he was a successful lawyer. Called to the Scottish Bar in 1794, he became successively Dean of the Faculty of Advocates (1829), Lord Advocate (1830), and a Judge of the Court of Sessions (1834) with the title of Lord Jeffrey. He married, as his second wife, at New York, in October, 1813, Charlotte Wilkes, a grandniece of John Wilkes. Jeffrey is described at considerable length by Ticknor, in a letter, dated February 8, 1814 ('Life of G. Ticknor', vol. i. pp. 43-47): "You are to imagine, then, before you a short, stout, little gentleman, about five and a half feet high, with a very red face, black hair, and black eyes. You are to suppose him to possess a very gay and animated countenance, and you are to see in him all the restlessness of a will-o'-wisp ... He enters a room with a countenance so satisfied, and a step so light and almost fantastic, that all your previous impressions of the dignity and severity of the 'Edinburgh Review' are immediately put to flight ... It is not possible, however, to be long in his presence without understanding something of his real character, for the same promptness and assurance which mark his entrance into a room carry him at once into conversation. The moment a topic is suggested--no matter what or by whom--he comes forth, and the first thing you observe is his singular fluency," etc., etc. By the side of this description may be set that given of Jeffrey by Francis Horner ('Life of Jeffrey', 2nd edition, vol. i. p. 212): "His manner is not at first pleasing; what is worse, it is of that cast which almost irresistibly impresses upon strangers the idea of levity and superficial talents. Yet there is not any man whose real character is so much the reverse." The secret of his success, both as editor and critic, is that he made the 'Review' the expression of the Whig character, both in its excellences and its limitations. A man of clear, discriminating mind, of cool and placid judgment, he refused to accept the existing state of things, was persuaded that it might be safely improved, saw the practical steps required, and had the courage of his convictions. He was suspicious of large principles, somewhat callous to enthusiasm or sentiment, intolerant of whatever was incapable of precise expression. His intellectual strength lay not in the possession of one great gift, but in the simultaneous exercise of several well-adjusted talents. His literary taste was correct; but it consisted rather in recognizing compliance with accepted rules of proved utility than in the readiness to appreciate novelties of thought and treatment. Hence his criticism, though useful for his time, has not endured beyond his day. It may be doubted whether more could be expected from a man who was eminently successful in addressing a jury. "He might not know his subject, but he knew his readers" (Bagehot's 'Literary Studies', vol. i. p. 30). Byron, believing him to have been the author of the famous article on 'Hours of Idleness', attacked him bitterly in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'; (lines 460-528). He afterwards recognized his error. 'Don Juan' (Canto X. stanza xvi.) expresses his mature opinion of a critic who, whatever may have been his faults, was as absolutely honest as political prejudice would permit: "And all our little feuds, at least all 'mine', Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe (As far as rhyme and criticism combine To make such puppets of us things below), Are over; Here's a health to 'Auld Lang Syne!' I do not know you, and may never know Your face--but you have acted, on the whole, Most nobly; and I own it from my soul." Jeffrey reviewed 'Childe Harold' in the 'Edinburgh Review', No. 38, art. 10; the 'Giaour', No. 42, art. 2; the 'Corsair' and 'Bride of Abydos', No. 45, art. 9; Byron's 'Poetry', No. 54, art. I; 'Manfred', No. 56, art. 7; 'Beppo', No. 58, art. 2; 'Marino Faliero', No. 70, art. I; Byron's 'Tragedies', No. 72, art. 5.] [Footnote 5: Winifred Jenkins is the maid to Miss Tabitha Bramble, who marries Captain Lismahago, in Smollett's 'Humphrey Clinker'.] [Footnote 6: Lord Foley and Scrope Davies.] [Footnote 7: G. F. Cooke (1755-1812), from 1794 to 1800 was the hero of the Dublin stage, with the exception of an interval, during which he served in the army. On October 31, 1800, he appeared at Covent Garden as "Richard III.," and afterwards played such parts in tragedy as "Iago" and "Shylock" with great success. In comedy he was also a favourite, especially as "Kitely" in 'Every Man in his Humour', and "Sir Pertinax MacSycophant" in 'The Man of the World'. His last appearance on the London stage was as "Falstaff," June 5, 1810. In that year he sailed for New York, and, September 26, 1812, died there from his "incorrigible habits of drinking." Byron uses the word 'scurra', which generally means a "parasite," in its other sense of a "buffoon." 'Memoirs of George Frederic Cooke, late of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden', by W. Dunlap, in 2 vols., was published in 1813] [Footnote 8: The original edition of 'Drunken Barnaby's Journal', a small square volume, without date, was probably printed about 1650. The author was supposed to be Barnaby Harrington of Queen's College, Oxford. But Joseph Haslewood, whose edition (1818) is the best, attributed it to Richard Brathwait (circ. 1588-1673). The title of the second edition (1716) runs as follows: 'Drunken Barnaby's Four Journeys to the North of England. In Latin and English Verse. Wittily and merrily (tho' near one hundred years ago) composed; found among some old musty books, that had a long time lain by in a corner; and now at last made publick. To which is added, Bessy Bell'. "Drunken Barnaby" was also the burden of an old ballad quoted by Haslewood: "Barnaby, Barnaby, thou'st been drinking, I can tell by thy nose, and thy eyes winking; Drunk at Richmond, drunk at Dover, Drunk at Newcastle, drunk all over. Hey, Barnaby! tak't for a warning, Be no more drunk, nor dry in a morning!"] [Footnote 9: "A Persian's Heav'n is easily made-- 'Tis but black eyes and lemonade."] [Footnote 10: Pope's 'Imitations of Horace', Satire I. line 6.] [Footnote 11: With Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster.] [Footnote 12: The review of Madame de Staël's 'Germany' was by Mackintosh.] * * * * * 323.--To John Murray. August 26, 1813. Dear Sir,--I have looked over and corrected one proof, but not so carefully (God knows if you can read it through, but I can't) as to preclude your eye from discovering some _o_mission of mine or _com_mission of y'e Printer. If you have patience, look it over. Do you know any body who can _stop_--I mean _point_-commas, and so forth? for I am, I hear, a sad hand at your punctuation. I have, but with some difficulty, _not_ added any more to this snake of a poem, which has been lengthening its rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, being more than a canto and a half of _C. H_., which contains but 882 lines per book, with all late additions inclusive. The last lines Hodgson likes--it is not often he does--and when he don't, he tells me with great energy, and I fret and alter. I have thrown them in to soften the ferocity of our Infidel, and, for a dying man, have given him a good deal to say for himself. Do you think you shall get hold of the _female_ MS. you spoke of to day? if so, you will let me have a glimpse; but don't tell our _master_ (not W's), or we shall be buffeted. I was quite sorry to hear you say you stayed in town on my account, and I hope sincerely you did not mean so superfluous a piece of politeness. Our _six_ critiques!--they would have made half a _Quarterly_ by themselves; but this is the age of criticism. Ever yours, B. * * * * * 324.--To Thomas Moore. August 28, 1813. Ay, my dear Moore, "there _was_ a time"--I have heard of your tricks, when "you was campaigning at the King of Bohemy." [1] I am much mistaken if, some fine London spring, about the year 1815, that time does not come again. After all, we must end in marriage; and I can conceive nothing more delightful than such a state in the country, reading the county newspaper, etc., and kissing one's wife's maid. Seriously, I would incorporate with any woman of decent demeanour to-morrow--that is, I would a month ago, but, at present,---- Why don't you "parody that Ode?"--Do you think [2] I should be _tetchy?_ or have you done it, and won't tell me?--You are quite right about Giamschid, and I have reduced it to a dissyllable within this half hour [3]. I am glad to hear you talk of Richardson [4], because it tells me what you won't--that you are going to beat Lucien. At least tell me how far you have proceeded. Do you think me less interested about your works, or less sincere than our friend Ruggiero? I am not--and never was. In that thing of mine, the _English Bards_, at the time when I was angry with all the world, I never "disparaged your parts," although I did not know you personally;--and have always regretted that you don't give us an _entire_ work, and not sprinkle yourself in detached pieces--beautiful, I allow, and quite _alone_ in our language, but still giving us a right to expect a _Shah Nameh_ [5] (is that the name?) as well as gazelles. Stick to the East;--the oracle, Staël, told me it was the only poetical policy. The North, South, and West, have all been exhausted; but from the East, we have nothing but Southey's unsaleables,--and these he has contrived to spoil, by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. His personages don't interest us, and yours will. You will have no competitor; and, if you had, you ought to be glad of it. The little I have done in that way is merely a "voice in the wilderness" for you; and if it has had any success, that also will prove that the public are orientalising, and pave the path for you. I have been thinking of a story, grafted on the amours of a Peri and a mortal--something like, only more _philanthropical_ than, Cazotte's _Diable Amoureux_ [6]. It would require a good deal of poesy, and tenderness is not my forte. For that, and other reasons, I have given up the idea, and merely suggest it to you, because, in intervals of your greater work, I think it a subject you might make much of [7]. If you want any more books, there is "Castellan's _Moeurs des Ottomans_," the best compendium of the kind I ever met with, in six small tomes [8]. I am really taking a liberty by talking in this style to my "elders and my betters;"--pardon it, and don't _Rochefoucault_ [9] my motives. [Footnote 1: Jerry Sneak, in Foote's 'Mayor of Garratt' (act ii.), says to Major Sturgeon, "I heard of your tricks at the King of Bohemy."] [Footnote 2: "The Ode of Horace-- 'Natis in usum lætitiæ,' etc.; some passages of which I told him might be parodied, in allusion to some of his late adventures: 'Quanta laboras in Charybdi! Digne puer meliore flammâ!'" (Moore.)] [Footnote 3: "In his first edition of 'The Giaour' he had used this word as a trisyllable--'Bright as the gem of Giamschid'--but on my remarking to him, upon the authority of Richardson's Persian Dictionary, that this was incorrect, he altered it to 'Bright as the ruby of Giamschid.' On seeing this, however, I wrote to him, 'that, as the comparison of his heroine's eye to a "ruby" might unluckily call up the idea of its being bloodshot, he had better change the line to "Bright as the jewel of Giamschid;"' which he accordingly did in the following edition" (Moore). In the 'Sháh Námeh', Giamschid is the fourth sovereign of the ancient Persians, and ruled seven hundred years. His jewel was a green chrysolite, the reflection of which gives to the sky its blue-green colour. Byron probably changed to "ruby" on the authority of 'Vathek' (p. 58, ed. 1856), where Beckford writes, "Then all the riches this place contains, as well as the carbuncle of Giamschid, shall be hers."] [Footnote 4: Moore's reference (see 'note' 1) to John Richardson's 'Dictionary of Persian, Arabic, and English' (1777), suggests to Byron that Moore was at work on an Oriental poem, probably 'Lalla Rookh', which would surpass the 'Charlemagne' of Lucien Buonaparte.] [Footnote 5: The 'Sháh Námeh' is a rhymed history of Persia, in which occurs the famous episode of Sohrab and Rustem. It was written in thirty years by Abul Kásim Firdausí, the last name being given to him by Sultan Mahmúd because he had shed over the court at Ghizni the delights of "Paradise." Firdausí is said to have lived about 950 to 1030. (See The 'Sháh Námeh', translated and abridged by James Atkinson.)] [Footnote 6: Jacques Cazotte (1720-1792) wrote 'La Patte du Chat' (1741); 'Mille et une Fadaises' (1742); 'Observations sur la lettre de Rousseau au sujet de la Musique Française' (1754); and other works. 'Le Diable Amoureux' appeared in 1772. Cazotte escaped the September Massacres at the Abbaye in 1792, through the heroism of his daughter, but was executed on the twenty-fifth of the same month.] [Footnote 7: "I had already, singularly enough, anticipated this suggestion, by making the daughter of a Peri the heroine of one of my stories, and detailing the love adventures of her aërial parent in an episode. In acquainting Lord Byron with this circumstance, in my answer to the above letter, I added, 'All I ask of your friendship is--not that you will abstain from Peris on my account, for that is too much to ask of human (or, at least, author's) nature--but that, whenever you mean to pay your addresses to any of these aërial ladies, you will, at once, tell me so, frankly and instantly, and let me, at least, have my choice whether I shall be desperate enough to go on, with such a rival, or at once surrender the whole race into your hands, and take, for the future, to Antediluvians with Mr. Montgomery'" (Moore).] [Footnote 8: Brunet, 's.v.' "Breton de la Martinière," gives the title of the work: 'Moeurs, usages costumes des Othomans, et abrégé de leur histoire'. Par A.L. Castellan, Paris, 1812.] [Footnote 9: Maxime LXXXV.: "Nous nous persuadons souvent d'aimer les gens plus puissans que nous, et néanmoins c'est l'interêt seul qui produit notre amitié; nous ne nous donnons pas à eux pour le bien que nous leur voulons faire, mais pour celui que nous en voulons recevoir."] * * * * * 325.--To Thomas Moore. August--September, I mean--1, 1813. I send you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, and three vols. on Turkish literature [1], not yet looked into. The _last_ I will thank you to read, extract what you want, and return in a week, as they are lent to me by that brightest of Northern constellations, Mackintosh [2],--amongst many other kind things into which India has warmed him; for I am sure your _home_ Scotsman is of a less genial description. Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable; I have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so flattering, that I begin to think myself a very fine fellow. But you are laughing at me--"Stap my vitals, Tam! thou art a very impudent person;" [3] and, if you are not laughing at me, you deserve to be laughed at. Seriously, what on earth can you, or have you, to dread from any poetical flesh breathing? It really puts me out of humour to hear you talk thus. _The Giaour_ I have added to a good deal; but still in foolish fragments. It contains about 1200 lines, or rather more--now printing. You will allow me to send you a copy. You delight me much by telling me that I am in your good graces, and more particularly as to temper; for, unluckily, I have the reputation of a very bad one. But they say the devil is amusing when pleased, and I must have been more venomous than the old serpent, to have hissed or stung in your company. It may be, and would appear to a third person, an incredible thing, but I know _you_ will believe me when I say, that I am as anxious for your success as one human being can be for another's,--as much as if I had never scribbled a line. Surely the field of fame is wide enough for all; and if it were not, I would not willingly rob my neighbour of a rood of it. Now you have a pretty property of some thousand acres there, and when you have passed your present Inclosure Bill, your income will be doubled, (there's a metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert and low,) while my wild common is too remote to incommode you, and quite incapable of such fertility. I send you (which return per post, as the printer would say) a curious letter from a friend of mine [4], which will let you into the origin of _The Giaour_. Write soon. Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, etc. P.S.--This letter was written to me on account of a _different story_ circulated by some gentlewomen of our acquaintance, a little too close to the text. The part erased contained merely some Turkish names, and circumstantial evidence of the girl's detection, not very important or decorous. [Footnote 1: Giovanni Battista Toderini (1728-1799) published his work 'Della Letteratura Turchesca', at Venice in 1787. Brunet says, "Cet ouvrage curieux a été traduit en Français, par Cournand. Paris, 1789 ('De La Littérature des Turcs')."] [Footnote 2: "Yes, his manner was cold; his shake of the hand came under the genus 'mortmain;' but his heart was overflowing with benevolence" (Lady Holland's 'Memoir of Sydney Smith', 4th edition, vol. i. p. 440).] [Footnote 3: A reminiscence of Sheridan's 'Trip to Scarborough' (act v. sc. 2), itself borrowed from Vanbrugh's 'Relapse' (act iv. sc. 6), in both of which passages Lord Foppington says, "Strike me dumb, Tam, thou art a very impudent fellow."] [Footnote 4: The following is the letter to which Byron refers: Albany, Monday, August 31, 1813. "MY DEAR BYRON,--You have requested me to tell you all that I heard at Athens about the affair of that girl who was so near being put an end to while you were there; you have asked me to remember every circumstance, in the remotest degree relating to it, which I heard. In compliance with your wishes, I write to you all I heard, and I cannot imagine it to be very far from the fact, as the circumstances happened only a day or two before I arrived at Athens, and, consequently, was a matter of common conversation at the time. "The new governor, unaccustomed to have the same intercourse with the Christians as his predecessor, had, of course, the barbarous Turkish ideas with regard to women. In consequence, and in compliance with the strict letter of the Mohammedan law, he ordered this girl to be sewed up in a sack, and thrown into the sea--as is, indeed, quite customary at Constantinople. As you were returning from bathing in the Piræus, you met the procession going down to execute the sentence of the Waywode on this unhappy girl. Report continues to say, that on finding out what the object of their journey was, and who was the miserable sufferer, you immediately interfered; and on some delay in obeying your orders, you were obliged to inform the leader of the escort that force should make him comply; that, on further hesitation, you drew a pistol, and told him, that if he did not immediately obey your orders, and come back with you to the Aga's house, you would shoot him dead. On this the man turned about and went with you to the governor's house; here you succeeded, partly by personal threats, and partly by bribery and entreaty, in procuring her pardon, on condition of her leaving Athens. I was told that you then conveyed her in safety to the convent, and despatched her off at night to Thebes, where she found a safe asylum. Such is the story I heard, as nearly as I can recollect it at present. Should you wish to ask me any further questions about it, I shall be very ready and willing to answer them. "I remain, my dear Byron, "Yours very sincerely, "Sligo".] * * * * * 326.--To James Wedderburn Webster. September 2nd, 1813. My dear Webster,--You are just the same generous and I fear careless gentleman of the years of _indifferent_ memory 1806. I--; but I must not burthen you with my entire household. Joe [1] is, I believe, necessary for the present as a fixture, to keep possession till every thing is arranged; and were it otherwise, you don't know what a perplexity he would prove--honest and faithful, but fearfully superannuated: now _this_ I ought and do bear, but as he has not been fifty years in your family, it would be rather hard to convert your mansion into a hospital for decayed domestics. Rushton is, or may be made useful, and I am less _compunctious_ on his account. "Will I be Godfather?" [2] Yea, verily! I believe it is the only species of parentage I shall ever encounter, for all my acquaintance, Powerscourt, Jocelyn, yourself, Delawarr, Stanhope, with a long list of happy _etceteras_, are married; most of them my juniors too, and I as single and likely to remain so as, nay more than, if I were seventy. If it is a _girl_ why not also? Georgina, or even _Byron_ will make a classical name for a spinster, if Mr. Richardson's _Sir Charles Grandison_ is any authority in your estimation. My ship is not settled. My passage in the _Boyne_ was only for _one_ Servant, and would not do, of course. You ask after the expense, a question no less interesting to the married than the single. Unless things are much altered, no establishment in the Mediterranean Countries could amount to the quarter of the expenditure requisite in England for the same or an inferior household. I am interrupted, and have only time to offer my best thanks for all your good wishes and intentions, and to beg you will believe me, Equally yours ever, B. P.S.--Rushton shall be sent on Saturday next. [Footnote 1: Joseph Murray] [Footnote 2: Webster's eldest son was christened "Byron Wedderburn." He died young, and when his father told Byron of the child's death, the godfather "almost chuckled with joy or irony," and said, "Well, I cautioned you, and told you that my name would almost damn any thing or creature." (MS. note by Wedderburn Webster.)] * * * * * 327.--To Thomas Moore. Sept. 5, 1813. You need not tie yourself down to a day with Toderini, but send him at your leisure, having anatomised him into such annotations as you want; I do not believe that he has ever undergone that process before, which is the best reason for not sparing him now. Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered of the 'Quarterly'. What fellows these reviewers are! "these bugs do fear us all." [1] They made you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will end by making Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading 'Memory' again, the other day, and _Hope_ together, and retain all my preference of the former [2]. His elegance is really wonderful--there is no such thing as a vulgar line in his book. What say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I back him against the field, barring catalepsy and the Elements. Nay, I almost wish him success against all countries but this,--were it only to choke the 'Morning Post', and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers wants me to go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege you on our way. This last is a great temptation, but I fear it will not be in my power, unless you would go on with one of us somewhere--no matter where. It is too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some scheme, high life or low,--the last would be much the best for amusement. I am so sick of the other, that I quite sigh for a cider-cellar [3], or a cruise in a smuggler's sloop. You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates were a little more accommodating to our parallel lines, which prolong _ad infinitum_ without coming a jot nearer. I almost wish I were married, too--which is saying much. All my friends, seniors and juniors, are in for it, and ask me to be godfather,--the only species of parentage which, I believe, will ever come to my share in a lawful way; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can never be certain,--though the parish may. I suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If not, this goes as it is; but I leave room for a P.S., in case any thing requires an answer. Ever, etc. No letter--_n'importe_. Rogers thinks the _Quarterly_ will be at _me_ this time; if so, it shall be a war of extermination--no _quarter_. From the youngest devil down to the oldest woman of that review, all shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller; nay, if one were to include readers also, all the better. [Footnote 1: "Warwick was a bug that feared us all" ('Henry VI'., Part III. act v. se. 2).] [Footnote 2: Byron quoted to Lady Blessington "some passages from the 'Pleasures of Hope', which he said was a poem full of beauties... 'The 'Pleasures of Memory' is a very beautiful poem' (said Byron), 'harmonious, finished, and chaste; it contains not a single meretricious ornament'" ('Conversations', pp. 352, 353).] [Footnote 3: No. 20, Maiden Lane, Covent Garden, was a tavern called the 'Cider Cellars'. Over the entrance was the motto, 'Honos erit huic quoque homo', supplied by Porson, who frequented the house. There Lord Campbell heard him "recite from memory to delighted listeners the whole of Anstey's 'Pleader's Guide'" ('Lives of the Chief Justices', vol. iii. p. 271, note). Mr. Wheatley, in 'London Past and Present, sub voce' "Maiden Lane," says that the "tavern continued to be frequented by young men, and 'much in vogue for devilled kidneys, oysters, and Welch rabbits, cigars, "goes" of brandy, and great supplies of London stout' (also for comic songs), till it was absorbed in the extensions of the Adelphi Theatre."] * * * * * 328.--To Thomas Moore. September 8, 1813. I am sorry to see Toderini again so soon, for fear your scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully availing yourself of his spoils. By this coach I send you a copy of that awful pamphlet _The Giaour_, which has never procured me half so high a compliment as your modest alarm. You will (if inclined in an evening) perceive that I have added much in quantity,--a circumstance which may truly diminish your modesty upon the subject. You stand certainly in great need of a "lift" with Mackintosh. My dear Moore, you strangely under-rate yourself. I should conceive it an affectation in any other; but I think I know you well enough to believe that you don't know your own value. However, 'tis a fault that generally mends; and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard him speak of you as highly as your wife could wish; and enough to give all your friends the jaundice. Yesterday I had a letter from _Ali Pacha!_ brought by Dr. Holland, who is just returned from Albania [1]. It is in Latin, and begins "Excellentissime _nec non_ Carissime," and ends about a gun he wants made for him;--it is signed "Ali Vizir." What do you think he has been about? H. tells me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were treated as Miss Cunigunde [2] was by the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes the town, selects all the survivors of this exploit--children, grandchildren, etc. to the tune of six hundred, and has them shot before his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the city, and confined himself to the Tarquin pedigree [3],--which is more than I would. So much for "dearest friend." [Footnote 1: See 'Letters', vol. i. p. 246 [Letter 131], and 'note' [Footnote 1 of Letter 131]. Dr., afterwards Sir Henry, Holland (1788-1873) published his 'Travels in the Ionian Islands, Albania, etc.', in 1815.] [Footnote: Voltaire's 'Candide', ch. vii.: "On ne vous a done pas violé? on ne vous a point fendu le ventre, comme le philosophe Pangloss me l'avait assuré? Si fait, dit la belle Cunégonde; mais on ne meurt pas toujours de ces deux accidents."] [Footnote 3: The "false Sextus... that wrought the deed of shame," and violated Lucretia.] * * * * * 329.--To Thomas Moore. Sept. 9, 1813. I write to you from Mr. Murray's, and I may say, from Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in favour of any other publisher, would be happy to treat with you, at a fitting time, for your work. I can safely recommend him as fair, liberal, and attentive, and certainly, in point of reputation, he stands among the first of "the trade." I am sure he would do you justice. I have written to you so much lately, that you will be glad to see so little now. Ever, etc., etc. * * * * * 330.--To James Wedderburn Webster. September 15th, 1813. My dear Webster,--I shall not resist your second invitation, and shortly after the receipt of this you may expect me. You will excuse me from the races. As a guest I have no "antipathies" and few preferences.... You won't mind, however, my _not_ dining with you--every day at least. When we meet, we can talk over our respective plans: mine is very short and simple; viz. to sail when I can get a passage. If I remained in England I should live in the Country, and of course in the vicinity of those whom I knew would be most agreeable. I did not know that Jack's graven image [1] was at Newstead. If it be, pray transfer it to Aston. It is my hope to see you so shortly, tomorrow or next day, that I will not now trouble you with my speculations. Ever yours very faithfully, BYRON. P.S.--I don't know how I came to sign myself with the "i." It is the old spelling, and I sometimes slip into it. When I say I can't _dine_ with you, I mean that sometimes I don't dine at all. Of course, when I do, I conform to all hours and domestic arrangements. [Footnote 1: "Jack's graven image" means the portrait of John Jackson the pugilist.] * * * * * 331.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Wednesday], Sept'r. 15th, 1813. My dear Augusta,--I joined my friend Scrope about 8, and before eleven we had swallowed six bottles of his burgundy and Claret, which left him very unwell and me rather feverish; we were 'tête à tête'. I remained with him next day and set off last night for London, which I reached at three in the morning. Tonight I shall leave it again, perhaps for Aston or Newstead. I have not yet determined, nor does it much matter. As you perhaps care more on the subject than I do, I will tell you when I know myself. When my departure is arranged, and I can get this long-evaded passage, you will be able to tell me whether I am to expect a visit or not, and I can come for or meet you as you think best. If you write, address to Bennet Street. Yours very truly, B. * * * * * 332.--To John Murray. Sept. 15, 1813. Dear Sir,--Will you pray enquire after any ship with a convoy _taking passengers_ and get me one if possible? I mean not in a ship of war, but anything that may be _paid_ for. I have a friend and 3 servants --Gibraltar or Minorca--or Zante. Yours ever, B. * * * * * 333.--To James Wedderburn Webster. Stilton, September 25th, 1813. My Dear W.,--Thus far can I "report progress," and as a solid token of my remembrance I send you a 'cheese' of 13 lbs. to enable your digestion to go through the race week. It will go to night; pray let your retainers enquire after it. The date of this letter will account for so homely a present. On my arrival in town I will write more on our different concerns. In the mean time I wish you and yours all the gratification on Doncaster you can wish for yourselves. My love to the faithless Nettle [1] (who I dare say is 'wronging' me during my absence), and my best Compliments to all in your house who will receive them. Ever, dear W., yours truly, B. [Footnote 1: A dog given by Webster to Byron. (Note by J. W. W.)] * * * * * 334.--To Sir James Mackintosh. Sept. 27, 1813. Dear Sir James,--I was to have left London on Friday, but will certainly remain a day longer (and believe I _would a year_) to have the honour of meeting you. My best respects to Lady Mackintosh. Ever your obliged and faithful servant, BYRON. * * * * * 335.--To Thomas Moore. September 27, 1813. Thomas Moore,--(Thou wilt never be called "_true_ Thomas," [1] like he of Ercildoune,) why don't you write to me?--as you won't, I must. I was near you at Aston the other day, and hope I soon shall be again. If so, you must and shall meet me, and go to Matlock and elsewhere, and take what, in _flash_ dialect, is poetically termed "a lark," with Rogers and me for accomplices. Yesterday, at Holland House, I was introduced to Southey--the best-looking bard I have seen for some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders, I would almost have written his Sapphics. He is certainly a prepossessing person to look on, and a man of talent, and all that, and--_there_ is his eulogy. ----read me _part_ of a letter from you. By the foot of Pharaoh, I believe there was abuse, for he stopped short, so he did, after a fine saying about our correspondence, and _looked_--I wish I could revenge myself by attacking you, or by telling you that I have _had_ to defend you--an agreeable way which one's friends have of recommending themselves by saying--"Ay, ay, _I_ gave it Mr. Such-a-one for what he said about your being a plagiary, and a rake, and so on." But do you know that you are one of the very few whom I never have the satisfaction of hearing abused, but the reverse;--and do you suppose I will forgive _that_? I have been in the country, and ran away from the Doncaster races. It is odd,--I was a visitor in the same house [2] which came to my sire as a residence with Lady Carmarthen (with whom he adulterated before his majority--by the by, remember _she_ was not my mamma),--and they thrust me into an old room, with a nauseous picture over the chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded with due respect, and which, inheriting the family taste, I looked upon with great satisfaction. I stayed a week with the family, and behaved very well--though the lady of the house is young, and religious, and pretty, and the master is my particular friend. I felt no wish for any thing but a poodle dog, which they kindly gave me. Now, for a man of my courses not even to have _coveted_, is a sign of great amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, and don't "snub me when I'm in spirits." [3] Ever yours, BN. Here's an impromptu for you by a "person of quality," written last week, on being reproached for low spirits: When from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye: Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink; My Thoughts their dungeon know too well-- Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, And bleed within their silent cell. [Footnote 1: Thomas Learmont, of Ercildoune, called "Thomas the Rhymer," is to reappear on earth when Shrove Tuesday and Good Friday change places. He sleeps beneath the Eildon Hills.] [Footnote 2: Aston Hall, Rotherham, at that time rented by J. Wedderburn Webster.] [Footnote 3: In 'She Stoops to Conquer' (act ii.) Tony Lumpkin says, "I wish you'd let me and my good alone, then--snubbing this way when I'm in spirits."] * * * * * 336.--To John Murray. Sept. 29, 1813. Dear Sir,--Pray suspend the _proofs_ for I am bitten again and have quantities for other parts of _The Giaour_. Yours ever, B. P. S.--You shall have these in the course of the day. * * * * * 337.--To James Wedderburn Webster. September 30th, 1813. My dear Webster,--Thanks for your letter. I had answered it by _anticipation_ last night, and this is but a postscript to my reply. My yesterday's contained some advice, which I now see you don't want, and hope you never will. So! Petersham [1] has not joined you. I pity the poor women. No one can properly repair such a deficiency; but rather than such a chasm should be left utterly unfathomable, I, even I, the most awkward of attendants and deplorable of danglers, would have been of your forlorn hope, on this expedition. Nothing but business, and the notion of my being utterly superfluous in so numerous a party, would have induced me to resign so soon my quiet apartments never interrupted but by the sound, or the more harmonious barking of Nettle, and clashing of billiard balls. On Sunday I shall leave town and mean to join you immediately. I have not yet had my sister's answer to Lady Frances's very kind invitation, but expect it tomorrow. Pray assure Lady Frances that I never can forget the obligation conferred upon me in this respect, and I trust that even Lady Catherine [2] will, in this instance, not question my "stability." I yesterday wrote you rather a long tirade about La Comptesse, but you seem in no immediate peril; I will therefore burn it. Yet I don't know why I should, as you may relapse: it shall e'en go. I have been passing my time with Rogers and Sir James Mackintosh; and once at Holland House I met Southey; he is a person of very _epic_ appearance, and has a fine head--as far as the outside goes, and wants nothing but taste to make the inside equally attractive. Ever, my dear W., yours, Biron. P.S.--I read your letter thus: "the Countess is _miserable_" instead of which it is "_inexorable_" a very different thing. The best way is to let her alone; she must be a _diablesse_ by what you told me. You have probably not _bid_ high enough. _Now_ you are not, perhaps, of my opinion; but I would not give the tithe of a Birmingham farthing for a woman who could or would be purchased, nor indeed for any woman _quoad mere woman_; that is to say, unless I loved her for something more than her sex. If she _loves_, a little _pique_ is not amiss, nor even if she don't; the next thing to a woman's _love_ in a man's favour is her _hatred_,--a seeming paradox but true. Get them once out of _indifference_ and circumstance, and their passions will do wonders for a _dasher_ which I suppose you are, though I seldom had the impudence or patience to follow them up. [Footnote 1: Lord Petersham was one of the chief dandies of the day. Gronow in 1814 ('Reminiscences', vol. i. p. 285) found him "making a particular sort of blacking, which he said would eventually supersede every other." His snuff-mixture was famous among tobacconists, and he gave his name to a fashionable great-coat. In his collection of snuff-boxes, one of the finest in England, he was supposed to have a box for every day in the year. Gronow ('ibid'.) "heard him, on the occasion of a delightful old light-blue Sèvres box he was using being admired, say, in his lisping way, 'Yes, it is a nice summer box, but would not do for winter wear.'" Lord Petersham, who never went out of doors before 6 p.m., was celebrated for his brown carriages, brown horses, brown harness, and brown liveries.] [Footnote 2: Lady Catherine Annesley, sister of Lady F. W. Webster, afterwards Lady John Somerset.] * * * * * 338.--To Francis Hodgson. October 1, 1813. My Dear H.,--I leave town again for Aston on Sunday, but have messages for you. Lord Holland desired me repeatedly to bring you; he wants to know you much, and begged me to say so: you will like him. I had an invitation for you to dinner there this last Sunday, and Rogers is perpetually screaming because you don't call, and wanted you also to dine with him on Wednesday last. Yesterday we had Curran there--who is beyond all conception! and Mackintosh and the wits are to be seen at H. H. constantly, so that I think you would like their society. I will be a judge between you and the attorneo. So B[utler] may mention me to Lucien if he still adheres to his opinion. Pray let Rogers be one; he has the best taste extant. Bland's nuptials delight me; if I had the least hand in bringing them about it will be a subject of selfish satisfaction to me these three weeks. Desire Drury--if he loves me--to kick Dwyer thrice for frightening my horses with his flame-coloured whiskers last July. Let the kicks be hard, etc. * * * * * 339.--To Thomas Moore. October 2, 1813. You have not answered some six letters of mine. This, therefore, is my penultimate. I will write to you once more, but, after that--I swear by all the saints--I am silent and supercilious. I have met Curran [1] at Holland House--he beats every body;--his imagination is beyond human, and his humour (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect. Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he mimics--I never met his equal. Now, were I a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my Scamander [2]. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met him but once; and you, who have known him long, may probably deduct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He talked a great deal about you--a theme never tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know. What a variety of expression he conjures into that naturally not very fine countenance of his! He absolutely changes it entirely. I have done--for I can't describe him, and you know him. On Sunday I return to Aston, where I shall not be far from you. Perhaps I shall hear from you in the mean time. Good night. Saturday morn.--Your letter has cancelled all my anxieties. I did _not suspect_ you in _earnest_. Modest again! Because I don't do a very shabby thing, it seems, I "don't fear your competition." If it were reduced to an alternative of preference, I _should_ dread you, as much as Satan does Michael. But is there not room enough in our respective regions? Go on--it will soon be my turn to forgive. To-day I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. _Stale_--as John Bull may be pleased to denominate Corinne--whom I saw last night, at Covent Garden, yawning over the humour of Falstaff. The reputation of "gloom," if one's friends are not included in the _reputants_, is of great service; as it saves one from a legion of impertinents, in the shape of common-place acquaintance. But thou know'st I can be a right merry and conceited fellow, and rarely _larmoyant_. Murray shall reinstate your line forthwith. [3] I believe the blunder in the motto was mine;--and yet I have, in general, a memory for you, and am sure it was rightly printed at first. I do "blush" very often, if I may believe Ladies H. and M.;--but luckily, at present, no one sees me. Adieu. [Footnote 1: Rogers ('Table-Talk, etc'., p. 161) regretted "that so little of Curran's brilliant talk has been preserved." John Philpot Curran (1750-1817), after accepting the Mastership of the Rolls in Ireland (1806), spent much of his time in England. He retired from the Bench, where he never shone, in 1814. In Byron's 'Detached Thoughts' (1821) occurs the following passage: "I was much struck with the simplicity of Grattan's manners in private life. They were odd, but they were natural. Curran used to take him off, bowing to the very ground, and 'thanking God that he had no peculiarities of gesture or appearance,' in a way irresistibly ludicrous. Rogers used to call him a 'Sentimental Harlequin;' but Rogers backbites everybody, and Curran, who used to quiz his great friend Godwin to his very face, would hardly respect a fair mark of mimicry in another. To be sure, Curran _was_ admirable! to hear his description of the examination of an Irish witness was next to hearing his own speeches; the latter I never heard, but I have the former." Elsewhere ('ibid'.) he returns to the subject: "Curran! Curran's the man who struck me most--such imagination! There never was anything like it, that ever I saw or heard of. His _published_ life--his published speeches--give you no idea of the man; none at all. He was a _Machine_ of imagination, as some one said that Piron was an 'Epigrammatic Machine.' I did not see a great deal of Curran,--only in 1813; but I met him at home (for he used to call on me), and in society, at Mackintosh's, Holland House, etc., etc. And he was wonderful, even to me, who had seen many remarkable men of the time." The following notes on this passage are in the handwriting of Walter Scott: "When Mathews first began to imitate Curran in Dublin--in society, I mean,--Curran sent for him and said, the moment he entered the room, 'Mr. Mathews, you are a first-rate artist, and, since you are to do my picture, pray allow me to give you a sitting.' Everyone knows how admirably Mathews succeeded in furnishing at last the portraiture begun under these circumstances. No one was more aware of the truth than Curran himself. In his latter and feeble days, he was riding in Hyde Park one morning, bowed down over the saddle and bitterly dejected in his air. Mathews happened to observe and saluted him. Curran stopped his horse for a moment, squeezed Charles by the hand, and said in that deep whisper which the comedian so exquisitely mimics, 'Don't speak to me, my dear Mathews; you are the only Curran now!'" "Did you know Curran?" asked Byron of Lady Blessington ('Conversations', p. 176); "he was the most wonderful person I ever saw. In him was combined an imagination the most brilliant and profound, with a flexibility and wit that would have justified the observation applied to----, that his heart was in his head." Moore ('Journal, etc.', vol. i. p. 40) quotes a couplet by Mrs. Battier upon Curran, which "commemorates in a small compass two of his most striking peculiarities, namely, his very unprepossessing personal appearance, and his great success, notwithstanding, in pursuits of gallantry...: "'For though his monkey face might fail to woo her, Yet, ah! his monkey tricks would quite undo her.'"] [Footnote 2: In the spurious letters of Æschines (Letter x.) is a passage which explains the allusion. "It is the custom of maidens, on the eve of their marriage, to wash in the waters of the Scamander, and then to utter this almost sacred formula, 'Take, O Scamander, my virginity' ([Greek: to èpos toûto hosper hierón ti epilégein, Lhabé mou Scámandre tàen parthénian)."] [Footnote 3: "The motto to 'The Giaour': One fatal remembrance--one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,' etc. "which is taken from one of the 'Irish Melodies', had been quoted by him incorrectly in the first editions of the poem". (Moore).] * * * * * 340.--To John Murray. Stilton, Oct. 3, 1813. Dear Sir,--I have just recollected an alteration you may make in the proof to be sent to Aston.--Among the lines on Hassan's Serai, not far from the beginning, is this: Unmeet for Solitude to share. Now to share implies more than _one_, and Solitude is a single gentlewoman; it must be thus: For many a gilded chamber's there, Which Solitude might well forbear; and so on.--My address is Aston Hall, Rotherham. Will you adopt this correction? and pray accept a cheese from me for your trouble. Ever yours, B. P.S.--I leave this to your discretion; if any body thinks the old line a good one or the cheese a bad one, don't accept either. But, in that case, the word _share_ is repeated soon after in the line: To share the Master's "bread and salt;" and must be altered to: To break the Master's bread and salt. This is not so well, though--confound it! If the old line stands, let the other run thus: Nor there will weary traveller halt, To bless the sacred "bread and salt." _Note_.--To partake of food--to break bread and taste salt with your host--ensures the safety of the guest; even though an enemy, his person from that moment becomes sacred. There is another additional note sent yesterday--on the Priest in the Confessional. * * * * * 341.--To John Hanson. Nottingham, Octr. 10th, 1813. Dear Sir,--I am disposed to advance a loan of £1000 to James Webster Wedderburne Webster, Esqre., of Aston Hall, York County, and request you will address to me _there a bond_ and _judgement_ to be signed by the said as soon as possible. Of Claughton's payments I know nothing further, and the demands on myself I know also; but W. is a very old friend of mine, and a man of property, and, as I can command the money, he shall have it. I do not at all wish to inconvenience you, and I also know that, when we balance accounts, it will be much in your favour; but if you could replace the sum at Hoare's from my advance of two thousand eight hundred in July, it would be a favour; or, still better, if C. makes further payments, which will render it unnecessary. Don't let the first part of the last sentence embarrass you at all; the last part about Claughton I would wish you to attend to. I have written this day--about his opening the cellar. Pray send the bond and judgement to Aston as directed. Ever, dear Sir, B. P.S.--Many, many thanks for your kind invitation; but it was too late. I was in this county before it arrived. My best remembrances to Mrs. H. and all the family. * * * * * 342.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. [Sunday], October 10th, 1813. My dearest Augusta,--I have only time to say that I am not in the least angry, and that my silence has merely arisen from several circumstances which I cannot now detail. I trust you are better, and will continue _best_. Ever, my dearest, Yours, B. * * * * * 343.--To John Murray. Oct. 12, 1813. Dear Sir,--You must look 'The Giaour' again over carefully; there are a few lapses, particularly in the last page,--"I _know_ 'twas false; she could not die;" it was, and ought to be--"_knew_." Pray observe this and similar mistakes. I have received and read the 'British Review' [1]. I really think the writer in most parts very right. The only mortifying thing is the accusation of imitation. _Crabbe's passage_ I never saw; and Scott I no further meant to follow than in his _lyric_ measure, which is Gray's, Milton's, and any one's who likes it. 'The Giaour' is certainly a bad character, but not dangerous: and I think his fate and his feelings will meet with few proselytes. I shall be very glad to hear from or of you, when you please; but don't put yourself out of your way on my account. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: 'The British Review' (No. ix.) criticized 'The Giaour' severely (pp. 132-145). "Lord Byron," it says, "has had the bad taste to imitate Mr. Walter Scott" (p. 135). Further on (p. 139) it charges him with borrowing a simile from Crabbe's 'Resentment'. The passage to which the reviewer alludes will be found in lines 11-16 of that poem: "Those are like wax--apply them to the fire, Melting, they take th' impressions you desire: Easy to mould, and fashion as you please, And again moulded with an equal ease: Like smelted iron these the forms retain; But, once impress'd, will never melt again."] * * * * * 344.--To the Hon. Augusta Leigh. (Monday), Nov'r. 8th, 1813. My Dearest Augusta,--I have only time to say that I shall write tomorrow, and that my present and long silence has been occasioned by a thousand things (with which _you_ are not concerned). It is not L'y C. nor O.; but perhaps you may _guess_, and, if you do, do not tell. You do not know what mischief your being with me might have prevented. You shall hear from me tomorrow; in the mean time don't be alarmed. I am in _no immediate_ peril. Believe me, ever yours, B. * * * * * 345.--To John Murray. (Nov. 12, 1813. With first proof of _Bride of Abydos_ correct.) Dear Sir,--I have looked over--corrected--and added--_all_ of which you may do too--at least _certainly_ the _two_ first. There is more MS. _within_. Let me know tomorrow at your leisure _how_ and _when_ we shall proceed! It looks better than I thought at first. _Look over_ again. I suspect some omissions on my part and on the printers'. Yours ever, B. Always print "een" "even." I utterly abhor "een"--if it must be contracted, be it "ev'n." * * * * * 346.--To William Gifford. November 12, 1813. My Dear Sir,--I hope you will consider, when I venture on any request, that it is the reverse of a certain Dedication, and is addressed, _not_ to "The Editor of the 'Quarterly Review'" but to Mr. Gifford. You will understand this, and on that point I need trouble you no farther. You have been good enough to look at a thing of mine in MS.--a Turkish story, and I should feel gratified if you would do it the same favour in its probationary state of printing. It was written, I cannot say for amusement, nor "obliged by hunger and request of friends," [1] but in a state of mind, from circumstances which occasionally occur to "us youth," that rendered it necessary for me to apply my mind to something, any thing but reality; and under this not very brilliant inspiration it was composed. Being done, and having at least diverted me from myself, I thought you would not perhaps be offended if Mr. Murray forwarded it to you. He has done so, and to apologise for his doing so a second time is the object of my present letter. I beg you will _not_ send me any answer. I assure you very sincerely I know your time to be occupied, and it is enough, more than enough, if you read; you are not to be bored with the fatigue of answers. A word to Mr. Murray will be sufficient, and send it either to the flames or "A hundred hawkers' load, On wings of wind to fly or fall abroad." It deserves no better than the first, as the work of a week, and scribbled 'stans pede in uno' [2], (by the by, the only foot I have to stand on); and I promise never to trouble you again under forty cantos, and a voyage between each. Believe me ever, Your obliged and affectionate servant, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Pope, 'Epistle to Arbuthnot', l. 44.] [Footnote 2: Horace, 'Sat'. 1. iv. 10.] * * * * * 347.--To John Murray. Nov. 12, 1813. Two friends of mine (Mr. Rogers and Mr. Sharpe) have advised me not to risk at present any single publication separately, for various reasons. As they have not seen the one in question, they can have no bias for or against the merits (if it has any) or the faults of the present subject of our conversation. You say all the last of 'The Giaour' [1] are gone--at least out of your hands. Now, if you think of publishing any new edition with the last additions which have not yet been before the reader (I mean distinct from the two-volume publication), we can add "'The Bride of Abydos'," which will thus steal quietly into the world [2]: if liked, we can then throw off some copies for the purchasers of former "Giaours;" and, if not, I can omit it in any future publication. What think you? I really am no judge of those things; and, with all my natural partiality for one's own productions, I would rather follow any one's judgment than my own. P.S.--Pray let me have the proofs. I sent _all_ to-night. I have some alterations that I have thought of that I wish to make speedily. I hope the proof will be on separate pages, and not all huddled together on a mile-long, ballad-singing sheet, as those of 'The Giaour' sometimes are: for then I can't read them distinctly. [Footnote 1: In 'Accepted Addresses; or, Premium Poetarum', pp. 50-52 (1813), 'Address' xvii. is from "Lord B----n to J. M----y, Book-seller." The address itself runs as follows: "A Turkish tale I shall unfold, A sweeter tale was never told; But then the facts, I must allow, Are in the east not common now; Tho' in the 'olden time,' the scene My Goaour (_sic_) describes had often been. What is the cause! Perhaps the fair Are now more cautious than they were; Perhaps the Christians not so bold, So enterprising as of old. No matter what the cause may be, It is a subject fit for me. "Take my disjointed fragments then, The offspring of a willing pen. And give them to the public, pray, On or before the month of May. Yes, my disjointed fragments take, But do not ask _how much they'll make_. Perhaps not fifty pages--well, I in a little space can tell Th' adventures of an infidel; Of _quantity_ I never boast, For _quality_'s, approved of most. "It is a handsome sum to touch, Induces authors to write much; But in this much, alas! my friend, How little is there to commend. So, Mr. M----y, I disdain, To sacrifice my muse for gain. I wish it to be understood, The little which I write is good. "I do not like the quarto size, Th' octavo, therefore, I advise. Then do not, Mr. M----y, fail, To publish this, my Turkish Tale; For tho' the volume may be thin, A thousand readers it will win; And when my pages they explore, They'll gladly read them o'er and o'er; And all the ladies, I engage, With tears will moisten every page."] [Footnote 2: John Murray writes, in an undated letter to Byron, "Mr. Canning returned the poem to-day with very warm expressions of delight. I told him your delicacy as to separate publication, of which he said you should remove every apprehension."] * * * * * 348.--To John Murray. Nov. 13, 1813. Will you forward the letter to Mr. Gifford with the proof? There is an alteration I may make in Zuleika's speech, in second canto (the only one of _hers_ in that canto). It is now thus: And curse--if I could curse--the day. It must be: And mourn--I dare not curse--the day, That saw my solitary birth, etc., etc. Ever yours, B. In the last MS. lines sent, instead of "living heart," correct to "quivering heart." It is in line 9th of the MS. passage. Ever yours again, B. * * * * * 349.--To John Murray. Alteration of a line in Canto 2nd. Instead of: And tints to-morrow with a _fancied_ ray Print: And tints to-morrow with _prophetic_ ray. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray; Or, And {_gilds_/tints} the hope of Morning with its ray; Or, And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray. Dear Sir,--I wish you would ask Mr. G. which of them is best, or rather _not worst_. Ever yours, B. You can send the request contained in this at the same time with the _revise, after_ I have seen the _said revise_. * * * * * 350.--To John Murray. Nov. 13, 1813. Certainly. Do you suppose that no one but the Galileans are acquainted with _Adam_, and _Eve_, and _Cain,_ [1] and _Noah_?--Surely, I might have had Solomon, and Abraham, and David, and even Moses, or the other. When you know that _Zuleika_ is the _Persian poetical_ name for _Potiphar's_ wife, on whom and Joseph there is a long poem in the Persian, this will not surprise you. If you want authority look at Jones, D'Herbelot, 'Vathek', or the notes to the 'Arabian Nights'; and, if you think it necessary, model this into a _note_. Alter, in the inscription, "the most affectionate respect," to "with every sentiment of regard and respect," [Footnote 1: "Some doubt had been expressed by Murray as to the propriety of his putting the name of Cain into the mouth of a Mussulman." (Moore).] * * * * * 351.--To John Murray. Nov. 14, 1813. I send you a note for the _ignorant_, but I really wonder at finding _you_ among them. I don't care one lump of Sugar for my _poetry_; but for my _costume_, and my _correctness_ on those points (of which I think the _funeral_ was a proof), I will combat lustily. Yours ever, B. * * * * * 352.--To John Murray. November 15, 1813. DEAR SIR,--Mr. Hodgson has looked over and _stopped_, or rather _pointed_, this revise, which must be the one to print from. He has also made some suggestions, with most of which I have complied, as he has always, for these ten years, been a very sincere, and by no means (at times) flattering critic of mine. _He_ likes it (you will think _flatteringly_, in this instance) better than 'The Giaour', but doubts (and so do I) its being so popular; but, contrary to some others, advises a separate publication. On this we can easily decide. I confess I like the _double_ form better. Hodgson says, it is _better versified_ than any of the others; which is odd, if true, as it has cost me less time (though more _hours_ at a time) than any attempt I ever made. Yours ever, B. P.S.--Do attend to the punctuation: I can't, for I don't know a comma--at least where to place one. That Tory of a printer has omitted two lines of the opening, and _perhaps more_, which were in the MS. Will you, pray, give him a hint of accuracy? I have reinserted the 2, but they were in the manuscript, I can swear. * * * * * 353.--To John Murray. November 17, 1813. My Dear Sir,--That you and I may distinctly understand each other on a subject, which, like "the dreadful reckoning when men smile no more," [1] makes conversation not very pleasant, I think it as well to _write_ a few lines on the topic.--Before I left town for Yorkshire, you said that you were ready and willing to give five hundred guineas for the copyright of 'The Giaour'; and my answer was--from which I do not mean to recede--that we would discuss the point at Christmas. The new story may or may not succeed; the probability, under present circumstances, seems to be, that it may at least pay its expences--but even that remains to be proved, and till it is proved one way or the other, we will say nothing about it. Thus then be it: I will postpone all arrangement about it, and 'The Giaour' also, till Easter, 1814; and you shall then, according to your own notions of fairness, make your own offer for the two. At the same time, I do not rate the last in my own estimation at half 'The Giaour'; and according to your own notions of its worth and its success within the time mentioned, be the addition or deduction to or from whatever sum may be your proposal for the first, which has already had its success [2]. My account with you since my last payment (which I believe cleared it off within five pounds) I presume has not _much_ increased--but whatever it is have the goodness to send it to me--that I may at least meet you on even terms. The pictures of Phillips I consider as _mine_, all three; and the one (not the Arnaut) of the two best is much at _your service_, if you will accept it as a present, from Yours very truly, BIRON. P.S.--The expence of engraving from the miniature send me in my account, as it was destroyed by my desire; and have the goodness to burn that detestable print from it immediately. [Footnote 1: 'The What d'ye call't?' by John Gay (act ii. sc. 9): "So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more."] [Footnote 2: Murray replies, November 18, 1813, "I restore the 'Giaour' to your Lordship entirely, and for 'it', the 'Bride of Abydos', and the miscellaneous poems intended to fill up the volume of the small edition, I beg leave to offer you the sum of One Thousand Guineas, and I shall be happy if you perceive that my estimation of your talents in my character of a man of business is not much under my admiration of them as a man."] * * * * * 354.--To John Murray. November 20, 1813. More work for the _Row_. I am doing my best to beat "_The Giaour_"--_no_ difficult task for any one but the author. Yours truly, B. * * * * * 355.--To John Murray. November 22, 1813. DEAR SIR,--I have no time to _cross_-investigate, but I believe and hope all is right. I care less than you will believe about its success, but I can't survive a single _misprint_; it _choaks_ me to see words misused by the Printers. Pray look over, in case of some eyesore escaping me. Ever yours, B. P.S.--Send the earliest copies to Mr. Frere, Mr. Canning, Mr. Heber, Mr. Gifford, Lord Holland, Lady Melbourne (Whitehall), Lady C. L. (Brocket), Mr. Hodgson (Cambridge), Mr. Merivale, Mr. Ward, from the author. * * * * * 356.--To John Murray. November 23, 1813. DEAR SIR,--You wanted some _reflections_, and I send you _per Selim_ (see his speech in Canto 2d, page 46.), eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not an _ethical_ tendency. One more revise--poz. the _last_, if decently done--at any rate the _pen_ultimate. Mr. Canning's approbation (_if_ he did approve) I need not say makes me proud [1]. As to printing, print as you will and how you will--by itself, if you like; but let me have a few copies in _sheets_. Ever yours, B. [Footnote 1: Canning wrote the following note to Murray: "I received the books, and, among them, 'The Bride of Abydos'. It is very, very beautiful. Lord Byron (when I met him, one day, at dinner at Mr. Ward's) was so kind as to promise to give me a copy of it. I mention this, not to save my purchase, but because I should be really flattered by the present. I can now say that I have read enough of Mad. de Staël to be highly pleased and instructed by her. The second volume delights me particularly. I have not yet finished the third, but am taking it with me on my journey to Liverpool."] * * * * * 357.--To John Murray. November 24, 1813. You must pardon me once more, as it is all for your good: it must be thus: He makes a Solitude, and calls it Peace. "_Makes_" is closer to the passage of Tacitus [1], from which the line is taken, and is, besides, a stronger word than "_leaves_." Mark where his carnage and his conquests cease-- He makes a Solitude, and calls it--peace. You will perceive that the sense is now clearer, the "_He_" refers to "_Man_" in the preceding couplet. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: "Solitudinem faciunt--pacem appellant." Tacitus, 'Agricola', 30.] * * * * * 358.--To John Murray. November 27, 1813. Dear Sir,--If you look over this carefully by the _last proof_ with my corrections, it is probably right; this _you_ can _do_ as well or better;--I have not now time. The copies I mentioned to be sent to different friends last night, I should wish to be made up with the new Giaours, if it also is ready. If not, send 'The Giaour' afterwards. The 'Morning Post' says _I_ am the author of 'Nourjahad' [1]!! This comes of lending the drawings for their dresses; but it is not worth a _formal contradiction_. Besides, the criticisms on the _supposition_ will, some of them, be quite amusing and furious. The _Orientalism_--which I hear is very splendid--of the Melodrame (whosever it is, and I am sure I don't know) is as good as an Advertisement for your Eastern Stories, by filling their heads with glitter. Yours ever, B. P.S.--You will of course _say_ the truth, that I am _not_ the Melo-dramatist--if any one charges me in your presence with the performance. [Footnote 1: The same charge is made in the 'Satirist' (vol. xiii. p. 508). 'Illusion, or the Trances of Nourjahad', was acted at Drury Lane, November 25, 1813. It is described by Genest ('The English Stage', vol. viii. p. 403) as "a Melo-dramatic spectacle in three acts by an anonymous author." "Nourjahad" was acted by Elliston; "Mandane," his wife, by Mrs. Horn.] * * * * * 359.--To John Murray. November 28, 1813. Dear Sir,--Send another copy (if not too much of a request) to Lady Holland of the _Journal_ [1], in my name, when you receive this; it is for _Earl Grey_--and I will relinquish my own. Also to Mr. Sharpe, Lady Holland, and Lady Caroline Lamb, copies of _The Bride_, as soon as convenient. Ever yours, BIRON. P.S.--Mr. W. and myself still continue our purpose; but I shall not trouble you on any arrangement on the score of _The Giaour_ and _The Bride_ till our return,--or, at any rate, before _May_, 1814,--that is, six months from hence: and before that time you will be able to ascertain how far your offer may be a losing one: if so, you can deduct proportionably; and if not, I shall not at any rate allow you to go higher than your present proposal, which is very handsome, and more than fair. I have had--but this must be _entre nous_--a very kind note, on the subject of _The Bride_, from Sir James Mackintosh, and an invitation to go there this evening, which it is now too late to accept [2]. [Footnote 1: The Rev. John Eagles (1783-1855), scholar, artist, and contributor (1831-55) to 'Blackwood's Magazine', edited 'The Journal of Llewellin Penrose, a Seaman', which Murray published in 1815.] [Footnote 2: "Lord Byron is the author of the day; six thousand of his 'Bride of Abydos' have been sold within a month." Sir James Mackintosh ('Life', vol. ii. p. 271).] * * * * * 360.--To John Murray. November 29, 1813. Sunday--Monday morning--three o'clock--in my doublet and hose,--_swearing_. Dear Sir,--I send you in time an Errata page, containing an omission of mine [1], which must be thus added, as it is too late for insertion in the text. The passage is an imitation altogether from Medea in Ovid, and is incomplete without these two lines. Pray let this be done, and directly; it is necessary, will add one page to your book(-_making_), and can do no harm, and is yet in time for the _public_. Answer me, thou Oracle, in the affirmative. You can send the loose pages to those who have copies already, if they like; but certainly to all the _Critical_ copyholders. Ever yours, BIRON. P.S.--I have got out of my bed (in which, however, I could not sleep, whether I had amended this or not), and so good morning. I am trying whether _De l'Allemagne_ will act as an opiate, but I doubt it. [Footnote 1: 'The Bride of Abydos', Canto II. stanza xx. The lines were: "Then, if my lip once murmurs, it must be No sigh for Safety, but a prayer for thee."] * * * * * 361.--To John Murray. November 29, 1813. "_You have looked at it!_" to much purpose, to allow so stupid a blunder to stand; it is _not_ "_courage_" but "_carnage_;" and if you don't want me to cut my own throat, see it altered. I am very sorry to hear of the fall of Dresden. * * * * * 362.--To John Murray. Nov. 29, 1813, Monday. Dear Sir,--You will act as you please upon that point; but whether I go or stay, I shall not say another word on the subject till May--nor then, unless quite convenient to yourself. I have many things I wish to leave to your care, principally papers. The _vases_ need not be now sent, as Mr. W. is gone to Scotland. You are right about the Er[rata] page; place it at the beginning. Mr. Perry is a little premature in his compliments [1]: these may do harm by exciting expectation, and I think _we_ ought to be above it--though I see the next paragraph is on the 'Journal' [2], which makes me suspect _you_ as the author of both. Would it not have been as well to have said in 2 cantos in the advertisement? they will else think of _fragments_, a species of composition very well for _once_, like _one ruin_ in a _view_; but one would not build a town of them. 'The Bride', such as it is, is my first _entire_ composition of any length (except the Satire, and be damned to it), for 'The Giaour' is but a string of passages, and 'Childe Harold' is, and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. I return Mr. Hay's note, with thanks to him and you. There have been some epigrams on Mr. W[ard]: one I see to-day [3]. The first I did not see, but heard yesterday. The second seems very bad and Mr. P[erry] has placed it over _your_ puff. I only hope that Mr. W. does not believe that I had any connection with either. The Regent is the only person on whom I ever expectorated an epigram, or ever should; and even if I were disposed that way, I like and value Mr. W. too well to allow my politics to contract into spleen, or to admire any thing intended to annoy him or his. You need not take the trouble to answer this, as I shall see you in the course of the afternoon. Yours very truly, B. P.S.--I have said this much about the epigrams, because I live so much in the _opposite camp_, and, from my post as an Engineer, might be suspected as the flinger of these hand Grenadoes; but with a worthy foe I am all for open war, and not this bush-fighting, and have [not] had, nor will have, any thing to do with it. I do not know the author. [Footnote 1: In the 'Morning Chronicle', November 29, 1813, appeared the following paragraph: "Lord Byron's muse is extremely fruitful. He has another poem coming out, entitled 'The Bride of Abydos', which is spoken of in terms of the highest encomium."] [Footnote 2: 'Journal of Llewellin Penrose, a Seaman.'] [Footnote 3: "Ward has no heart, they say; but I deny it;-- He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it."] * * * * * 363.--To John Murray. Tuesday evening, Nov. 30, 1813. Dear Sir,--For the sake of correctness, particularly in an Errata page, the alteration of the couplet I have just sent (half an hour ago) must take place, in spite of delay or cancel; let me see the _proof_ early to-morrow. I found out _murmur_ to be a neuter _verb_, and have been obliged to alter the line so as to make it a substantive, thus: The deepest murmur of this life shall be No sigh for Safety, but a prayer for thee! Don't send the copies to the _country_ till this is all right. Yours, B. * * * * * 364.--To Thomas Moore. November 30, 1813. Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, good, bad, and indifferent,--not to make me forget you, but to prevent me from reminding you of one who, nevertheless, has often thought of you, and to whom _your_ thoughts, in many a measure, have frequently been a consolation. We were once very near neighbours this autumn; and a good and bad neighbourhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say, that your French quotation [1] was confoundedly to the purpose,--though very _unexpectedly_ pertinent, as you may imagine by what I _said_ before, and my silence since. However, "Richard's himself again," [2] and except all night and some part of the morning, I don't think very much about the matter. All convulsions end with me in rhyme; and to solace my midnights, I have scribbled another Turkish story [3]--not a Fragment--which you will receive soon after this. It does not trench upon your kingdom in the least, and if it did, you would soon reduce me to my proper boundaries. You will think, and justly, that I run some risk of losing the little I have gained in fame, by this further experiment on public patience; but I have really ceased to care on that head. I have written this, and published it, for the sake of the _employment_,--to wring my thoughts from reality, and take refuge in "imaginings," however "horrible;" [4] and, as to success! those who succeed will console me for a failure--excepting yourself and one or two more, whom luckily I love too well to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower. This is the work of a week, and will be the reading of an hour to you, or even less,--and so, let it go----. P.S.--Ward and I _talk_ of going to Holland. I want to see how a Dutch canal looks after the Bosphorus. Pray respond. [Footnote 1: Moore wrote to Byron in 1813 an undated letter, in which the following passage occurs: "I am sorry I must wait till 'we are veterans' before you will open to me 'the story of your wandering life, wherein you find more hours _due to repentance_ ... than time hath told you yet.' Is it so with you, or are you, like me, reprobate enough to look back with complacency on what you have done? I suppose repentance _must bring up the rear_ with us all; but at present I should say with old Fontenelle, _Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferais tout ce que j'ai fait_."] [Footnote 2: Colley Cibber's 'Richard III', act v. sc. 3: "Conscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again."] [Footnote 3: 'The Bride of Abydos' was published December, 1813.] [Footnote 4: "Horrible imaginings." 'Macbeth', act i. sc. 3.] * * * * * 365.--To Francis Hodgson. Nov'r--Dec'r 1st, 1813. I have just heard that _Knapp_ is acquainted with what I was but too happy in being enabled to do for you [1]. Now, my dear Hn., you, or Drury, must have told this, for, upon my own honour, not even to Scrope, nor to one soul, (Drury knew it before) have I said one syllable of the matter. So don't be out of humour with me about it, but you can't be more so than I am. I am, however, glad of one thing; if you ever conceived it to be in the least an obligation, this disclosure most fairly and fully releases you from it: "To John I owe some obligation, But John unluckily thinks fit To publish it to all the nation, So John and I are more than quit." And so there's an end of the matter. Ward _wavers_ a little about the Dutch, till matters are more sedative, and the French more sedentary. The 'Bride' will blush upon you in a day or two; there is _much_, at least a _little_ addition. I am happy to say that Frere and Heber, and some other "good men and true," have been kind enough to adopt the same opinion that you did. Pray write when you like, and believe me, Ever yours, BYRON. P.S.--Murray has _offered_ me a thousand guineas for the _two_ ('Giaour' and 'Bride'), and told M'e. de Stael that he had _paid_ them to me!! I should be glad to be able to tell her so too. But the truth is, he would; but I thought the fair way was to decline it till May, and, at the end of 6 months, he can safely say whether he can afford it or not--without running any risk by Speculation. If he paid them now and lost by it, it would be hard. If he gains, it will be time enough when he has already funded his profits. But he needed not have told "_la Baronne_" such a devil of an uncalled for piece of--premature _truth_, perhaps--but, nevertheless, a _lie_ in the mean time. [Footnote 1: Hodgson, now engaged to Miss Tayler, was anxious to clear off his father's liabilities. Byron gave him from first to last the sum of £1500 for the purpose. Hodgson, in a letter to his uncle, thus describes the gift ('Memoir of Rev. F. Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 268, 269): "My noble-hearted friend, Lord Byron, after many offers of a similar kind, which I felt bound to refuse, has irresistibly in my present circumstances ... volunteered to pay all my debts, and within a few pounds it is done! Oh, if you knew (but _you_ do know) the exultation of heart, aye, and of head too, I feel at being free from these depressing embarrassments, you would, as I do, bless my dearest friend and brother Byron."] * * * * * 366.--To John Murray. Dec. 2, 1813. Dear Sir,--When you can, let the couplet enclosed be inserted either in the page, or in the Errata page. I trust it is in time for some of the copies. This alteration is in the same part--the page _but one_ before the last correction sent. Yours, etc., B. P.S.--I am afraid, from all I hear, that people are rather inordinate in their expectations, which is very unlucky, but cannot now be helped. This comes of Mr. Perry and one's wise friends; but do not _you_ wind _your_ hopes of success to the same pitch, for fear of accidents, and I can assure you that my philosophy will stand the test very fairly; and I have done every thing to ensure you, at all events, from positive loss, which will be some satisfaction to both. * * * * * 367.--To Leigh Hunt. 4, Bennet St., Dec. 2, 1813. My dear Sir,--Few things could be more welcome than your note, and on Saturday morning I will avail myself of your permission to thank you for it in person. My time has not been passed, since we met, either profitably or agreeably. A very short period after my last visit, an incident occurred with which, I fear, you are not unacquainted, as report, in many mouths and more than one paper, was busy with the topic. That, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then I nearly incurred a lawsuit on the sale of an estate; but that is now arranged: next--but why should I go on with a series of selfish and silly details? I merely wish to assure you that it was not the frivolous forgetfulness of a mind, occupied by what is called pleasure (_not_ in the true sense of Epicurus), that kept me away; but a perception of my, then, unfitness to share the society of those whom I value and wish not to displease. I hate being _larmoyant_, and making a serious face among those who are cheerful. It is my wish that our acquaintance, or, if you please to accept it, friendship, may be permanent. I have been lucky enough to preserve some friends from a very early period, and I hope, as I do not (at least now) select them lightly, I shall not lose them capriciously. I have a thorough esteem for that independence of spirit [1] which you have maintained with sterling talent, and at the expense of some suffering. You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were composing, when Moore and I partook of your hospitality in the summer. I hope a time will come when he and I may be able to repay you in kind for the _latter_--for the rhyme, at least in _quantity_, you are in arrear to both. Believe me, very truly and affectionately yours, Byron. [Footnote 1: The following is Leigh Hunt's answer: "My dear Lord,--I need not tell you how much your second letter has gratified me, for I am apt to speak as sincerely as I think (you must suffer me to talk in this way after what you have been kind enough to say of my independence), and it always rejoices me to find that those whom I wish to regard will take me at my word. But I shall grow egotistical upon the strength of your Lordship's good opinion. I shall be heartily glad to see you on Saturday morning, and perhaps shall prevail upon you to take a luncheon with us at our dinner-time(3). The nature of your letter would have brought upon you a long answer, filled perhaps with an enthusiasm that might have made you smile; but I am keeping your servant in the cold, and so, among other good offices, you see what he has done for you. However, I would not make a light thing of so good a matter as I mean my enthusiasm to be, and intend, before I have done, that you shall have as sound a regard for it, as I have for the feelings on your Lordship's part that have called it forth. "Yours, my dear Lord, most sincerely and cordially, "Leigh Hunt. "Surrey Jail, 2'd Dec'r., 1813."] * * * * * 368.--To John Murray. Dec. 3, 1813. I send you a _scratch_ or _two_, the which _heal_. The _Christian Observer_ [1] is very savage, but certainly uncommonly well written--and quite uncomfortable at the naughtiness of book and author. I rather suspect you won't much like the _present_ to be more moral, if it is to share also the usual fate of your virtuous volumes. Let me see a proof of the _six_ before _incorporation_. [Footnote 1: The 'Christian Observer' for November, 1813 (pp. 731-737) felt compelled to review 'The Giaour', because of its extraordinary popularity; but it found that some of the passages savoured "too much of Newgate and Bedlam for our expurgated pages." It acknowledged one obligation to Byron. "He never attempts to deceive the world by representing the profligate as happy.... And his testimony is of the more value, as his situation in life must have permitted him to see the experiment tried under the most favourable circumstances. He has probably seen more than one example of young men of high birth, talents, and expectancies, ... sink under the burden of unsubdued tempers, licentious alliances, and ennervating indulgence.... He has _seen_ all this; nay, perhaps--But we check our pen," etc., etc.] * * * * * 369.--To John Murray. Dec. 3, 1813. My dear Sir,--Look out the Encyclopedia article _Mecca_ whether it is there or at _Medina_ the Prophet is entombed, if at Medina the first lines of my alteration must run: Blest as the call which from Medina's dome Invites Devotion to her Prophet's tomb, etc. If at "Mecca" the lines may stand as before. Page 45, C°. 2nd, 'Bride of Abydos'. Yours, B. You will find this out either by Article _Mecca, Medina_ or _Mahommed_. I have no book of reference by me. * * * * * 370.--To John Murray. [No date.] Did you look out? is it _Medina_ or _Mecca_ that contains the _holy_ Sepulchre? don't make me blaspheme by your negligence. I have no books of reference or I would save you the trouble. I _blush_ as a good Mussulman to have confused the point. Yours, B. * * * * * 371.--To John Murray. Dec. 4, 1813. Dear Sir,--I have redde through your Persian Tales [1], and have taken the liberty of making some remarks on the _blank_ pages. There are many beautiful passages, and an interesting story; and I cannot give you a stronger proof that such is my opinion, than by the _date_ of the _hour--two o'clock_,--till which it has kept me awake _without a yawn_. The conclusion is not quite correct in _costume_: there is no _Mussulman suicide_ on record--at least for _love_. But this matters not. The tale must have been written by some one who has been on the spot, and I wish him, and he deserves, success. Will you apologise to the author for the liberties I have taken with his MS.? Had I been less awake to, and interested in, his theme, I had been less obtrusive; but you know _I_ always take this in good part, and I hope he will. It is difficult to say what _will_ succeed, and still more to pronounce what _will not_. _I_ am at this moment in _that uncertainty_ (on your _own_ score); and it is no small proof of the author's powers to be able to _charm_ and _fix_ a _mind's_ attention on similar subjects and climates in such a predicament. That he may have the same effect upon all his readers is very sincerely the wish, and hardly the _doubt_, of Yours truly, B. [Footnote 1: Henry Gally Knight (1786-1846), who was with Byron at Trinity, Cambridge, and afterwards distinguished himself by his architectural writings (e.g. 'The Normans in Sicily,' 1838), began his literary career with 'Ilderim, a Syrian Tale' (1816). 'Phrosyne, a Grecian Tale'; 'Alashtar, an Arabian Tale' (1817), was followed, after a considerable interval, by 'Eastern Sketches' (about 1829-30). If the manuscript of the first-mentioned volume is that to which Byron refers, he seems to have changed his mind as to its merits (March 25, 1817): "I tried at 'Ilderim;' Ahem!"] * * * * * 372.--To John Murray. Monday evening, Dec. 6, 1813. Dear Sir,--It is all very well, except that the lines are not numbered properly, and a diabolical mistake, page 67., which _must_ be corrected with the _pen_, if no other way remains; it is the omission of "_not_" before "_disagreeable_" in the _note_ on the _amber_ rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad as the stumble of mine at the Threshold--I mean the _misnomer_ of bride. Pray do not let a copy go without the "_not_;" it is nonsense, and worse than nonsense, as it now stands. I wish the printer was saddled with a vampire. Yours ever, B. P.S.--It is still _hath_ instead of _have_ in page 20.; never was any one so _misused_ as I am by your Devils of printers. P.S.--I hope and trust the "_not_" was inserted in the first Edition. We must have something--any thing--to set it right. It is enough to answer for one's own bulls, without other people's. * * * * * 373.--To Thomas Moore. December 8, 1813. Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest things in this world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to what sits nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate to you,--not in a formal inscription, as to one's _elders_,--but through a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your intimate, and held forth the prospect of _your_ poem; when, lo! the recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy as to the said poem, more than _once_ repeated by word and letter, flashed upon me, and marred my intents. I could have no motive for repressing my own desire of alluding to you (and not a day passes that I do not think and talk of you), but an idea that you might, yourself, dislike it. You cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waving personal friendship for the present, which, by the by, is not less sincere and deep rooted. I have you by rote and by heart; of which _ecce signum!_ When I was at Aston, on my first visit, I have a habit, in passing my time a good deal alone, of--I won't call it singing, for that I never attempt except to myself--but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your "Oh breathe not," "When the last glimpse," and "When he who adores thee," with others of the same minstrel;--they are my matins and vespers. I assuredly did not intend them to be overheard, but, one morning, in comes, not _La Donna_, but _Il Marito_, with a very grave face, saying, "Byron, I must request you won't sing any more, at least of those songs." I stared, and said, "Certainly, but why?"--"To tell you the truth," quoth he, "they make my wife _cry_, and so melancholy, that I wish her to hear no more of them." Now, my dear M., the effect must have been from your words, and certainly not my music. I merely mention this foolish story to show you how much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases--at least, in composition. Though I think no one equal to you in that department, or in satire,--and surely no one was ever so popular in both,--I certainly am of opinion that you have not yet done all _you_ can do, though more than enough for any one else. I want, and the world expects, a longer work from you; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, a strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot account for, and which must be unaccountable, when a _Cossac_ like me can appal a _cuirassier_. Your story I did not, could not, know,--I thought only of a Peri. I wish you had confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent the world from losing a much better poem than my own, but which, I yet hope, this _clashing_ will not even now deprive them of [1]. Mine is the work of a week, written, _why_ I have partly told you, and partly I cannot tell you by letter--some day I will. Go on--I shall really be very unhappy if I at all interfere with you. The success of mine is yet problematical; though the public will probably purchase a certain quantity, on the presumption of their own propensity for 'The Giaour' and such "horrid mysteries." The only advantage I have is being on the spot; and that merely amounts to saving me the trouble of turning over books which I had better read again. If _your chamber_ was furnished in the same way, you have no need to _go there_ to describe--I mean only as to _accuracy_--because I drew it from recollection. This last thing of mine _may_ have the same fate, and I assure you I have great doubts about it. But, even if not, its little day will be over before you are ready and willing. Come out--"screw your courage to the sticking-place." [2] Except the _Post Bag_ (and surely you cannot complain of a want of success there), you have not been _regularly_ out for some years. No man stands higher,--whatever you may think on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. "Aucun homme, dans aucune langue, n'a été, peut-être, plus complètement le poëte du coeur et le poëte des femmes. Les critiques lui reprochent de n'avoir représenté le monde ní tel qu'il est, ni tel qu'il doit être; _mais les femmes répondent qu'il l'a représenté tel qu'elles le désirent._" I should have thought Sismondi [3] had written this for you instead of Metastasio. Write to me, and tell me of _yourself_. Do you remember what Rousseau said to some one--"Have we quarrelled? you have talked to me often, and never once mentioned yourself." P.S.--The last sentence is an indirect apology for my egotism,--but I believe in letters it is allowed. I wish it was _mutual_. I have met with an odd reflection in Grimm; it shall not--at least the bad part--be applied to you or me, though _one_ of us has certainly an indifferent name--but this it is:--"Many people have the reputation of being wicked, with whom we should be too happy to pass our lives". I need not add it is a woman's saying--a Mademoiselle de Sommery's [4]. [Footnote 1: "Among the stories intended to be introduced into 'Lalla Rookh', which I had begun, but, from various causes, never finished, there was one which I had made some progress in, at the time of the appearance of 'The Bride', and which, on reading that poem, I found to contain such singular coincidences with it, not only in locality and costume, but in plot and characters, that I immediately gave up my story altogether, and began another on an entirely new subject--the Fire-worshippers. To this circumstance, which I immediately communicated to him, Lord Byron alludes in this letter. In my hero (to whom I had even given the name of 'Zelim,' and who was a descendant of Ali, outlawed, with all his followers, by the reigning Caliph) it was my intention to shadow out, as I did afterwards in another form, the national cause of Ireland. To quote the words of my letter to Lord Byron on the subject: 'I chose this story because one writes best about what one feels most, and I thought the parallel with Ireland would enable me to infuse some vigour into my hero's character. But to aim at vigour and strong feeling after 'you' is hopeless;--that region "was made for Cæsar."'" (Moore).] [Footnote 2: 'Macbeth', act i. sc. 7.] [Footnote 3: 'De la Littérature du Midi de l'Europe', ed. 1813, tom. ii. p. 436.] [Footnote 4: Grimm ('Correspondance Littéraire', ed. 1813, part iii. tom ii. p. 126) says of Mlle. de Sommery, who died of apoplexy in 1790, "Que de gens ont la réputation d'être méchans, avec lesquels on serait trop heureux de passer sa vie." The 'Biographie Universelle' says of her, "Elle avait du talent pour écrire; mais elle ne l'exerça que fort tard .... Le premier livre qu'elle publia, n'étant plus très jeune, fut un recueil de pensées détachées, dédié aux mânes de Saurin, qu'elle intitula 'Doutes sur differentes Opinions reçues dans la Societé'. Ce recueil eut un véritable succés." Mlle. de Sommery also published, besides the 'Doutes' (1782), 'Lettres de Madame la Comtesse de L. à M. le Comte de R'. (1785); 'Lettres de Mlle. de Tourville à Madame la Comtesse de Lénoncourt' (1788); 'L'Oreille, conte Asiatique' (1789).] * * * * * 374.--To John Galt [1]. Dec. 11, 1813. My dear Galt,--There was no offence--there _could_ be none. I thought it by no means impossible that we might have hit on something similar, particularly as you are a dramatist, and was anxious to assure you of the truth, viz., that I had not wittingly seized upon plot, sentiment, or incident; and I am very glad that I have not in any respect trenched upon your subjects. Something still more singular is, that the _first_ part, where you have found a coincidence in some events within your observations on _life_, was _drawn_ from _observations_ of mine also, and I meant to have gone on with the story, but on _second_ thoughts, I thought myself _two centuries_ at least too late for the subject; which, though admitting of very powerful feeling and description, yet is not adapted for this age, at least this country, though the finest works of the Greeks, one of Schiller's and Alfieri's in modern times, besides several of our _old_ (and best) dramatists, have been grounded on incidents of a similar cast. I therefore altered it as you perceive, and in so doing have weakened the whole, by interrupting the train of thought: and in composition I do not think _second_ thoughts are the best, though _second_ expressions may improve the first ideas. I do not know how other men feel towards those they have met abroad, but to me there seems a kind of tie established between all who have met together in a foreign country, as if we had met in a state of pre-existence, and were talking over a life that has ceased: but I always look forward to renewing my travels; and though _you_, I think, are now stationary, if I can at all forward your pursuits _there_ as well as here, I shall be truly glad in the opportunity. Ever yours very sincerely, B. P.S.--I leave town for a day or two on Monday, but after that I am always at home, and happy to see you till half-past two. [Footnote 1: For John Galt, see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 243 [Footnote 1 of Letter 130], and vol. ii. p. 101, 'note' 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 255]. Galt wrote to Byron in 1813, pointing out that "there was a remarkable coincidence in the story" (of 'The Bride of Abydos') "with a matter in which I had been interested" ('Life of Byron', p. 180, ed. 1830). Byron, imagining himself charged with plagiarism, wrote a somewhat angry reply, to which Gait answered by stating that the coincidence was not one of ideas, sentiment, or story, but of real fact. He received the above answer ('Life of Byron', pp. 181, 182). On this poem Byron seems to have been particularly sensitive. He is accused of borrowing the opening lines from Mignon's song in Goethe's 'Wilhelm Meister': "Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühn?" Cyrus Redding ('Yesterday and To-day', vol. ii. pp. 14, 15) suggests that Byron used the translation of the poem which he himself had made and published in 1812 or 1813. Byron was also charged with pilfering them from Madame de Staël. "Do you know de Staël's lines?" he asked Lady Blessington ('Conversations', pp. 326, 327); "for if I am a thief, she must be the plundered, as I don't read German and do French: yet I could almost swear that I never saw her verses when I wrote mine, nor do I even now remember them. I think the first began with 'Cette terre,' etc., etc.; but the rest I forget. As you have a good memory, perhaps you would repeat them." "I did so," says Lady Blessington, "and they are as follows: "'Cette terre, où les myrtes fleurissent, Où les rayons des cieux tombent avec amour, Où des sons enchanteurs dans les airs retentissent, Où la plus douce nuit succéde au plus beau jour,' etc."] * * * * * 375.--To John Murray. Decr. y'r 14th, 1813. Deare Sir,--Send y'e E'r of ye new R'w a copy as he hath had y'e trouble of two walks on y't acct. As to the man of the _Satirist_--I hope you have too much spirit to allow a single Sheet to be offered as a peace offering to him or any one. If you _do_, expect _never_ to be _forgiven_ by me--if he is not personal he is quite welcome to his opinion--and if he is, I have my own remedy. Send a copy _double_ to Dr. Clarke (y'e traveller) Cambrigge by y'e first opportunitie--and let me see you in y'e morninge y't I may mention certain thinges y'e which require sundrie though slight alterations. Sir, your Servitor, Biroñ * * * * * 376.--To Thomas Ashe [1]. 4, Bennet Street, St. James's, Dec. 14, 1813. Sir,--I leave town for a few days to-morrow. On my return, I will answer your letter more at length. Whatever may be your situation, I cannot but commend your resolution to abjure and abandon the publication and composition of works such as those to which you have alluded. Depend upon it they amuse _few_, disgrace both _reader_ and _writer_, and benefit _none_. It will be my wish to assist you, as far as my limited means will admit, to break such a bondage. In your answer, inform me what sum you think would enable you to extricate yourself from the hands of your employers, and to regain, at least, temporary independence, and I shall be glad to contribute my mite towards it. At present, I must conclude. Your name is not unknown to me, and I regret, for your own sake, that you have ever lent it to the works you mention. In saying this, I merely repeat your _own words_ in your letter to me, and have no wish whatever to say a single syllable that may appear to insult your misfortunes. If I have, excuse me; it is unintentional. Yours, etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: Thomas Ashe (1770-1835) had already written books of travel in North and South America, and two novels--'The Spirit of "The Book'"(1811), and 'The Liberal Critic, or Henry Percy' (1812). He was a man of more ability than character, but possessed little of either. His 'Memoirs' (1815) describe his literary undertakings, one at least of which was of a blackmailing kind, and are interspersed with protestations of his desire for independence, and of regrets for the wretched stuff that dropped from his pen. His first novel, 'The Spirit of "The Book,"' gained some success from its subject. In 1806-7 Lady Douglas brought certain charges against the Princess of Wales, which were answered on her behalf by Spencer Perceval. The extraordinary secrecy with which this defence, called "The Book," was printed, and its complete suppression, excited curiosity, which was increased by the following advertisement in the 'Times' for March 27, 1809: "'A Book'--Any Person having in their possession a COPY of a CERTAIN BOOK, printed by Mr. Edwards, in 1807, but 'never published', with W. Lindsell's Name as the Seller of the same on the title page, and will bring it to W. Lindsell, Bookseller, Wimpole-Street, will receive a handsome gratuity." The subject-matter of this book, then unknown to the public, Ashe professes to embody in 'The Spirit of "The Book;" or, Memoirs of Caroline, Princess of Hasburgh, a Political and Amatory Romance' (3 vols., 1811). The letters, which purport to be written from Caroline to Charlotte, and contain (vol. ii. pp. 152-181) an attack on the Lady Jersey, who attended the princess, are absolutely dull, and scarcely even indecent. Ashe's 'Memoirs and Confessions' (3 vols., 1815) are dedicated to the Duke of Northumberland and to Byron, to whom, in a preface written at Havre, he acknowledges his "transcendent obligations."] * * * * * 377.--To Professor Clarke [1]. Dec. 15, 1813. Your very kind letter is the more agreeable, because, setting aside talents, judgment, and the _laudari a laudato_, etc., you have been on the spot; you have seen and described more of the East than any of your predecessors--I need not say how ably and successfully; and (excuse the bathos) you are one of the very few men who can pronounce how far my costume (to use an affected but expressive word) is correct. As to poesy, that is, as "men, gods, and columns," please to decide upon it; but I am sure that I am anxious to have an observer's, particularly a famous observer's, testimony on the fidelity of my manners and dresses; and, as far as memory and an oriental twist in my imagination have permitted, it has been my endeavour to present to the Franks, a sketch of that of which you have and will present them a complete picture. It was with this notion, that I felt compelled to make my hero and heroine relatives, as you well know that none else could there obtain that degree of intercourse leading to genuine affection; I had nearly made them rather too much akin to each other; and though the wild passions of the East, and some great examples in Alfieri, Ford, and Schiller (to stop short of antiquity), might have pleaded in favour of a copyist, yet the time and the north (not Frederic, but our climate) induced me to alter their consanguinity and confine them to cousinship. I also wished to try my hand on a female character in Zuleika, and have endeavoured, as far as the grossness of our masculine ideas will allow, to preserve her purity without impairing the ardour of her attachment. As to criticism, I have been reviewed about a hundred and fifty times--praised and abused. I will not say that I am become indifferent to either eulogy or condemnation, but for some years at least I have felt grateful for the former, and have never attempted to answer the latter. For success equal to the first efforts, I had and have no hope; the novelty was over, and the "Bride," like all other brides, must suffer or rejoice for and with her husband. By the bye, I have used "bride" Turkishly, as affianced, not married; and so far it is an English bull, which, I trust, will be at least a comfort to all Hibernians not bigotted to monopoly. You are good enough to mention your quotations in your third volume. I shall not only be indebted to it for a renewal of the high gratification received from the two first, but for preserving my relics embalmed in your own spices, and ensuring me readers to whom I could not otherwise have aspired. I called on you, as bounden by duty and inclination, when last in your neighbourhood; but I shall always take my chance; you surely would not have me inflict upon you a formal annunciation; I am proud of your friendship, but not so fond of myself as to break in upon your better avocations. I trust that Mrs. Clarke is well; I have never had the honour of presentation, but I have heard so much of her in many quarters, that any notice she is pleased to take of my productions is not less gratifying than my thanks are sincere, both to her and you; by all accounts I may safely congratulate you on the possession of "a bride" whose mental and personal accomplishments are more than poetical. P. S.--Murray has sent, or will send, a double copy of the _Bride_ and _Giaour_; in the last one, some lengthy additions; pray accept them, according to old custom, "from the author" to one of his better brethren. Your Persian, or any memorial, will be a most agreeable, and it is my fault if not an useful present. I trust your third will be out before I sail next month; can I say or do anything for you in the Levant? I am now in all the agonies of equipment, and full of schemes, some impracticable, and most of them improbable; but I mean to fly "freely to the green earth's end," [2] though not quite so fast as Milton´s sprite. P. S. 2nd.--I have so many things to say.--I want to show you Lord Sligo's letter to me detailing, as he heard them on the spot, the Athenian account of our adventure (a personal one), which certainly first suggested to me the story of _The Giaour_. It was a strange and not a very long story, and his report of the reports (he arrived just after my departure, and I did not know till last summer that he knew anything of the matter) is not very far from the truth. Don't be alarmed. There was nothing that led further than to the water's edge; but one part (as is often the case in life) was more singular than any of the _Giaour's_ adventures. I never have, and never should have, alluded to it on my own authority, from respect to the ancient proverb on Travellers. [Footnote 1: Dr. Clark, in October, 1814, was a candidate for the Professorship of Anatomy, and Byron went to Cambridge to vote for his friend. Writing to Miss Tayler, Hodgson ('Memoir', vol. i. p. 292) adds a postscript: "I open my letter to say that when Lord Byron went to give his vote just now in the Senate House, the young men burst out into the most rapturous applause." The next day he writes again: "I should add that as I was going to vote I met him coming away, and presently saw that something had happened, by his extreme paleness and agitation. Dr. Clark, who was with him, told me the cause, and I returned with B. to my room. There I begged him to sit down and write a letter and communicate this event, which he did not feel up to, but wished 'I' would. So down I sate, and commenced my acquaintance with Miss Milbanke by writing her an account of this most pleasing event, which, although nothing at Oxford, is here very unusual indeed." The following was Miss Milbanke's answer ('ibid'., pp. 296, 297), dated, "Seaham, November 25, 1814:" "Dear Sir,--It will be easier for you to imagine than for me to express the pleasure which your very kind letter has given me. Not only on account of its gratifying intelligence, but also as introductory to an acquaintance which I have been taught to value, and have sincerely desired. Allow me to consider Lord Byron's friend as not 'a stranger,' and accept, with my sincerest thanks, my best wishes for your own happiness. "I am, dear sir, your faithful servant, "A. I. MlLBANKE." ] [Footnote 2: The Spirit in Milton´s 'Comus, a Mask' (lines 1012, 1013), says: "I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth´s end."] * * * * * 378.--To Leigh Hunt. Dec. 22, 1813. My Dear Sir,--I am indeed "in your debt,"--and, what is still worse, am obliged to follow _royal_ example (he has just apprised _his_ creditors that they must wait till the next meeting), and intreat your indulgence for, I hope, a very short time. The nearest relation and almost the only friend I possess, has been in London for a week, and leaves it tomorrow with me for her own residence. I return immediately; but we meet so seldom, and are so _minuted_ when we meet at all, that I give up all engagements till _now_, without reluctance. On my return, I must see you to console myself for my past disappointment. I should feel highly honoured in Mr. B.'s permission to make his acquaintance, and _there_ you are in _my_ debt; for it is a promise of last summer which I still hope to see performed. Yesterday I had a letter from Moore; you have probably heard from him lately; but if not, you will be glad to learn that he is the same in heart, head, and health. * * * * * 379.--To John Murray. December 27, 1813. Lord Holland is laid up with the gout, and would feel very much obliged if you could obtain, and send as soon as possible, Madame D'Arblay's (or even Miss Edgeworth's) new work. I know they are not out; but it is perhaps possible for your _Majesty_ to command what we cannot with much suing purchase, as yet. I need not say that when you are able or willing to confer the same favour on me, I shall be obliged. I would almost fall sick myself to get at Madame D'Arblay's writings. P.S.--You were talking to-day of the American E'n of a certain unquenchable memorial of my younger days [1]. As it can't be helped now, I own I have some curiosity to see a copy of transatlantic typography. This you will perhaps obtain, and one for yourself; but I must beg that you will not _import more_, because, _seriously_, I _do wish_ to have that thing forgotten as much as it has been forgiven. If you send to the 'Globe' E'r, say that I want neither excuse nor contradiction, but merely a discontinuance of a most ill-grounded charge. I never was consistent in any thing but my politics; and as my redemption depends on that solitary virtue, it is murder to carry away my last anchor. [Footnote 1: 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'.] * * * * * CHAPTER VIII. JOURNAL: NOVEMBER 14, 1813--APRIL 19, 1814. If this had been begun ten years ago, and faithfully kept!!!--heigho! there are too many things I wish never to have remembered, as it is. Well,--I have had my share of what are called the pleasures of this life, and have seen more of the European and Asiatic world than I have made a good use of. They say "Virtue is its own reward,"--it certainly should be paid well for its trouble. At five-and-twenty, when the better part of life is over, one should be _something_;--and what am I? nothing but five-and-twenty--and the odd months. What have I seen? the same man all over the world,--ay, and woman too. Give _me_ a Mussulman who never asks questions, and a she of the same race who saves one the trouble of putting them. But for this same plague--yellow fever--and Newstead delay, I should have been by this time a second time close to the Euxine. If I can overcome the last, I don't so much mind your pestilence; and, at any rate, the spring shall see me there,--provided I neither marry myself, nor unmarry any one else in the interval. I wish one was--I don't know what I wish. It is odd I never set myself seriously to wishing without attaining it--and repenting. I begin to believe with the good old Magi, that one should only pray for the nation, and not for the individual;--but, on my principle, this would not be very patriotic. No more reflections.--Let me see--last night I finished "Zuleika," my second Turkish Tale. I believe the composition of it kept me alive--for it was written to drive my thoughts from the recollection of: "Dear sacred name, rest ever unreveal'd." [1] At least, even here, my hand would tremble to write it. This afternoon I have burnt the scenes of my commenced comedy. I have some idea of expectorating a romance, or rather a tale in prose;--but what romance could equal the events: "quæque ipse......vidi, Et quorum pars magna fui." [2] To-day Henry Byron [3] called on me with my little cousin Eliza. She will grow up a beauty and a plague; but, in the mean time, it is the prettiest child! dark eyes and eyelashes, black and long as the wing of a raven. I think she is prettier even than my niece, Georgina,--yet I don't like to think so neither: and though older, she is not so clever. Dallas called before I was up, so we did not meet. Lewis [4], too,--who seems out of humour with every thing. What can be the matter? he is not married--has he lost his own mistress, or any other person's wife? Hodgson, too, came. He is going to be married, and he is the kind of man who will be the happier. He has talent, cheerfulness, every thing that can make him a pleasing companion; and his intended is handsome and young, and all that. But I never see any one much improved by matrimony. All my coupled contemporaries are bald and discontented. W[ordsworth] and S[outhey] have both lost their hair and good humour; and the last of the two had a good deal to lose. But it don't much signify what falls _off_ a man's temples in that state. Mem. I must get a toy to-morrow for Eliza, and send the device for the seals of myself and----Mem. too, to call on the Stael and Lady Holland to-morrow, and on----, who has advised me (without seeing it, by the by) not to publish "Zuleika;" [5] I believe he is right, but experience might have taught him that not to print is _physically_ impossible. No one has seen it but Hodgson and Mr. Gifford. I never in my life _read_ a composition, save to Hodgson, as he pays me in kind. It is a horrible thing to do too frequently;--better print, and they who like may read, and if they don't like, you have the satisfaction of knowing that they have, at least, _purchased_ the right of saying so. I have declined presenting the Debtors' Petition [6], being sick of parliamentary mummeries. I have spoken thrice; but I doubt my ever becoming an orator. My first was liked; the second and third--I don't know whether they succeeded or not. I have never yet set to it _con amore_;--one must have some excuse to one's self for laziness, or inability, or both, and this is mine. "Company, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me;" [7]--and then, I "have drunk medicines," not to make me love others, but certainly enough to hate myself. Two nights ago I saw the tigers sup at Exeter 'Change. Except Veli Pacha's lion in the Morea,--who followed the Arab keeper like a dog,--the fondness of the hyæna for her keeper amused me most. Such a conversazione!--There was a "hippopotamus," like Lord Liverpool in the face; and the "Ursine Sloth" had the very voice and manner of my valet--but the tiger talked too much. The elephant took and gave me my money again--took off my hat--opened a door--_trunked_ a whip--and behaved so well, that I wish he was my butler. The handsomest animal on earth is one of the panthers; but the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to see one _here:_--the sight of the _camel_ made me pine again for Asia Minor. _"Oh quando te aspiciam?_" [Footnote 1: "Dear fatal name! rest ever unrevealed, Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed." Pope's 'Eloisa to Abelard', lines 9, 10.] [Footnote 2: Virgil, 'Æneid', ii. 5: ". ... quoeque ipse miserrima vidi Et quorum pars magna fui."] [Footnote 3: The Rev. Henry Byron, second son of the Rev. and Hon. Richard Byron, and nephew of William, fifth Lord Byron, died in 1821. His daughter Eliza married, in 1830, George Rochford Clarke. Byron's "niece Georgina" was the daughter of Mrs. Leigh.] [Footnote 4: Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818), intended by his father for the diplomatic service, was educated at Westminster and Christ Church, Weimar, and Paris. He soon showed his taste for literature. At the age of seventeen he had translated a play from the French, and written a farce, a comedy called 'The East Indian' (acted at Drury Lane, April 22, 1799), "two volumes of a novel, two of a romance, besides numerous poems" ('Life, etc., of M. G. Lewis', vol. i. p. 70). In 1794 he was attached to the British Embassy at the Hague. There, stimulated ('ibid'., vol. i. p. 123) by reading Mrs. Radcliffe's 'Mysteries of Udolpho', he wrote 'Ambrosio, or the Monk'. The book, published in 1795, made him famous in fashionable society, and decided his career. Though he sat in Parliament for Hindon from 1796 to 1802, he took no part in politics, but devoted himself to literature. The moral and outline of 'The Monk' are taken, as Lewis says in a letter to his father ('Life, etc.', vol. i. pp. 154-158), and as was pointed out in the 'Monthly Review' for August, 1797, from Addison's "Santon Barsisa" in the 'Guardian' (No. 148). The book was severely criticized on the score of immorality. Mathias ('Pursuits of Literature', Dialogue iv.) attacks Lewis, whom he compares to John Cleland, whose 'Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure' came under the notice of the law courts: "Another Cleland see in Lewis rise. Why sleep the ministers of truth and law?" An injunction was, in fact, moved for against the book; but the proceedings dropped. Lewis had a remarkable gift of catching the popular taste of the day, both in his tales of horror and mystery, and in his ballads. In the latter he was the precursor of Scott. Many of his songs were sung to music of his own composition. His 'Tales of Terror' (1799) were dedicated to Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Bury, with whom he was in love. To his 'Tales of Wonder' (1801) Scott, Southey, and others contributed. His most successful plays were 'The Castle Spectre' (Drury Lane, December 14, 1797), and 'Timour the Tartar' (Covent Garden, April 29, 1811). In 1812, by the death of his father, "the Monk" became a rich man, and the owner of plantations in the West Indies. He paid two visits to his property, in 1815-16 and 1817-18. On the voyage home from the last visit he died of yellow fever, and was buried at sea. His 'Journal of a West Indian Proprietor', published in 1834, is written in sterling English, with much quiet humour, and a graphic power of very high order. Among his 'Detached Thoughts' Byron has the following notes on Lewis: "Sheridan was one day offered a bet by M. G. Lewis: 'I will bet you, Mr. Sheridan, a very large sum--I will bet you what you owe me as Manager, for my 'Castle Spectre'.' "'I never make _large bets_,' said Sheridan, 'but I will lay you a _very small_ one. I will bet you _what it is_ WORTH!'" "Lewis, though a kind man, hated Sheridan, and we had some words upon that score when in Switzerland, in 1816. Lewis afterwards sent me the following epigram upon Sheridan from Saint Maurice: "'For worst abuse of finest parts Was Misophil begotten; There might indeed be _blacker_ hearts, But none could be more _rotten_.'" Lewis at Oatlands was observed one morning to have his eyes red, and his air sentimental; being asked why? he replied 'that when people said anything 'kind' to him, it affected him deeply, and just now the Duchess had said something so kind to him'--here tears began to flow again. 'Never mind, Lewis,' said Col. Armstrong to him, 'never mind--don't cry, she could not mean it'.' "Lewis was a good man--a clever man, but a bore--a damned bore, one may say. My only revenge or consolation used to be setting him by the ears with some vivacious person who hated bores especially--Me. de Staël or Hobhouse, for example. But I liked Lewis; he was a Jewel of a Man had he been better set, I don't mean _personally_, but less _tiresome_, for he was tedious, as well as contradictory to everything and everybody. Being short-sighted, when we used to ride out together near the Brenta in the twilight in summer, he made me go _before_ to pilot him. I am absent at times, especially towards evening, and the consequence of this pilotage was some narrow escapes to the Monk on horseback. Once I led him into a ditch, over which I had passed as usual, forgetting to warn my convoy; once I led him nearly into the river instead of on the 'moveable' bridge which _in_commodes passengers; and twice did we both run against the diligence, which, being heavy and slow, did communicate less damage than it received in its leaders, who were 'terrasséd' by the charge. Thrice did I lose him in the gray of the gloaming and was obliged to bring to, to his distant signals of distance and distress. All the time he went on talking without intermission, for he was a man of many words. Poor fellow, he died a martyr to his new riches--of a second visit to Jamaica. "'I'd give the lands of Deloraine Dark Musgrave were alive again!' _that is_ 'I would give many a Sugar Cane Monk Lewis were alive again!' "Lewis said to me, 'Why do you talk 'Venetian' (such as I could talk, not very fine to be sure) to the Venetians, and not the usual Italian?' I answered, partly from habit and partly to be understood, if possible. 'It may be so,' said Lewis, 'but it sounds to me like talking with a 'brogue' to an _Irishman_.'" In a MS. note by Sir Walter Scott on these passages from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts', he says, "Mat had queerish eyes; they projected like those of some insect, and were flattish in their orbit. His person was extremely small and boyish; he was, indeed, the least man I ever saw to be strictly well and neatly made. I remember a picture of him by Saunders being handed round at Dalkeith House. The artist had ungenerously flung a dark folding mantle round the form, under which was half hid a dagger, or dark lanthorn, or some such cut-throat appurtenance. With all this the features were preserved and ennobled. It passed from hand to hand into that of Henry, Duke of Buccleuch, who, hearing the general voice affirm that it was very like, said aloud, 'Like Mat Lewis? Why, that picture is like a 'man'.' He looked, and lo! Mat Lewis's head was at his elbow. His boyishness went through life with him. He was a child, and a spoiled child, but a child of high imagination, so that he wasted himself in ghost stories and German nonsense. He had the finest ear for the rhythm of verse I ever heard--finer than Byron's. "Lewis was fonder of great people than he ought to have been, either as a man of talent or a man of fortune. He had always dukes and duchesses in his mouth, and was particularly fond of any one who had a title. You would have sworn he had been a 'parvenu' of yesterday, yet he had been all his life in good society. "He was one of the kindest and best creatures that ever lived. His father and mother lived separately. Mr. Lewis allowed his son a handsome income; but reduced it more than one half when he found that he gave his mother half of it. He restricted himself in all his expenses, and shared the diminished income with his mother as before. He did much good by stealth, and was a most generous creature. "I had a good picture drawn me, I think by Thos. Thomson, of Fox, in his latter days, suffering the fatigue of an attack from Lewis. The great statesman was become bulky and lethargic, and lay like a fat ox which for sometime endures the persecution of a buzzing fly, rather than rise to get rid of it; and then at last he got up, and heavily plodded his way to the other side of the room." Referring to Byron's story of Lewis near the Brenta, Scott adds, "I had a worse adventure with Mat Lewis. I had been his guide from the cottage I then had at Laswade to the Chapel of Roslin. We were to go up one side of the river and come down the other. In the return he was dead tired, and, like the Israelites, he murmured against his guide for leading him into the wilderness. I was then as strong as a poney, and took him on my back, dressed as he was in his shooting array of a close sky-blue jacket, and the brightest 'red' pantaloons I ever saw on a human breech. He also had a kind of feather in his cap. At last I could not help laughing at the ridiculous figure we must both have made, at which my rider waxed wroth. It was an ill-chosen hour and place, for I could have served him as Wallace did Fawden--thrown him down and twisted his head off. We returned to the cottage weary wights, and it cost more than one glass of Noyau, which he liked in a decent way, to get Mat's temper on its legs again."] [Footnote 5: 'The Bride of Abydos' was originally called 'Zuleika'. ] [Footnote 6: The petition, directed against Lord Redesdale's Insolvent Debtors Act, was presented by Romilly in the House of Commons, November 11, 1813, and by Lord Holland in the House of Lords, November 15, 1813.] [Footnote 7: Henry IV., Part I. act in. sc. 3.] * * * * * November 16. Went last night with Lewis to see the first of 'Antony and Cleopatra' [1]. It was admirably got up, and well acted--a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. Cleopatra strikes me as the epitome of her sex--fond, lively, sad, tender, teasing, humble, haughty, beautiful, the devil!--coquettish to the last, as well with the "asp" as with Antony. After doing all she can to persuade him that--but why do they abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero's head? Did not Tully tell Brutus it was a pity to have spared Antony? and did he not speak the Philippics? and are not "_words things_?" [2] and such "_words_" very pestilent "_things_" too? If he had had a hundred heads, they deserved (from Antony) a rostrum (his was stuck up there) apiece--though, after all, he might as well have pardoned him, for the credit of the thing. But to resume--Cleopatra, after securing him, says, "yet go--it is your interest," etc.--how like the sex! and the questions about Octavia--it is woman all over. To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Middleton--to travel sixty miles to meet Madame De Stael! I once travelled three thousand to get among silent people; and this same lady writes octavos, and _talks_ folios. I have read her books--like most of them, and delight in the last; so I won't hear it, as well as read. Read Burns to-day. What would he have been, if a patrician? We should have had more polish--less force--just as much verse, but no immortality--a divorce and a duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations must have been less spirituous, he might have lived as long as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. What a wreck is that man! and all from bad pilotage; for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a little too squally. Poor dear Sherry! I shall never forget the day he and Rogers and Moore and I passed together; when _he_ talked, and _we_ listened, without one yawn, from six till one in the morning. Got my seals----. Have again forgot a play-thing for _ma petite cousine_ Eliza; but I must send for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her to me. I sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last "_Giaour_" and "_The Bride of Abydos_" He won't like the latter, and I don't think that I shall long. It was written in four nights to distract my dreams from----. Were it not thus, it had never been composed; and had I not done something at that time, I must have gone mad, by eating my own heart,--bitter diet;--Hodgson likes it better than "_The Giaour_" but nobody else will,--and he never liked the Fragment. I am sure, had it not been for Murray, _that_ would never have been published, though the circumstances which are the ground-work make it----heigh-ho! To-night I saw both the sisters of----; my God! the youngest so like! I thought I should have sprung across the house, and am so glad no one was with me in Lady H.'s box. I hate those likenesses--the mock-bird, but not the nightingale--so like as to remind, so different as to be painful [3]. One quarrels equally with the points of resemblance and of distinction. [Footnote 1: 'Antony and Cleopatra' was revived at Covent Garden, November 15, 1813, with additions from Dryden's 'All for Love, or the World Well Lost'(1678). "Cleopatra" was acted by Mrs. Fawcit; "Marc Antony" by Young. (See for the allusions, act v. se. 2, and act i. sc. 3.)] [Footnote 2: "But words are things; and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." 'Don Juan', Canto III. stanza lxxxviii.] [Footnote 3: "-----my weal, my woe, My hope on high--my all below; Earth holds no other like to thee, Or, if it doth, in vain for me: For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same." 'The Giaour'.] * * * * * Nov. 17. No letter from----; but I must not complain. The respectable Job says, "Why should a _living man_ complain?" [1] I really don't know, except it be that a _dead man_ can't; and he, the said patriarch, _did_ complain, nevertheless, till his friends were tired and his wife recommended that pious prologue,"Curse--and die;" the only time, I suppose, when but little relief is to be found in swearing. I have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland on "_The Bride of Abydos_," which he likes, and so does Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from whom I don't deserve any quarter. Yet I _did_ think, at the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not been in such a hurry with that confounded satire, of which I would suppress even the memory;--but people, now they can't get it, make a fuss, I verily believe, out of contradiction. George Ellis [2] and Murray have been talking something about Scott and me, George _pro Scoto_,--and very right too. If they want to depose him, I only wish they would not set me up as a competitor. Even if I had my choice, I would rather be the Earl of Warwick than all the _kings_ he ever made! Jeffrey and Gifford I take to be the monarch-makers in poetry and prose. The 'British Critic', in their Rokeby Review, have presupposed a comparison which I am sure my friends never thought of, and W. Scott's subjects are injudicious in descending to. I like the man--and admire his works to what Mr. Braham calls _Entusymusy_. All such stuff can only vex him, and do me no good. Many hate his politics--(I hate all politics); and, here, a man's politics are like the Greek _soul_--an [Greek: eidolon], besides God knows what _other soul_; but their estimate of the two generally go together. Harry has not brought _ma petite cousine_. I want us to go to the play together;--she has been but once. Another short note from Jersey, inviting Rogers and me on the 23d. I must see my agent to-night. I wonder when that Newstead business will be finished. It cost me more than words to part with it--and to _have_ parted with it! What matters it what I do? or what becomes of me?--but let me remember Job's saying, and console myself with being "a living man." I wish I could settle to reading again,--my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into _reality_;--a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne--the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women. Not a word from----[Lady F. W. Webster], Have they set out from----? or has my last precious epistle fallen into the lion's jaws? If so--and this silence looks suspicious--I must clap on my "musty morion" and "hold out my iron." [3] I am out of practice--but I won't begin again at Manton's now. Besides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous wafer-splitter; but then the bullies of society made it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad cause to support, I have left off the exercise. What strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy--Buonaparte [4]! Ever since I defended my bust of him at Harrow against the rascally time-servers, when the war broke out in 1803, he has been a _Héros de Roman_ of mine--on the Continent; I don't want him here. But I don't like those same flights--leaving of armies, etc., etc. I am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did not think he would run away from himself. But I should not wonder if he banged them yet. To be beat by men would be something; but by three stupid, legitimate-old-dynasty boobies of regular-bred sovereigns--O-hone-a-rie!--O-hone-a-rie! It must be, as Cobbett says, his marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed _Autrichienne_ brood. He had better have kept to her who was kept by Barras. I never knew any good come of your young wife, and legal espousals, to any but your "sober-blooded boy" who "eats fish" and drinketh "no sack." [5] Had he not the whole opera? all Paris? all France? But a mistress is just as perplexing--that is, _one_--two or more are manageable by division. I have begun, or had begun, a song, and flung it into the fire. It was in remembrance of Mary Duff, [6] my first of flames, before most people begin to burn. I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do nothing, and--fortunately there is nothing to do. It has lately been in my power to make two persons (and their connections) comfortable, _pro tempore_, and one happy, _ex tempore_,--I rejoice in the last particularly, as it is an excellent man. [7] I wish there had been more convenience and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then there had been more merit. We are all selfish--and I believe, ye gods of Epicurus! I believe in Rochefoucault about _men_, and in Lucretius (not Busby's translation) about yourselves. [8] Your bard has made you very _nonchalant_ and blest; but as he has excused _us_ from damnation, I don't envy you your blessedness much--a little, to be sure. I remember, last year,----[Lady Oxford] said to me, at----[Eywood], "Have we not passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius?" And so we had. She is an adept in the text of the original (which I like too); and when that booby Bus. sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted him a subsequent answer, saying, that "after perusing it, her conscience would not permit her to allow her name to remain on the list of subscribblers." Last night, at Lord H.'s--Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puységur, [9] etc., there--I was trying to recollect a quotation (as _I_ think) of Stael's, from some Teutonic sophist about architecture. "Architecture," says this Macoronico Tedescho, "reminds me of frozen music." It is somewhere--but where?--the demon of perplexity must know and won't tell. I asked M., and he said it was not in her: but Puységur said it must be _hers_, it was so _like_. H. laughed, as he does at all "_De l'Allemagne_"--in which, however, I think he goes a little too far. B., I hear, contemns it too. But there are fine passages;--and, after all, what is a work--any--or every work--but a desert with fountains, and, perhaps, a grove or two, every day's journey? To be sure, in Madame, what we often mistake, and "pant for," as the "cooling stream," turns out to be the "_mirage_" (criticè _verbiage_); but we do, at last, get to something like the temple of Jove Ammon, and then the waste we have passed is only remembered to gladden the contrast. Called on C--, to explain----. She is very beautiful, to my taste, at least; for on coming home from abroad, I recollect being unable to look at any woman but her--they were so fair, and unmeaning, and _blonde_. The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me of my "Jannat al Aden." But this impression wore off; and now I can look at a fair woman, without longing for a Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every thing was explained. To-day, great news--"the Dutch have taken Holland,"--which, I suppose, will be succeeded by the actual explosion of the Thames. Five provinces have declared for young Stadt, and there will be inundation, conflagration, constupration, consternation, and every sort of nation and nations, fighting away, up to their knees, in the damnable quags of this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It is said Bernadotte is amongst them, too; and, as Orange will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince Stork and King Log in their Loggery at the same time. Two to one on the new dynasty! Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for _The Giaour_ and _The Bride of Abydos_. I won't--it is too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the _say_ of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) what?--the gods know--it was intended to be called poetry. I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time since Sunday last--this being Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea and dry biscuits--six _per diem_. I wish to God I had not dined now!--It kills me with heaviness, stupor, and horrible dreams; and yet it was but a pint of Bucellas, and fish.[10] Meat I never touch,--nor much vegetable diet. I wish I were in the country, to take exercise,--instead of being obliged to _cool_ by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should not so much mind a little accession of flesh,--my bones can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always came with it,--till I starved him out,--and I will _not_ be the slave of _any_ appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head--how it aches?--the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner agrees with him? Mem. I must write to-morrow to "Master Shallow, who owes me a thousand pounds," [11] and seems, in his letter, afraid I should ask him for it; [12]--as if I would!--I don't want it (just now, at least,) to begin with; and though I have often wanted that sum, I never asked for the repayment of £10. in my life--from a friend. His bond is not due this year, and I told him when it was, I should not enforce it. How often must he make me say the same thing? I am wrong--I did once ask----[13] to repay me. But it was under circumstances that excused me _to him_, and would to any one. I took no interest, nor required security. He paid me soon,--at least, his _padre_. My head! I believe it was given me to ache with. Good even. [Footnote 1: "Wherefore doth a living man complain?" ('Lam'. iii. 39).] [Footnote 2: George Ellis (1753-1815), a contributor to the 'Rolliad' and the 'Anti-Jacobin', and "the first converser" Walter Scott "ever knew."] [Footnote 3: "I dare not fight; but I will wink, and hold out mine iron." 'Henry V.', act ii. sc. I.] [Footnote 4: Byron was not always, even at Harrow, attached to Buonaparte, for, if we may trust Harness, he "roared out" at a Buonapartist schoolfellow: "Bold Robert Speer was Bony's bad precursor. Bob was a bloody dog, but Bonaparte a worser." His feeling for him was probably that which is expressed in the following passage from an undated letter, written to him by Moore: "We owe great gratitude to this thunderstorm of a fellow for clearing the air of all the old legitimate fogs that have settled upon us, and I sincerely trust his task is not yet over." Ticknor ('Life', vol. i. p. 60) describes Byron's reception of the news of the battle of Waterloo: "After an instant's pause, Lord Byron replied, 'I am damned sorry for it;' and then, after another slight pause, he added, 'I didn't know but I might live to see Lord Castlereagh's head on a pole. But I suppose I shan't now.'" Byron's liking for Buonaparte was probably increased by his dislike of Wellington and Blucher. The following passages are taken from the 'Detached Thoughts'(1821): "The vanity of Victories is considerable. Of all who fell at Waterloo or Trafalgar, ask any man in company to 'name you ten off hand'. They will stick at Nelson: the other will survive himself. 'Nelson was' a hero, the other is a mere Corporal, dividing with Prussians and Spaniards the luck which he never deserved. He even--but I hate the fool, and will be silent." "The Miscreant Wellington is the Cub of Fortune, but she will never lick him into shape. If he lives, he will be beaten; that's certain. Victory was never before wasted upon such an unprofitable soil as this dunghill of Tyranny, whence nothing springs but Viper's eggs." "I remember seeing Blucher in the London Assemblies, and never saw anything of his age less venerable. With the voice and manners of a recruiting Sergeant, he pretended to the honours of a hero; just as if a stone could be worshipped because a man stumbled over it."] [Footnote 5: Henry IV., Part II. act iv. se. 3.] [Footnote 6: Mary Duff, his distant cousin, who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" of Aberdeen, in Byron's childhood. She married Mr. Robert Cockburn, a wine-merchant in Edinburgh and London.] [Footnote 7: The first is, perhaps, Dallas; the second probably is Francis Hodgson, to whom he gave, from first to last, £1500.] [Footnote 8: "L'intérêt est l'ame de l'amour-propre, de sorte que comme le corps, privé de son ame, est sans vue, sans ouïe, sans connoissance, sans sentiment, et sans mouvement; de même l'amour-propre, séparé, s'il le faut dire ainsi, de son intérêt, ne voit, n'entend, ne sent, et ne se remue plus," etc., etc. (Rochefoucault, Lettre à Madame Sablé). The passage in Lucretius probably is 'De Rerum Naturâ', i. 57-62.] [Footnote 9: "Monsieur de Puységur," says Lady H. Leveson Gower ('Letters of Harriet, Countess of Granville', vol. i. p. 23), "is really 'concentré' into one wrinkle. It is the oldest, gayest, thinnest, most withered, and most brilliant thing one can meet with. When there are so many young, fat fools going about the world, I wish for the transmigration of souls. Puységur might animate a whole family." The phrase, of which Byron was in search, is Goethe's, 'eine erstarrte Musik' (Stevens's 'Life of Madame de Staël', vol. ii. p. 195).] [Footnote 10: That the poet sometimes dined seems evident from the annexed bill: Lord Byron. To M. Richold 1813-- £ s. d. Ballance of last bill 0 13 10 Aug. 9. To dinner bill 1 6 0 10. To do. do. 4 13 6 11. To do. do. 1 4 0 14. To do. do. 1 6 0 15. To share of do. 4 4 6 16. To dinner bill 1 6 0 17. To do. do. 1 6 6 19. To do. do. 1 2 6 20. To share of do. 4 19 0 21. To dinner bill 1 1 6 22. To do. do. 1 2 0 23. To do. do. 1 2 0 25. To do. do. 1 9 0 Aug. 26. To dinner bill 1 1 6 27. To do. do. 1 8 6 Sept 2. To do. do. 1 4 0 3. To do. do. 1 2 0 4. To do. do. 1 11 0 5. To do. do. 1 6 6 7. To do. do. 5 7 0 9. To do. do. 1 6 6 26. To do. do. 1 9 0 Nov. 14. To do. do. 1 0 6 21. To do. do. 0 19 0 -- -- -- £44 11 10] [Footnote 11: Henry IV., Part II. act v. sc. 5.] [Footnote 12: James Wedderburn Webster (see p. 2, note 1 [Footnote 1 of Letter 170]).] [Footnote 13: Probably John Cam Hobhouse, whose expenses on the tour of 1809-10 were paid by Byron, and repaid by Sir Benjamin Hobhouse.] * * * * * Nov. 22, 1813. "Orange Boven!" [1] So the bees have expelled the bear that broke open their hive. Well,--if we are to have new De Witts and De Ruyters, God speed the little republic! I should like to see the Hague and the village of Brock, where they have such primitive habits. Yet, I don't know,--their canals would cut a poor figure by the memory of the Bosphorus; and the Zuyder Zee look awkwardly after "Ak-Denizi" [2]. No matter,--the bluff burghers, puffing freedom out of their short tobacco-pipes, might be worth seeing; though I prefer a cigar or a hooka, with the rose-leaf mixed with the milder herb of the Levant. I don't know what liberty means,--never having seen it,--but wealth is power all over the world; and as a shilling performs the duty of a pound (besides sun and sky and beauty for nothing) in the East,--_that_ is the country. How I envy Herodes Atticus [3]!--more than Pomponius. And yet a little _tumult_, now and then, is an agreeable quickener of sensation; such as a revolution, a battle, or an _aventure_ of any lively description. I think I rather would have been Bonneval, Ripperda, Alberoni, Hayreddin, or Horuc Barbarossa, or even Wortley Montague, than Mahomet himself. [4] Rogers will be in town soon?--the 23d is fixed for our Middleton visit. Shall I go? umph!--In this island, where one can't ride out without overtaking the sea, it don't much matter where one goes. I remember the effect of the _first Edinburgh Review_ on me. I heard of it six weeks before,--read it the day of its denunciation,--dined and drank three bottles of claret, (with S. B. Davies, I think,) neither ate nor slept the less, but, nevertheless, was not easy till I had vented my wrath and my rhyme, in the same pages, against every thing and every body. Like George, in the _Vicar of Wakefield_,--"the fate of my paradoxes" [5] would allow me to perceive no merit in another. I remembered only the maxim of my boxing-master, which, in my youth, was found useful in all general riots,--"Whoever is not for you is against you--_mill_ away right and left," and so I did;--like Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all men's anent me. I did wonder, to be sure, at my own success: "And marvels so much wit is all his own," [6] as Hobhouse sarcastically says of somebody (not unlikely myself, as we are old friends);--but were it to come over again, I would _not_. I have since redde the cause of my couplets, and it is not adequate to the effect. C----told me that it was believed I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle's nervous disorder in one of the lines. I thank Heaven I did not know it--and would not, could not, if I had. I must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects or maladies. Rogers is silent,--and, it is said, severe. When he does talk, he talks well; and, on all subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his poetry. If you enter his house--his drawing-room--his library--you of yourself say, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor. But this very delicacy must be the misery of his existence. Oh the jarrings his disposition must have encountered through life! Southey, I have not seen much of. His appearance is _Epic_; and he is the only existing entire man of letters. All the others have some pursuit annexed to their authorship. His manners are mild, but not those of a man of the world, and his talents of the first order. His prose is perfect. Of his poetry there are various opinions: there is, perhaps, too much of it for the present generation; posterity will probably select. He has _passages_ equal to any thing. At present, he has _a party_, but no _public_--except for his prose writings. The life of Nelson is beautiful. Sotheby [7] is a _Littérateur_, the Oracle of the Coteries, of the----s [8], Lydia White (Sydney Smith's "Tory Virgin") [9], Mrs. Wilmot [10] (she, at least, is a swan, and might frequent a purer stream,) Lady Beaumont, [11] and all the Blues, with Lady Charlemont [12] at their head--but I say nothing of _her_--"look in her face and you forget them all," and every thing else. Oh that face!--by _te, Diva potens Cypri_, I would, to be beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy. Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents,--poetry, music, voice, all his own; and an expression in each, which never was, nor will be, possessed by another. But he is capable of still higher flights in poetry. By the by, what humour, what--every thing, in the "_Post-Bag!_" There is nothing Moore may not do, if he will but seriously set about it. In society, he is gentlemanly, gentle, and, altogether, more pleasing than any individual with whom I am acquainted. For his honour, principle, and independence, his conduct to----speaks "trumpet-tongued." He has but one fault--and that one I daily regret--he is not _here_. [Footnote 1: Holland, constituted a kingdom for Louis Napoleon (1806), was (1810) incorporated with the French Empire. On November 15, 1813, the people of Amsterdam raised the cry of "Orange Boven!", donned the Orange colours, and expelled the French from the city. Their example was followed in other provinces, and on November 21, deputies arrived in London, asking the Prince of Orange to place himself at the head of the movement. He landed in Holland, November 30, and entered Amsterdam the next day in state. A play was announced at Drury Lane, December 8, 1813, under the title of 'Orange Boven', but it was suppressed because no licence had been obtained for its performance. It was produced December 10, 1813, and ran about ten nights.] [Footnote 2: The Lake of Ak-Deniz, north-east of Antioch, into and out of which flows the Nahr-Ifrin to join the Nahr-el-Asy or Orontes.] [Footnote 3: A typically wealthy Greek, as Pomponius Atticus was a typically wealthy Roman.] [Footnote 4: Bonneval (1675-1747) was a French soldier of fortune, who served successively in the Austrian, Russian, and Turkish armies. Ripperda (died 1737) a Dutch adventurer, became Prime Minister of Spain under Philip V., and after his fall turned Mohammedan. Alberoni (1664-1752) was an Italian adventurer, who became Prime Minister of Spain in 1714. Hayreddin (died 1547) and Horuc Barbarossa (died 1518) were Algerine pirates. Edward Wortley Montague (1713-1776), son of Lady Mary, saw the inside of several prisons, served at Fontenoy, sat in the British Parliament, was received into the Roman Catholic Church at Jerusalem (1764), lived at Rosetta as a Mohammedan with his mistress, Caroline Dormer, till 1772, and died at Padua, from swallowing a fish-bone.] [Footnote 5: 'Vicar of Wakefield' (chap. xx.). The Vicar's eldest son, George, "resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity.... 'Well,' asks the Vicar, 'and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes?' 'Sir,' replied my son, 'the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes, nothing at all.... I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.'"] [Footnote 6: From Boileau ('Imitations, etc.', by J.C. Hobhouse): "With what delight rhymes on the scribbling dunce. He's ne'er perplex'd to choose, but right at once; With rapture hails each work as soon as done, And wonders so much wit was all his own."] [Footnote 7: At Sotheby's house, Miss Jane Porter, author of 'The Scottish Chiefs', etc., etc., met Byron. She made the following note of his appearance, and after his death sent it to his sister: "I once had the gratification of Seeing Lord Byron. He was at Evening party at the Poet Sotheby's. I was not aware of his being in the room, or even that he had been invited, when I was arrested from listening to the person conversing with me by the Sounds of the most melodious Speaking Voice I had ever heard. It was gentle and beautifully modulated. I turned round to look for the Speaker, and then saw a Gentleman in black of an Elegant form (for nothing of his lameness could be discovered), and with a face I never shall forget. The features of the finest proportions. The Eye deep set, but mildly lustrous; and the Complexion what I at the time described to my Sister as a Sort of moonlight paleness. It was so pale, yet with all so Softly brilliant. "I instantly asked my Companion who that Gentleman was. He replied, 'Lord Byron.' I was astonished, for there was no Scorn, no disdain, nothing in that noble Countenance _then_ of the proud Spirit which has since soared to Heaven, illuminating the Horizon far and wide."] [Footnote 8: Probably the Berrys.] [Footnote 9: Miss Lydia White, the "Miss Diddle" of Byron's 'Blues', of whom Ticknor speaks ('Life', vol. i. p. 176) as "the fashionable blue-stocking," was a wealthy Irishwoman, well known for her dinners and conversaziones "in all the capitals of Europe. At one of her dinners in Park Street (all the company except herself being Whigs), the desperate prospects of the Whig party were discussed. Yes,' said Sydney Smith, who was present, 'we are in a most deplorable condition; we must do something to help ourselves. I think,' said he, looking at Lydia White, 'we had better sacrifice a Tory Virgin'" (Lady Morgan's 'Memoirs', vol. ii. p. 236). Miss Berry, in her 'Journal' (vol. iii. p. 49, May 8, 1815), says, "Lord and Lady Byron persuaded me to go with them to Miss White. Never have I seen a more imposing convocation of ladies arranged in a circle than when we entered, taking William Spencer with us. Lord Byron brought me home. He stayed to supper." Miss White's last years were passed in bad health. Moore called upon Rogers, May 7, 1826: "Found him in high good humour. In talking of Miss White, he said, 'How wonderfully she does hold out! They may say what they will, but Miss White and 'Miss'olongi are the most remarkable things going" ('Memoirs, etc.', vol. v. p. 62). Lydia White died in February, 1827.] [Footnote 10: Barberina Ogle (1768-1854), daughter of Sir Chaloner Ogle, widow of Valentia Wilmot, married, in 1819, Lord Dacre. Her tragedy, 'Ina', was produced at Drury Lane, April 22, 1815. Her literary work was, for the most part, privately printed: 'Dramas, Translations, and Occasional Poems' (1821); 'Translations from the Italian' (1836). She also edited her daughter's 'Recollections of a Chaperon' (1831), and 'Tales of the Peerage and Peasantry' (1835).] [Footnote 11: Margaret Willes, granddaughter of Chief Justice Willes, married, in 1778, Sir George Beaumont, Bart. (1753-1827), the landscape-painter, art critic, and picture-collector, who founded the National Gallery, was a friend of Sir Joshua Reynolds, of Dr. Johnson, and of Wordsworth, and is mentioned by Byron in the 'Blues': "Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle."] [Footnote 12: Francis William Caulfield, who succeeded his father, in 1799, as second Earl of Charlemont, married, in 1802, Anne, daughter of William Bermingham, of Ross Hill, co. Galway. She died in 1876. Of Lady Charlemont's beauty Byron was an enthusiastic admirer. In his 'Letter on the Rev. W.L. Bowles's Strictures on Pope' (February 7, 1821) he says, "The head of Lady Charlemont (when I first saw her, nine years ago) seemed to possess all that sculpture could require for its ideal." Moore ('Journals, etc.', vol. iii. p. 78) has the following entry in his Diary for November 21, 1819: "Called upon Lady Charlemont, and sat with her some time. Lady Mansfield told me that the effect she produces here with her beauty is wonderful; last night, at the Comtesse d'Albany's, the Italians were ready to fall down and worship her." For the two quotations, see Horace, 'Odes', I. iii. 1, and 'The Rape of the Lock', ii. 18.] * * * * * Nov. 23. Ward--I like Ward. By Mahomet! I begin to think I like every body;--a disposition not to be encouraged;--a sort of social gluttony that swallows every thing set before it. But I like Ward. He is _piquant_; and, in my opinion, will stand very _high_ in the House, and every where else, if he applies _regularly_. By the by, I dine with him to-morrow, which may have some influence on my opinion. It is as well not to trust one's gratitude _after_ dinner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally lips. I have taken Lord Salisbury's box at Covent Garden for the season; and now I must go and prepare to join Lady Holland and party, in theirs, at Drury Lane, _questa sera_. Holland doesn't think the man is _Junius_; but that the yet unpublished journal throws great light on the obscurities of that part of George the Second's reign.--What is this to George the Third's? I don't know what to think. Why should Junius be yet dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his grave without sending his [Greek: eidolon] to shout in the ears of posterity, "Junius was X.Y.Z., Esq., buried in the parish of ----. Repair his monument, ye churchwardens! Print a new edition of his Letters, ye booksellers!" Impossible,--the man must be alive, and will never die without the disclosure. I like him;--he was a good hater. Came home unwell and went to bed,--not so sleepy as might be desirable. Tuesday morning. I awoke from a dream!--well! and have not others dreamed?--Such a dream!--but she did not overtake me. I wish the dead would rest, however. Ugh! how my blood chilled,--and I could not wake--and--and--heigho! "Shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, Than could the substance of ten thousand----s, Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow----." [1] I do not like this dream,--I hate its "foregone conclusion." And am I to be shaken by shadows? Ay, when they remind us of--no matter--but, if I dream thus again, I will try whether _all_ sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, I've been in considerable bodily pain also; but it is gone, and now, like Lord Ogleby [2], I am wound up for the day. A note from Mountnorris [3]--I dine with Ward;--Canning is to be there, Frere [4] and Sharpe [5], perhaps Gifford. I am to be one of "the five" (or rather six), as Lady----said a little sneeringly yesterday. They are all good to meet, particularly Canning, and--Ward, when he likes. I wish I may be well enough to listen to these intellectuals. No letters to-day;--so much the better,--there are no answers. I must not dream again;--it spoils even reality. I will go out of doors, and see what the fog will do for me. Jackson has been here: the boxing world much as usual;--but the club increases. I shall dine at Crib's [6] to-morrow. I like energy--even animal energy--of all kinds; and I have need of both mental and corporeal. I have not dined out, nor, indeed, _at all_, lately: have heard no music--have seen nobody. Now for a _plunge_--high life and low life. _Amant_ alterna _Camoenæ!_ [7]. I have burnt my _Roman_--as I did the first scenes and sketch of my comedy--and, for aught I see, the pleasure of burning is quite as great as that of printing. These two last would not have done. I ran into _realities_ more than ever; and some would have been recognised and others guessed at. Redde the _Ruminator_--a collection of Essays, by a strange, but able, old man [Sir Egerton Brydges] [8], and a half-wild young one, author of a poem on the Highlands, called _Childe Alarique_ [9]. The word "sensibility" (always my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays; and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discontent. This young man can know nothing of life; and, if he cherishes the disposition which runs through his papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after all, which he seems determined to be. God help him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might have all been agents and leaders, now mere spectators. For, though they may have other ostensible avocations, these last are reduced to a secondary consideration.----, too, frittering away his time among dowagers and unmarried girls. If it advanced any _serious_ affair, it were some excuse; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous speculation, and tiresome enough, too; and, with the veterans, it is not much worth trying, unless, perhaps, one in a thousand. If I had any views in this country, they would probably be parliamentary [10]. But I have no ambition; at least, if any, it would be _aut Cæsar aut nihil_. My hopes are limited to the arrangement of my affairs, and settling either in Italy or the East (rather the last), and drinking deep of the languages and literature of both. Past events have unnerved me; and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, and look on while others play. After all, even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it? _Vide_ Napoleon's last twelvemonth. It has completely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if crushed, he would have fallen, when _fractus illabitur orbis_, [11] and not have been pared away to gradual insignificance; that all this was not a mere _jeu_ of the gods, but a prelude to greater changes and mightier events. But men never advance beyond a certain point; and here we are, retrograding, to the dull, stupid old system,--balance of Europe--poising straws upon kings' noses, instead of wringing them off! Give me a republic, or a despotism of one, rather than the mixed government of one, two, three. A republic!--look in the history of the Earth--Rome, Greece, Venice, France, Holland, America, our short (_eheu!_) Commonwealth, and compare it with what they did under masters. The Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, but they have the liberty of demolishing despots, which is the next thing to it. To be the first man--not the Dictator--not the Sylla, but the Washington or the Aristides--the leader in talent and truth--is next to the Divinity! Franklin, Penn, and, next to these, either Brutus or Cassius--even Mirabeau--or St. Just. I shall never be any thing, or rather always be nothing. The most I can hope is, that some will say, "He might, perhaps, if he would." 12, midnight. Here are two confounded proofs from the printer. I have looked at the one, but for the soul of me, I can't look over that _Giaour_ again,--at least, just now, and at this hour--and yet there is no moon. Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have partly discussed an _ensemble_ expedition. It must be in ten days, if at all, if we wish to be in at the Revolution. And why not?----is distant, and will be at ----, still more distant, till spring. No one else, except Augusta, cares for me; no ties--no trammels--_andiamo dunque--se torniamo, bene--se non, ch' importa?_ Old William of Orange talked of dying in "the last ditch" of his dingy country. It is lucky I can swim, or I suppose I should not well weather the first. But let us see. I have heard hyeenas and jackalls in the ruins of Asia; and bull-frogs in the marshes; besides wolves and angry Mussulmans. Now, I should like to listen to the shout of a free Dutchman. Alla! Viva! For ever! Hourra! Huzza!--which is the most rational or musical of these cries? "Orange Boven," according to the 'Morning Post'. [Footnote 1: "By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers, Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond." 'Richard III'., act v. sc. 3.] [Footnote 2: "Lord Ogleby" is a character in 'The Clandestine Marriage' (by Colman and Garrick, first acted at Drury Lane, February 20, 1766). "Brush," his valet, says (act ii.) of his master, "What with qualms, age, rheumatism, and a few surfeits in his youth, he must have a great deal of brushing, oyling, screwing, and winding up, to set him a-going for the day."] [Footnote 3: Viscount Valentia, created in 1793 Earl of Mountnorris, was the father of Byron's friend, Viscount Valentia (afterwards second and last Earl of Mountnorris, died in 1844); of Lady Frances Wedderburn Webster; of Lady Catherine Annesley, who married Lord John Somerset, and died in 1865; and of Lady Juliana Annesley, who married Robert Bayly, of Ballyduff.] [Footnote 4: John Hookham Frere (1769-1846), educated at Eton, and Caius College, Cambridge (Fellow, 1792), M.P. for West Loe (1796-1802), was a clerk in the Foreign Office. A school-friend of Canning, he joined with him in the 'Anti-Jacobin' (November 20, 1797--July 9, 1798). Among the pieces which he contributed, in whole or part, are "The Loves of the Triangles," "The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder," "The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement," "_La Sainte Guillotine_" "New Morality," and the "Meeting of the Friends of Freedom." He was British Envoy at Lisbon (1800-1804) and to the Spanish Junta (October, 1808-April, 1809). From this post he was recalled, owing to the fatal effects of his advice to Sir John Moore, and he never again held any public appointment. From 1818 to 1846 he lived at Malta, where he died. His translations of "The Frogs" of Aristophanes (1839), and of "The Acharnians, the Knights, and the Birds" (1840), are masterpieces of spirit and fidelity. His 'Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work, by William and Robert Whistlecraft' (cantos i., ii., 1817; cantos iii., iv., 1818), inspired Byron with 'Beppo'. Ticknor describes him in 1819 ('Life', vol. i. p. 267): "Frere is a slovenly fellow. His remarks on Homer, in the 'Classical Journal', prove how fine a Greek scholar he is; his 'Quarterly Reviews', how well he writes; his 'Rovers, or the Double Arrangement,' what humour he possesses; and the reputation he has left in Spain and Portugal, how much better he understood their literatures than they do themselves; while, at the same time, his books left in France, in Gallicia, at Lisbon, and two or three places in England; his manuscripts, neglected and lost to himself; his manners, lazy and careless; and his conversation, equally rich and negligent, show how little he cares about all that distinguishes him in the eyes of the world. He studies as a luxury, he writes as an amusement, and conversation is a kind of sensual enjoyment to him. If he had been born in Asia, he would have been the laziest man that ever lived."] [Footnote 5: For "Conversation" Sharp, see p. 341, 'note' 2 [Footnote 2 of Journal entry for 24 November, 1813.]] [Footnote 6: Thomas Cribb (1781-1848), born at Bitton, near Bristol, began life as a bell-hanger, became first a coal-porter, then a sailor, and finally found his vocation as a pugilist. In his profession he was known, from one of his previous callings, as the "Black Diamond." His first big fight was against George Maddox (January 7, 1805), whom he defeated after seventy-six rounds. He twice beat the ex-champion, the one-eyed Jem Belcher (April 8, 1807, and February 1, 1809), and with his victory over Bob Gregson (October 25, 1808; see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 207, 'note' 1 [Footnote 2 of Letter 108]) became champion of England. His two defeats of Molineaux, the black pugilist (December 18, 1810, and September 28, 1811), established his title, which was never again seriously challenged, and in 1821 it was conferred upon him for life. Cribb was one of the prize-fighters, who, dressed as pages, kept order at the Coronation of George IV. In 1813 he was landlord of the King's Arms, Duke Street, St. James's, and universally respected as the honest head of the pugilistic profession. He died in 1848 at Woolwich; three years later a monument was erected to his memory by public subscription in Woolwich Churchyard. It represents "a British lion grieving over the ashes of a British hero," and on the plinth is the inscription, "Respect the ashes of the brave."] [Footnote 7: Virgil, 'Eclogues', iii. 59.] [Footnote 8: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges (1762-1837), poet, novelist, genealogist, and bibliographer, published, in 1813, 'The Ruminator: containing a series of moral, critical, and sentimental Essays'. Of the 104 Essays, 72 appeared in the 'Censura Literaria' between January, 1807, and June, 1809. The remainder were by Gillies, except two by the Rev. Francis Wrangham and two by the Rev. Montagu Pennington. No. 50 is a review of some original poems by Capell Lofft, including a Greek ode on Eton College. Gillies, in his 'Memoirs of a Literary Veteran' (vol. ii. p. 4), says that in 1809 he addressed an anonymous letter to Brydges, containing some thoughts on the advantages of retirement (the subject of 'Childe Alarique'). The letter, printed in 'The Ruminator', began his literary career and introduced him to Brydges. 'The Ruminator', 2 vols. (1813), and 'Childe Alarique' (1813), are among the books included in the sale catalogue of Byron's books, April 5, 1816.] [Footnote 9: Robert Pearse Gillies (1788-1858) wrote 'Wallace, a Fragment' (1813); 'Childe Alarique, a Poet's Reverie, with other Poems' (1813); 'Confessions of Sir Henry Longueville, a Novel' (1814); and numerous other works and translations. His 'Memoirs of a Literary Veteran' was published in 1851. He was the founder and first editor of the 'Foreign Quarterly Review' (1827).] [Footnote 10: The following additional notes on Byron's Parliamentary career are taken from his 'Detached Thoughts':-- "At the Opposition meeting of the peers, in 1812, at Lord Grenville's, when Lord Grey and he read to us the correspondence upon Moira's negociation, I sate next to the present Duke of Grafton. When it was over, I turned to him and said, 'What is to be done next?' 'Wake the Duke of Norfolk' (who was snoring away near us), replied he. 'I don't think the Negociators have left anything else for us to do this turn.'" "In the debate, or rather discussion, afterwards, in the House of Lords, upon that very question, I sate immediately behind Lord Moira, who was extremely annoyed at G.'s speech upon the subject, and while G. was speaking, turned round to me repeatedly and asked me whether I agreed with him? It was an awkward question to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to me, 'It was 'not so', it was so and so,' etc. I did not know very well what to think, but I sympathized with the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject." "Lord Eldon affects an Imitation of two very different Chancellors--Thurlow and Loughborough--and can indulge in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the Catholic question, when we were either equal or within one (I forget which), I had been sent for in great haste from a Ball, which I quitted, I confess somewhat reluctantly, to emancipate five Millions of people. I came in late, and did not go immediately into the body of the house, but stood just behind the Woolsack. Eldon turned round, and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer (who had come to him for a few minutes on the Woolsack, as is the custom of his friends), 'Damn them! they'll have it now, by God!--the vote that is just come in will give it them.'"] [Footnote 11: Horace, 'Odes', III. iii. 7.] * * * * * Wednesday, 24. No dreams last night of the dead, nor the living; so--I am "firm as the marble, founded as the rock," [1] till the next earthquake. Ward's dinner went off well. There was not a disagreeable person there--unless _I_ offended any body, which I am sure I could not by contradiction, for I said little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe [2] (a man of elegant mind, and who has lived much with the best--Fox, Horne Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agitators of other times and tongues,) told us the particulars of his last interview with Windham, [3] a few days before the fatal operation which sent "that gallant spirit to aspire the skies." [4] Windham,--the first in one department of oratory and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond the intellect of half his hearers,--Windham, half his life an active participator in the events of the earth, and one of those who governed nations,--_he_ regretted,--and dwelt much on that regret, that "he had not entirely devoted himself to literature and science!!!" His mind certainly would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere;--but I cannot comprehend what debility of that mind could suggest such a wish. I, who have heard him, cannot regret any thing but that I shall never hear him again. What! would he have been a plodder? a metaphysician?--perhaps a rhymer? a scribbler? Such an exchange must have been suggested by illness. But he is gone, and Time "shall not look upon his like again." [5] I am tremendously in arrear with my letters,--except to----, and to her my thoughts overpower me:--my words never compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write with most pleasure--and her answers, so sensible, so _tactique_--I never met with half her talent. If she had been a few years younger, what a fool she would have made of me, had she thought it worth her while,--and I should have lost a valuable and most agreeable _friend_. Mem. a mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and, when it is over, any thing but friends. I have not answered W. Scott's last letter,--but I will. I regret to hear from others, that he has lately been unfortunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most _English_ of bards. I should place Rogers next in the living list (I value him more as the last of the best school)--Moore and Campbell both _third_--Southey and Wordsworth and Coleridge--the rest, [Greek: hoi polloi]--thus: W. SCOTT. ^ ROGERS. MOORE.--CAMPBELL. SOUTHEY.--WORDSWORTH.--COLERIDGE. < THE MANY. > There is a triangular _Gradus ad Parnassum_!--the names are too numerous for the base of the triangle. Poor Thurlow has gone wild about the poetry of Queen Bess's reign--_c'est dommage_. I have ranked the names upon my triangle more upon what I believe popular opinion, than any decided opinion of my own. For, to me, some of Moore's last _Erin_ sparks--"As a beam o'er the face of the waters"--"When he who adores thee"--"Oh blame not"--and "Oh breathe not his name"--are worth all the Epics that ever were composed. Rogers thinks the 'Quarterly' will attack me next. Let them. I have been "peppered so highly" in my time, _both_ ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. I can sincerely say, that I am not very much alive _now_ to criticism. But--in tracing this--I rather believe that it proceeds from my not attaching that importance to authorship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. "One gets tired of every thing, my angel," says Valmont [6]. The "angels" are the only things of which I am not a little sick--but I do think the preference of _writers_ to _agents_--the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by themselves and others--a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, who had any thing better to do? "Action--action--action"--said Demosthenes: "Actions--actions," I say, and not writing,--least of all, rhyme. Look at the querulous and monotonous lives of the "genus;"--except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, Kleist (who were brave and active citizens), Æschylus, Sophocles, and some other of the antiques also--what a worthless, idle brood it is! [Footnote 1: 'Macbeth', act iii. sc. 4-- "Whole as the marble, founded as the rock."] [Footnote 2: Richard Sharp (1759-1835), a wealthy hat-manufacturer, was a prominent figure in political and literary life. A consistent Whig, he was one of the "Friends of the People," and in the House of Commons (1806-12) was a recognized authority on questions of finance. Essentially a "club-able man," he was a member of many clubs, both literary and political. In Park Lane and at Mickleham he gathered round him many friends--Rogers, Moore, Mackintosh, Macaulay, Coleridge, Horner, Grattan, Horne Tooke, and Sydney Smith, who was so frequently his guest in the country that he was called the "Bishop of Mickleham." Horner (May 20, 1816) speaks of a visit paid to Sharp in Surrey, in company with Grattan ('Memoirs', vol. ii. p. 355). Ticknor, who, in 1815, breakfasted with Sharp in Park Lane ('Life', vol. i. pp. 55, 56), says of a party of "men of letters:" "I saw little of them, excepting Mr. Sharp, formerly a Member of Parliament, and who, from his talents in society, has been called 'Conversation Sharp.' He has been made an associate of most of the literary clubs in London, from the days of Burke down to the present time. He told me a great many amusing anecdotes of them, and particularly of Burke, Porson, and Grattan, with whom he had been intimate; and occupied the dinner-time as pleasantly as the same number of hours have passed with me in England.... 'June 7'.--This morning I breakfasted with Mr. Sharp, and had a continuation of yesterday,--more pleasant accounts of the great men of the present day, and more amusing anecdotes of the generation that has passed away." Miss Berry, who met Sharp often, writes, in her Journal for March 26, 1808 ('Journal', vol. ii. p. 344), "He is clever, but I should suspect of little real depth of intellect." Sharp published anonymously a volume of 'Epistles in Verse' (1828). These were reproduced, with additions, in his 'Letters and Essays', published with his name in 1834. His "Epistle to an Eminent Poet" is evidently addressed to his lifelong friend, Samuel Rogers: "Yes! thou hast chosen well 'the better part,' And, for the triumphs of the noblest art, Hast wisely scorn'd the sordid cares of life."] [Footnote 3: William Windham, of Felbrigg Hall (1750-1810), educated at Eton, Glasgow, and University College, Oxford, became M.P. for Norwich in 1784. In the following year he was made chief secretary to Lord Northington, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. Expressing some doubts to Dr. Johnson whether he possessed the arts necessary for Parliamentary success, the Doctor said, "You will become an able negotiator; a very pretty rascal." He resigned the secretaryship within the year, according to Gibbon, on the plea of ill health. He was one of the managers of the impeachment of Warren Hastings in 1788, Secretary at War from 1794 to 1801, and War and Colonial Secretary, 1806-7. Windham, a shrewd critic of other speakers, called Pitt's style a "State-paper style," because of its combined dignity and poverty, and "verily believed Mr. Pitt could speak a king's speech off-hand." As a speaker he was himself remarkably effective, a master of illustration and allusion, delighting in "homely Saxon," and affecting provincial words and pronunciation. Lord Sheffield, writing to Gibbon, February 5, 1793, says, "As to Windham, I should think he is become the best, at least the most sensible, speaker of the whole." His love of paradox, combined with his political independence and irresolution, gained him the name of "Weathercock Windham;" but he was respected by both sides as an honest politician. Outside the house it was his ambition to be known as a thorough Englishman--a patron of horse-racing, cock-fighting, bull-baiting, pugilism, and football. He was also a scholar, a man of wide reading, an admirable talker, and a friend of Miss Berry and of Madame d'Arblay, in whose Diaries he is a prominent figure. His own 'Diary' (1784-1810) was published in 1866. On the 8th of July, 1809, he saw a fire in Conduit Street, which threatened to spread to the house of his friend North, who possessed a valuable library. In his efforts to save the books, he fell and bruised his hip. A tumour formed, which was removed; but he sank under the operation, and died June 4, 1810.] [Footnote 4: "O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead; That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds." 'Romeo and Juliet', act iii. sc. 1.] [Footnote 5: "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." 'Hamlet', act i. sc. 2.] [Footnote 6: The allusion probably is to 'The Foundling of the Forest' (1809), by William Dimond the Younger. But no passage exactly corresponds to the quotation.] * * * * * 12, Mezza Notte. Just returned from dinner with Jackson (the Emperor of Pugilism) and another of the select, at Crib's, the champion's. I drank more than I like, and have brought away some three bottles of very fair claret--for I have no headach. We had Tom Crib up after dinner;--very facetious, though somewhat prolix. He don't like his situation--wants to fight again--pray Pollux (or Castor, if he was the _miller_) he may! Tom has been a sailor--a coal-heaver--and some other genteel profession, before he took to the cestus. Tom has been in action at sea, and is now only three-and-thirty. A great man! has a wife and a mistress, and conversations well--bating some sad omissions and misapplications of the aspirate. Tom is an old friend of mine; I have seen some of his best battles in my nonage. He is now a publican, and, I fear, a sinner;--for Mrs. Crib is on alimony, and Tom's daughter lives with the champion. _This_ Tom told me,--Tom, having an opinion of my morals, passed her off as a legal spouse. Talking of her, he said, "she was the truest of women"--from which I immediately inferred she could _not_ be his wife, and so it turned out. These panegyrics don't belong to matrimony;--for, if "true," a man don't think it necessary to say so; and if not, the less he says the better. Crib is the only man except----, I ever heard harangue upon his wife's virtue; and I listened to both with great credence and patience, and stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, when I found yawning irresistible--By the by, I am yawning now--so, good night to thee.--[Greek: Noairon] [1] [Footnote 1: It is doubtful whether this is not a mistake for [Greek: Npairon], a variant of [Greek: Mpairon], which is the correct transliteration into modern Greek of 'Byron', but the MS. is destroyed.] * * * * * Thursday, November 26. Awoke a little feverish, but no headach--no dreams neither, thanks to stupor! Two letters; one from----, the other from Lady Melbourne--both excellent in their respective styles.----'s contained also a very pretty lyric on "concealed griefs;" if not her own, yet very like her. Why did she not say that the stanzas were, or were not, of her own composition? I do not know whether to wish them _hers_ or not. I have no great esteem for poetical persons, particularly women; they have so much of the "ideal" in _practics_, as well as _ethics_. I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel passion, nor know the meaning of the word. And the effect! My mother used always to rally me about this childish amour; and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me one day, "Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your old sweetheart Mary Duff is married to a Mr. Co'e." And what was my answer? I really cannot explain or account for my feelings at that moment; but they nearly threw me into convulsions, and alarmed my mother so much, that after I grew better, she generally avoided the subject--to _me_--and contented herself with telling it to all her acquaintance. Now, what could this be? I had never seen her since her mother's _faux pas_ at Aberdeen had been the cause of her removal to her grandmother's at Banff; we were both the merest children. I had and have been attached fifty times since that period; yet I recollect all we said to each other, all our caresses, her features, my restlessness, sleeplessness, my tormenting my mother's maid to write for me to her, which she at last did, to quiet me. Poor Nancy thought I was wild, and, as I could not write for myself, became my secretary. I remember, too, our walks, and the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the children's apartment, at their house not far from the Plain-stanes at Aberdeen, while her lesser sister Helen played with the doll, and we sat gravely making love, in our way. How the deuce did all this occur so early? where could it originate? I certainly had no sexual ideas for years afterwards; and yet my misery, my love for that girl were so violent, that I sometimes doubt if I have ever been really attached since. Be that as it may, hearing of her marriage several years after was like a thunder-stroke--it nearly choked me--to the horror of my mother and the astonishment and almost incredulity of every body. And it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not eight years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it; and lately, I know not why, the _recollection_ (_not_ the attachment) has recurred as forcibly as ever. I wonder if she can have the least remembrance of it or me? or remember her pitying sister Helen for not having an admirer too? How very pretty is the perfect image of her in my memory--her brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes; her very dress! I should be quite grieved to see _her now_; the reality, however beautiful, would destroy, or at least confuse, the features of the lovely Peri which then existed in her, and still lives in my imagination, at the distance of more than sixteen years. I am now twenty-five and odd months.... I think my mother told the circumstances (on my hearing of her marriage) to the Parkynses, and certainly to the Pigot family, and probably mentioned it in her answer to Miss A., who was well acquainted with my childish _penchant_, and had sent the news on purpose for _me_,--and thanks to her! Next to the beginning, the conclusion has often occupied my reflections, in the way of investigation. That the facts are thus, others know as well as I, and my memory yet tells me so, in more than a whisper. But, the more I reflect, the more I am bewildered to assign any cause for this precocity of affection. Lord Holland invited me to dinner to-day; but three days' dining would destroy me. So, without eating at all since yesterday, I went to my box at Covent Garden. Saw----looking very pretty, though quite a different style of beauty from the other two. She has the finest eyes in the world, out of which she pretends _not_ to see, and the longest eyelashes I ever saw, since Leila's and Phannio's Moslem curtains of the light. She has much beauty,--just enough,--but is, I think, _méchante_. I have been pondering on the miseries of separation, that--oh how seldom we see those we love! yet we live ages in moments, _when met_. The only thing that consoles me during absence is the reflection that no mental or personal estrangement, from ennui or disagreement, can take place; and when people meet hereafter, even though many changes may have taken place in the mean time, still, unless they are _tired_ of each other, they are ready to reunite, and do not blame each other for the circumstances that severed them. * * * * * Saturday 27 (I believe or rather am in _doubt_, which is the _ne plus ultra_ of mortal faith.) I have missed a day; and, as the Irishman said, or Joe Miller says for him, "have gained a loss," or _by_ the loss. Every thing is settled for Holland, and nothing but a cough, or a caprice of my fellow-traveller's, can stop us. Carriage ordered, funds prepared, and, probably, a gale of wind into the bargain. _N'importe_--I believe, with Clym o' the Clow, or Robin Hood, "By our Mary, (dear name!) thou art both Mother and May, I think it never was a man's lot to die before his day." [1] Heigh for Helvoetsluys, and so forth! To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see _Nourjahad_, a drama, which the _Morning Post_ hath laid to my charge, but of which I cannot even guess the author. I wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They cannot well sink below a melodrama; but that is better than a satire, (at least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly arraigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved to bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even praises, for bad pantomimes never composed by me, without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report is my loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his dresses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. I suppose the real author will soon own it, as it has succeeded; if not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage! ----has received the portrait safe; and, in answer, the only remark she makes upon it is, "indeed it is like"--and again, "indeed it is like." With her the likeness "covered a multitude of sins;" for I happen to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and stern,--even black as the mood in which my mind was scorching last July, when I sat for it. All the others of me, like most portraits whatsoever, are, of course, more agreeable than nature. Redde the 'Edinburgh Review' of Rogers. He is ranked highly; but where he should be. There is a summary view of us all--_Moore_ and _me_ among the rest; [2] and both (the _first_ justly) praised--though, by implication (justly again) placed beneath our memorable friend. Mackintosh is the writer, and also of the critique on the Stael. [3] His grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number. But I know nothing of the 'Edinburgh', or of any other _Review_, but from rumour; and I have long ceased; indeed, I could not, in justice, complain of any, even though I were to rate poetry, in general, and my rhymes in particular, more highly than I really do. To withdraw _myself_ from _myself_ (oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all; and publishing is also the continuance of the same object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, which have gathered strength by time, and will yet wear longer than any living works to the contrary. But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise,--in which, from the description, I see nothing very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something "within that passeth show." [4] It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but I see no such horror in a "dreamless sleep," and I have no conception of any existence which duration would not render tiresome. How else "fell the angels," even according to your creed? They were immortal, heavenly, and happy, as their _apostate Abdiel_ [5] is now by his treachery. Time must decide; and eternity won't be the less agreeable or more horrible because one did not expect it. In the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably patient under certain evils--_grace à Dieu et mon bon tempérament_. [Footnote 1: "Ah, deere ladye, said Robin Hood, thou That art both Mother and May, I think it was never man's destinye To die before his day." 'Ballad of Robin Hood' [Footnote 2: The following is the passage to which Byron alludes: "Greece, the mother of freedom and of poetry in the West, which had long employed only the antiquary, the artist, and the philologist, was at length destined, after an interval of many silent and inglorious ages, to awaken the genius of a poet. Full of enthusiasm for those perfect forms of heroism and liberty which his imagination had placed in the recesses of antiquity, he gave vent to his impatience of the imperfections of living men and real institutions, in an original strain of sublime satire, which clothes moral anger in imagery of an almost horrible grandeur; and which, though it cannot coincide with the estimate of reason, yet could only flow from that worship of perfection which is the soul of all true poetry." 'Edin. Rev'., vol. xxii. p. 37.] [Footnote 3: "In the last 'Edinburgh Review' you will find two articles of mine, one on Rogers, and the other on Madame de Staël: they are both, especially the first, thought too panegyrical. I like the praises which I have bestowed on Lord Byron and Thomas Moore. I am convinced of the justness of the praises given to Madame de Staël." 'Mackintosh's Life', vol. ii. p. 271.] [Footnote 4: "I have that within which passeth show." 'Hamlet', act i. sc. 2.] [Footnote 5: "... the seraph Abdiel, faithful found Among the faithless." Milton, 'Paradise Lost', v. 896.] * * * * * Tuesday, 30th. Two days missed in my log-book;--_hiatus_ haud _deflendus_. They were as little worth recollection as the rest; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from _notching_ them. Sunday, I dined with the Lord Holland in St. James's Square. Large party--among them Sir S. Romilly [1] and Lady R'y.--General Sir Somebody Bentham, [2] a man of science and talent, I am told--Horner [3]--_the_ Horner, an Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the "Honourable House," very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in company, as far as I have seen--Sharpe--Philips of Lancashire [4]--Lord John Russell, and others, "good men and true." Holland's society is very good; you always see some one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed myself with sturgeon, and exceeded in champagne and wine in general, but not to confusion of head. When I _do_ dine, I gorge like an Arab or a Boa snake, on fish and vegetables, but no meat. I am always better, however, on my tea and biscuit than any other regimen, and even _that_ sparingly. Why does Lady H. always have that damned screen between the whole room and the fire? I, who bear cold no better than an antelope, and never yet found a sun quite _done_ to my taste, was absolutely petrified, and could not even shiver. All the rest, too, looked as if they were just unpacked, like salmon from an ice-basket, and set down to table for that day only. When she retired, I watched their looks as I dismissed the screen, and every cheek thawed, and every nose reddened with the anticipated glow. Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to _Nourjahad_; and, I believe, convinced him, by incessant yawning, that it was not mine. I wish the precious author would own it, and release me from his fame. The dresses are pretty, but not in costume;--Mrs. Horn's, all but the turban, and the want of a small dagger (if she is a sultana), _perfect_. I never saw a Turkish woman with a turban in my life--nor did any one else. The sultanas have a small poniard at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy--the action heavy--the scenery fine--the actors tolerable. I can't say much for their seraglio--Teresa, Phannio, or----, were worth them all. Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackintosh, who is a rare instance of the union of very transcendent talent and great good nature. To-day (Tuesday) a very pretty billet from M. la Baronne de Stael Holstein. [5] She is pleased to be much pleased with my mention of her and her last work in my notes. I spoke as I thought. Her works are my delight, and so is she herself, for--half an hour. I don't like her politics--at least, her _having changed_ them; had she been _qualis ab incepto_, it were nothing. But she is a woman by herself, and has done more than all the rest of them together, intellectually;--she ought to have been a man. She _flatters_ me very prettily in her note;--but I _know_ it. The reason that adulation is not displeasing is, that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie, to make us their friend:--that is their concern. ----is, I hear, thriving on the repute of a _pun_ which was _mine_ (at Mackintosh's dinner some time back), on Ward, who was asking, "how much it would take to _re-whig_ him?" I answered that, probably, "he must first, before he was _re-whigged_, be re-_warded_." [6] This foolish quibble, before the Stael and Mackintosh, and a number of conversationers, has been mouthed about, and at last settled on the head of----, where long may it remain! George [7] is returned from afloat to get a new ship. He looks thin, but better than I expected. I like George much more than most people like their heirs. He is a fine fellow, and every inch a sailor. I would do any thing, _but apostatise_, to get him on in his profession. Lewis called. It is a good and good-humoured man, but pestilently prolix and paradoxical and _personal_ [8]. If he would but talk half, and reduce his visits to an hour, he would add to his popularity. As an author he is very good, and his vanity is _ouverte_, like Erskine's, and yet not offending. Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabella [9], which I answered. What an odd situation and friendship is ours!--without one spark of love on either side, and produced by circumstances which in general lead to coldness on one side, and aversion on the other. She is a very superior woman, and very little spoiled, which is strange in an heiress--a girl of twenty--a peeress that is to be, in her own right--an only child, and a _savante_, who has always had her own way. She is a poetess--a mathematician--a metaphysician, and yet, withal, very kind, generous, and gentle, with very little pretension. Any other head would be turned with half her acquisitions, and a tenth of her advantages. [Footnote 1: Sir Samuel Romilly (1757-1818), Solicitor-General (1806-7), distinguished himself in Parliament by his consistent advocacy of Catholic Emancipation, the abolition of the slave-trade, Parliamentary reform, and the mitigation of the harshness of the criminal law. Writing of Romilly's 'Observations on the Criminal Law of England' (1810), Sir James Mackintosh says, "It does the very highest honour to his moral character, which, I think, stands higher than that of any other conspicuous Englishman now alive. Probity, independence, humanity, and liberality breathe through every word; considered merely as a composition, accuracy, perspicuity, discretion, and good taste are its chief merits; great originality and comprehension of thought, or remarkable vigour of expression, it does not possess." The death of his wife, October 29, 1818, so affected Romilly's mind that he committed suicide four days later. "Romilly," said Lord Lansdowne to Moore ('Memoirs, etc'., vol. ii. p. 211), "was a stern, reserved sort of man, and she was the only person in the world to whom he wholly unbent and unbosomed himself; when he lost her, therefore, the very vent of his heart was stopped up."] [Footnote 2: Sir Samuel Bentham (1757-1831), naval architect and engineer, like his brother Jeremy, was a strong reformer. He was a Knight of the Russian Order of St. George, and, like Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges, who was a Knight of the Swedish Order of St. Joachim before he was created a baronet (1814), assumed the title in England.] [Footnote 3: Francis Horner (1778-1817), called to the Scottish Bar in 1800, and to the English Bar in 1807, was one of the founders of the 'Edinburgh Review', and acted as second to Jeffrey in his duel with Moore. In the House of Commons (M.P. for St. Ives, 1806-7; Wendover, 1807-12; St. Mawes, 1812-17) he was one of the most impressive speakers of the day, especially on financial questions. When Lord Morpeth moved (March 3, 1817) for a new writ for the borough of St. Mawes, striking tributes were paid to his character from both sides of the House ('Memoirs and Correspondence of Francis Horner', vol. ii. pp. 416-426), and further proof was given of public esteem by the statue erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey. The speeches delivered in the Lower House on March 3, 1817, were translated by Ugo Foscolo, and published with a dedication 'al nobile giovinetto, Enrico Fox, figlio di Lord Holland'.] [Footnote 4: George Philips, only son of Thomas Philips of Sedgley, Lancashire (born March 24, 1766), was created a baronet in February, 1828. He sat for South Warwickshire in the first reformed House of Commons.] [Footnote 5: In a note to 'The Bride of Abydos' (Canto I. st. vi.), Byron had written, "For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps of any, age, on the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that analogy) between 'painting and music,' see vol. iii. cap. 10, 'De l'Allemagne'." The passage is as follows (Part III. chap, x.): "Sans cesse nous comparons la peinture à la musique, et la musique à la peinture, parceque les émotions que nous eprouvons nous révèlent des analogies où l'observation froide ne verroit que des différences," etc., etc. The following is Madame de Staël's "very pretty billet:" "Argyll St., No. 31. "Je ne saurais vous exprímer, my lord, à quel point je me trouve honorée d'être dans une note de votre poëme, et de quel poëme! il me semble que pour la première fois je me crois certaine d'un nom d'avenir et que vous avez disposé pour moi de cet empire de reputation qui vous sera tous les jours plus soumis. Je voudrais vous parler de ce poëme que tout le monde admire, mais j'avouerai que je suis trop suspecte en le louant, et je ne cache pas qu' une louage de vous m'a fait épreuver un sentiment de fierté et de réconaissance qui me rendrait incapable de vous juger; mais heureusement vous êtes au dessus du jugement. "Donnez moi quelquefois le plaisir de vous voir; il-y-a un proverbe français qui dit qu'un bonheur ne va jamais sans d'autre. "DE STAËL."] [Footnote 6: "Byron," writes Sir Walter Scott, in a hitherto unpublished note, "occasionally said what are called good things, but never studied for them. They came naturally and easily, and mixed with the comic or serious, as it happened. A professed wit is of all earthly companions the most intolerable. He is like a schoolboy with his pockets stuffed with crackers. "No first-rate author was ever what is understood by a 'great conversational wit'. Swift's wit in common society was either the strong sense of a wonderful man unconsciously exerting his powers, or that of the same being wilfully unbending, wilfully, in fact, degrading himself. Who ever heard of any fame for conversational wit lingering over the memory of a Shakespeare, a Milton, even of a Dryden or a Pope? "Johnson is, perhaps, a solitary exception. More shame to him. He was the most indolent great man that ever lived, and threw away in his talk more than he ever took pains to embalm in his writings. "It is true that Boswell has in great measure counteracted all this. But here is no defence. Few great men can expect to have a Boswell, and none 'ought' to wish to have one, far less to trust to having one. A man should not keep fine clothes locked up in his chest only that his valet may occasionally show off in them; no, nor yet strut about in them in his chamber, only that his valet may puff him and his finery abroad. "What might not he have done, who wrote 'Rasselas' in the evenings of eight days to get money enough for his mother's funeral expenses? As it is, what has Johnson done? Is it nothing to be the first intellect of 'an age'? and who seriously talks even of Burke as having been more than a clever boy in the presence of old Samuel?"] [Footnote 7: George Anson Byron, R. N., afterwards Lord Byron.] [Footnote 8: Scott has this additional note on Lewis: "Nothing was more tiresome than Lewis when he began to harp upon any extravagant proposition. He would tinker at it for hours without mercy, and repeat the same thing in four hundred different ways. If you assented in despair, he resumed his reasoning in triumph, and you had only for your pains the disgrace of giving in. If you disputed, daylight and candle-light could not bring the discussion to an end, and Mat's arguments were always 'ditto repeated'."] [Footnote 9: Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron.] * * * * * Wednesday, December 1, 1813. To-day responded to La Baronne de Stael Holstein, and sent to Leigh Hunt (an acquisition to my acquaintance--through Moore--of last summer) a copy of the two Turkish tales. Hunt is an extraordinary character, and not exactly of the present age. He reminds me more of the Pym and Hampden times--much talent, great independence of spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, aspect. If he goes on _qualis ab incepto_, I know few men who will deserve more praise or obtain it. I must go and see him again;--the rapid succession of adventure, since last summer, added to some serious uneasiness and business, have interrupted our acquaintance; but he is a man worth knowing; and though, for his own sake, I wish him out of prison, I like to study character in such situations. He has been unshaken, and will continue so. I don't think him deeply versed in life;--he is the bigot of virtue (not religion), and enamoured of the beauty of that "empty name," as the last breath of Brutus pronounced [1], and every day proves it. He is, perhaps, a little opinionated, as all men who are the _centre_ of _circles_, wide or narrow--the Sir Oracles, in whose name two or three are gathered together--must be, and as even Johnson was; but, withal, a valuable man, and less vain than success and even the consciousness of preferring "the right to the expedient" might excuse. To-morrow there is a party of _purple_ at the "blue" Miss Berry's. Shall I go? um!--I don't much affect your blue-bottles;--but one ought to be civil. There will be, "I guess now" (as the Americans say), the Staels and Mackintoshes--good--the----s and----s--not so good--the----s, etc., etc.--good for nothing. Perhaps that blue-winged Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning [2], Lady Charlemont, will be there. I hope so; it is a pleasure to look upon that most beautiful of faces. Wrote to H.:--he has been telling that I------[3] I am sure, at least, _I_ did not mention it, and I wish he had not. He is a good fellow, and I obliged myself ten times more by being of use than I did him,--and there's an end on't. Baldwin [4] is boring me to present their King's Bench petition. I presented Cartwright's last year; and Stanhope and I stood against the whole House, and mouthed it valiantly--and had some fun and a little abuse for our opposition. But "I am not i' th' vein" [5] for this business. Now, had----been here, she would have _made_ me do it. _There_ is a woman, who, amid all her fascination, always urged a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, she had been my tutelar genius. Baldwin is very importunate--but, poor fellow, "I can't get out, I can't get out--said the starling." [6] Ah, I am as bad as that dog Sterne, who preferred whining over "a dead ass to relieving a living mother" [7]--villain--hypocrite--slave--sycophant! but _I_ am no better. Here I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for the sake of these unfortunates, and three words and half a smile of----had she been here to urge it (and urge it she infallibly would--at least she always pressed me on senatorial duties, and particularly in the cause of weakness) would have made me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on Rochefoucault for being always right! In him a lie were virtue,--or, at least, a comfort to his readers. George Byron has not called to-day; I hope he will be an admiral, and, perhaps, Lord Byron into the bargain. If he would but marry, I would engage never to marry myself, or cut him out of the heirship. He would be happier, and I should like nephews better than sons. I shall soon be six-and-twenty (January 22d., 1814). Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console us for not being always _twenty-five_? "Oh Gioventu! Oh Primavera! gioventu dell' anno. Oh Gioventu! primavera della vita." [Footnote 1: "'Strato'. For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death. * * * * * 'Octavius'. According to his virtue let us use him, With all respect and rites of burial." 'Julius Cæsar', act v. sc. 5.] [Footnote 2: In 'The Giaour' (lines 388-392) occurs the following passage: "As rising on its purple wing The insect-queen of Eastern spring O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near," etc. To line 389 is appended this note: "The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species."] [Footnote 3: See letter [Letter 365] to Francis Hodgson, p. 294.] [Footnote 4: The letters which W.J. Baldwin, a debtor in the King's Bench prison, wrote to Byron are preserved. Byron seems to have refused to present the petition from diffidence, but he interested himself in the subject, and probably induced Lord Holland to take up the question. (See p. 318, 'note' 2 [Footnote 6 of the initial journal entry which forms the beginning of Chapter VIII.]) In the list of abuses enumerated by Baldwin is mentioned a "strong room," in which prisoners were confined, without fires or glass to the windows, in the depth of winter.] [Footnote 5: 'Richard III'., act iv, sc. 2.] [Footnote 6: 'Sentimental Journey' (ed. 1819), vol. ii. p. 379.] [Footnote 7: 'Ibid.', vol. ii. p. 337.] * * * * * Sunday, December 5. Dallas's nephew (son to the American Attorney-general) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas that my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These are the first tidings that have ever sounded like _Fame_ to my ears--to be redde on the banks of the Ohio! The greatest pleasure I ever derived, of this kind was from an extract, in Cooke the actor's life, from his journal [1], stating that in the reading-room at Albany, near Washington, he perused _English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers_. To be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of _posthumous feel_, very different from the ephemeral _éclat_ and fête-ing, buzzing and party-ing compliments of the well-dressed multitude. I can safely say that, during my _reign_ in the spring of 1812, I regretted nothing but its duration of six weeks instead of a fortnight, and was heartily glad to resign. Last night I supped with Lewis; and, as usual, though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have been half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely destroyed by long abstinence, and the rest will probably follow. Let it--I only wish the _pain_ over. The "leap in the dark" is the least to be dreaded. The Duke of----called. I have told them forty times that, except to half-a-dozen old and specified acquaintances, I am invisible. His Grace is a good, noble, ducal person; but I am content to think so at a distance, and so--I was not at home. Galt called.--Mem.--to ask some one to speak to Raymond in favour of his play. We are old fellow-travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he has much strong sense, experience of the world, and is, as far as I have seen, a good-natured philosophical fellow. I showed him Sligo's letter on the reports of the Turkish girl's _aventure_ at Athens soon after it happened. He and Lord Holland, Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Melbourne have seen it. Murray has a copy. I thought it had been _unknown_, and wish it were; but Sligo arrived only some days after, and the _rumours_ are the subject of his letter. That I shall preserve,--_it is as well_. Lewis and Gait were both _horrified_; and L. wondered I did not introduce the situation into _The Giaour_. He _may_ wonder;--he might wonder more at that production's being written at all. But to describe the _feelings_ of _that situation_ were impossible--it is _icy_ even to recollect them. The _Bride of Abydos_ was published on Thursday the second of December; but how it is liked or disliked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not is no fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most partial reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination--from selfish regrets to vivid recollections--and recalled me to a country replete with the _brightest_ and _darkest_, but always most _lively_ colours of my memory. Sharpe called, but was not let in, which I regret. Saw [Rogers] yesterday. I have not kept my appointment at Middleton, which has not pleased him, perhaps; and my projected voyage with [Ward] will, perhaps, please him less. But I wish to keep well with both. They are instruments that don't do in concert; but, surely, their separate tones are very musical, and I won't give up either. It is well if I don't jar between these great discords. At present I stand tolerably well with all, but I cannot adopt their _dislikes_;--so many _sets_. Holland's is the first;--every thing _distingué_ is welcome there, and certainly the _ton_ of his society is the best. Then there is Madame de Stael's--there I never go, though I might, had I courted it. It is composed of the----s and the----family, with a strange sprinkling,--orators, dandies, and all kinds of _Blue_, from the regular Grub Street uniform, down to the azure jacket of the _Littérateur_ [2]? To see----and----sitting together, at dinner, always reminds me of the grave, where all distinctions of friend and foe are levelled; and they--the Reviewer and the Reviewée--the Rhinoceros and Elephant--the Mammoth and Megalonyx--all will lie quietly together. They now _sit_ together, as silent, but not so quiet, as if they were already immured. I did not go to the Berrys' the other night. The elder is a woman of much talent, and both are handsome, and must have been beautiful. To-night asked to Lord H.'s--shall I go? um!--perhaps. Morning, two o'clock. Went to Lord H.'s--party numerous--_mi_lady in perfect good humour, and consequently _perfect_. No one more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, when she will. Asked for Wednesday to dine and meet the Stael--asked particularly, I believe, out of mischief to see the first interview after the _note_, with which Corinne professes herself to be so much taken. I don't much like it; she always talks of _my_self or _her_self, and I am not (except in soliloquy, as now,) much enamoured of either subject--especially one's works. What the devil shall I say about _De l'Allemagne_? I like it prodigiously; but unless I can twist my admiration into some fantastical expression, she won't believe me; and I know, by experience, I shall be overwhelmed with fine things about rhyme, etc., etc. The lover, Mr.----[Rocca], was there to-night, and C----said "it was the only proof _he_ had seen of her good taste." Monsieur L'Amant is remarkably handsome; but _I_ don't think more so than her book. C----[Campbell] looks well,--seems pleased, and dressed to _sprucery_. A blue coat becomes him,--so does his new wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birthday suit, or a wedding-garment, and was witty and lively. He abused Corinne's book, which I regret; because, firstly, he understands German, and is consequently a fair judge; and, secondly, he is _first-rate_, and, consequently, the best of judges. I reverence and admire him; but I won't give up my opinion--why should I? I read _her_ again and again, and there can be no affectation in this. I cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book I read and lay down, and take up again; and no book can be totally bad which finds _one_, even _one_ reader, who can say as much sincerely. Campbell talks of lecturing next spring; his last lectures were eminently successful. Moore thought of it, but gave it up,--I don't know why.----had been prating _dignity_ to him, and such stuff; as if a man disgraced himself by instructing and pleasing at the same time. Introduced to Marquis Buckingham--saw Lord Gower [3]--he is going to Holland; Sir J. and Lady Mackintosh and Horner, G. Lamb [4], with I know not how many (Richard Wellesley, one--a clever man), grouped about the room. Little Henry Fox, a very fine boy, and very promising in mind and manner,--he went away to bed, before I had time to talk to him. I am sure I had rather hear him than all the _savans_. [Footnote 1: In Dunlap's 'Memoirs of George Frederick Cooke' (vol. ii. p. 313), the following passage is quoted from the actor's journal: "Read 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', by Lord Byron. It is well written. His Lordship is rather severe, perhaps justly so, on Walter Scott, and most assuredly justly severe upon Monk Lewis."] [Footnote 2: In Byron's 'Detached Thoughts' (1821) occurs this passage: "In general I do not draw well with literary men. Not that I dislike them, but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication. There are several exceptions, to be sure; but then they have always been men of the world, such as Scott and Moore, etc., or visionaries out of it, such as Shelley, etc. But your literary every-day man and I never went well in company, especially your foreigner, whom I never could abide,--except Giordani, and--and--and (I really can't name any other); I do not remember a man amongst them whom I ever wished to see twice, except, perhaps, Mezzophanti, who is a Monster of Languages, the Briareus of parts of speech, a walking Polyglott, and more--who ought to have existed at the time of the Tower of Babel as universal Interpreter. He is, indeed, a Marvel, --unassuming also. I tried him in all the tongues of which I have a single oath (or adjuration to the Gods against Postboys, Savages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, pilots, Gondoliers, Muleteers, Cameldrivers, Vetturini, Postmasters, post-horses, post-houses, post-everything) and Egad! he astounded me even to my English." On this passage Sir Walter Scott makes the following note: "I suspect Lord Byron of some self-deceit as to this matter. It appears that he liked extremely the only 'first-rate' men of letters into whose society he happened to be thrown in England. They happened to be men of the world, it is true; but how few men of very great eminence in literature, how few intellectually Lord B.'s peers, have 'not' been men of the world? Does any one doubt that the topics he had most pleasure in discussing with Scott or Moore were literary ones, or had at least some relation to literature? "As for the foreign 'literati', pray what 'literati' anything like his own rank did he encounter abroad? I have no doubt he would have been as much at home with an Alfieri, a Schiller, or a Goethe, or a Voltaire, as he was with Scott or Moore, and yet two of these were very little of men of the world in the sense in which he uses that phrase. "As to 'every-day men of letters,' pray who does like their company? Would a clever man like a prosing 'captain, or colonel, or knight-in-arms' the 'better' for happening to be himself the Duke of Wellington?"] [Footnote 3: George Granville Leveson Gower (1786-1861) succeeded his father in 1833 as second Duke of Sutherland.] [Footnote 4: George Lamb (1784-1834), the fourth son of the first Lord Melbourne, married, in 1809, Caroline Rosalie St. Jules. As one of the early contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review', he was attacked by Byron in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 57 and 516 (see 'Poems', ed. 1898, vol. i. p. 301, 'note' I). A clever amateur actor, his comic opera 'Whistle for It' was produced at Covent Garden, April 10, 1807, and he was afterwards on the Drury Lane Committee of Management. His translation of the 'Poems of Catullus' was published in 1821. In 1819, as the representative of the official Whigs, he was elected for Westminster against Hobhouse; but was defeated at the next election (1820).] * * * * * Monday, Dec. 6. Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the thing was called the _Bride_ of Abydos? It is a cursed awkward question, being unanswerable. _She_ is not a _bride_, only about to be one; but for, etc., etc., etc. I don't wonder at his finding out the _Bull_; but the detection----is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being an Irishman. Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at something or other--I know not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composition similar to that which is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, "Here is some _incense_ for you." Campbell answered--"Carry it to Lord Byron, _he is used to it_." Now, this comes of "bearing no brother near the throne." [1] I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one _now_, whatever I may have done, am at perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity; or, at least, if I dislike any, it is not _poetically_, but _personally_. Surely the field of thought is infinite; what does it signify who is before or behind in a race where there is no _goal_? The temple of fame is like that of the Persians, the universe; our altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally content with Mount Caucasus, or Mount Anything; and those who like it, may have Mount Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation. I think I may _now_ speak thus; for I have just published a poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is _likely_ to be _liked_ or not. I have hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can _downright_ abuse it to one's face, except in print. It can't be good, or I should not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very title. But I began it with my heart full of----, and my head of oriental_ities_ (I can't call them _isms_), and wrote on rapidly. This journal is a relief. When I am tired--as I generally am--out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor. Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner; I have neither head nor nerves to present it. That confounded supper at Lewis's has spoiled my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet of vinegar. Would I were an ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons,--or any thing that my gizzard could get the better of. To-day saw Ward. His uncle [2] is dying, and W. don't much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided _l'oncle_ is not dined upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicures before that day. I wish he may recover--not for _our_ dinner's sake, but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles that may well wait, since they _will_ dine at last. Gell called--he of Troy--after I was out. Mem.--to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very landmarks of forgetfulness;--something like a light-house, with a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to forget. Mem.--I have forgotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and suppose I shall be surcharged. "An I do not turn rebel when thou art king "--oons! I believe my very biscuit is leavened with that impostor's imposts. Lady Melbourne returns from Jersey's to-morrow;--I must call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, which I must applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence;--and yet I hate _lettering_. Saw Lord Glenbervie [3] and this Prospectus, at Murray's, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a man more useful than all the historians and rhymers ever planted. For, by preserving our woods and forests, he furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth reading, and all the odes worth nothing. Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is crammed with the most useless lumber. It is odd that when I do read, I can only bear the chicken broth of--_any thing_ but Novels. It is many a year since I looked into one, (though they are sometimes ordered, by way of experiment, but never taken,) till I looked yesterday at the worst parts of the _Monk_. These descriptions ought to have been written by Tiberius at Caprea--they are forced--the _philtered_ ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to me inconceivable how they could have been composed by a man of only twenty--his age when he wrote them. They have no nature--all the sour cream of cantharides. I should have suspected Buffon of writing them on the death-bed of his detestable dotage. I had never redde this edition, and merely looked at them from curiosity and recollection of the noise they made, and the name they had left to Lewis. But they could do no harm, except----. Called this evening on my agent--my business as usual. Our strange adventures are the only inheritances of our family that have not diminished. I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. The cigars don't keep well here. They get as old as a _donna di quaranti anni_ in the sun of Africa. The Havannah are the best;--but neither are so pleasant as a hooka or chiboque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, and their horses entire--two things as they should be. I am so far obliged to this Journal, that it preserves me from verse,--at least from keeping it. I have just thrown a poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my great comfort), and have smoked out of my head the plan of another. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, at least, the confusion of thought. [Footnote 1: Pope's 'Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot', line 197.] [Footnote 2: William Bosville (1745-1813), called colonel, but really only lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, was a noted 'bon vivant', whose maxim for life was "Better never than late." He was famous for his hospitality in Welbeck Street. A friend of Horne Tooke, he dined with him at Wimbledon every Sunday in the spring and autumn. See 'Diversions of Purley', ed. 1805, ii. 490: "Your friend Bosville and I have entered into a strict engagement to belong for ever to the established government, to the Established Church, and to the established language of our country, because they are established."] [Footnote 3: Sylvester Douglas (1743-1823), created in 1800 Baron Glenbervie, married, in September, 1789, Catherine, eldest daughter of Lord North, afterwards Earl of Guildford. He was educated at Leyden for the medical profession, a circumstance to which Sheridan alludes in the lines: "Glenbervie, Glenbervie, What's good for the scurvy? For ne'er be your old trade forgot." Gibbon writes of him, October 4, 1788 ('Letters', vol. ii. p. 180), "He has been curious, attentive, agreeable; and in every place where he has resided some days, he has left acquaintance who esteem and regret him; I never knew so clear and general an impression." Glenbervie was Surveyor-General of Woods and Forests, 1803-1806, and again from 1807 to 1810. In that year he became First Commissioner of Land Revenue and Woods and Forests, and held the appointment till August, 1814.] * * * * * Tuesday, December 7. Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not refreshingly. Awoke, and up an hour before being called; but dawdled three hours in dressing. When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation),--sleep, eating, and swilling--buttoning and unbuttoning--how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse. Redde the papers and _tea_-ed and soda-watered, and found out that the fire was badly lighted. Lord Glenbervie wants me to go to Brighton--um! This morning, a very pretty billet from the Stael about meeting her at Ld. H.'s to-morrow. She has written, I dare say, twenty such this morning to different people, all equally flattering to each. So much the better for her and those who believe all she wishes them, or they wish to believe. She has been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in the note annexed to _The Bride_. This is to be accounted for in several ways,--firstly, all women like all, or any, praise; secondly, this was unexpected, because I have never courted her; and, thirdly, as Scrub [1] says, those who have been all their lives regularly praised, by regular critics, like a little variety, and are glad when any one goes out of his way to say a civil thing; and, fourthly, she is a very good-natured creature, which is the best reason, after all, and, perhaps, the only one. A knock--knocks single and double. Bland called. He says Dutch society (he has been in Holland) is second-hand French; but the women are like women every where else. This is a bore: I should like to see them a little _un_like; but that can't be expected. Went out--came home--this, that, and the other--and "all is vanity, saith the preacher," and so say I, as part of his congregation. Talking of vanity, whose praise do I prefer? Why, Mrs. Inchbald's [2], and that of the Americans. The first, because her _Simple Story_ and _Nature and Art_ are, to me, _true_ to their _titles_; and, consequently, her short note to Rogers about _The Giaour_ delighted me more than any thing, except the _Edinburgh Review_. I like the Americans, because _I_ happened to be in _Asia_, while the _English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers_ were redde in _America_. If I could have had a speech against the _Slave Trade in Africa_, and an epitaph on a dog in _Europe_ (i.e. in the _Morning Post_), my _vertex sublimis_ [3] would certainly have displaced stars enough to overthrow the Newtonian system. [Footnote 1: The reference is only to the form of the sentence. "Scrub," in 'The Beaux' Stratagem' (act iv. se. 2), says, "First, it must be a plot, because there's a woman in't; secondly, it must be a plot, because there's a priest in't; thirdly, it must be a plot, because there's French gold in't; and fourthly, it must be a plot, because I don't know what to make on't."] [Footnote 2: Elizabeth Simpson (1753-1821), daughter of a Suffolk farmer, married (1772) Joseph Inchbald, actor and portrait-painter. Actress, dramatist, and novelist, she was one of the most attractive women of the day. Winning in manner, quick in repartee, an admirable teller of stories, she always gathered all the men round her chair. "It was vain," said Mrs. Shelley, "for any other woman to attempt to gain attention." Miss Edgeworth wished to see her first among living celebrities; her charm fascinated Sheridan, and overcame the prejudice of Lamb; even Peter Pindar wrote verse in her praise. From the age of eighteen she was wooed on and off the stage, where her slight stammer hindered her complete success; but no breath of scandal tarnished her name. Had John Kemble, the hero of 'A Simple Story', proposed to her, she probably would have married him. Mrs. Butler records that her uncle John once asked the actress, when matrimony was the subject of green-room conversation, "Well, Mrs. Inchbald, would you have had me?" "Dear heart," said the stammering beauty, turning her sunny face up at him," I'd have j-j-j-jumped at you." Mrs. Inchbald's 'Simple Story' (1791) wears a more modern air than any previously written novel. Her dramatic experience stood her in good stead. "Dorriforth," the priest, educated, like Kemble, at Douay, impressed himself upon Macaulay's mind as the true type of the Roman Catholic peer. 'Nature and Art' (1796) was written when Mrs. Inchbald was most under the influence of the French Revolution. Of two boys who come to London to seek their fortunes, Nature makes one a musician, and Art raises the other into a dean. The trial and condemnation of "Agnes" perhaps suggested to Lytton the scene in 'Paul Clifford', where "Brandon" condemns his own son.] [Footnote 3: Horace, 'Odes', I. i. 36.] * * * * * Friday, December 10, 1813. I am _ennuyé_ beyond my usual tense of that yawning verb, which I am always conjugating; and I don't find that society much mends the matter. I am too lazy to shoot myself--and it would annoy Augusta, and perhaps ----; but it would be a good thing for George, on the other side, and no bad one for me; but I won't be tempted. I have had the kindest letter from Moore. I _do_ think that man is the best-hearted, the only _hearted_ being I ever encountered; and, then, his talents are equal to his feelings. Dined on Wednesday at Lord H.'s--the Staffords, Staels, Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbournes, Mackintoshes, etc., etc.--and was introduced to the Marquis and Marchioness of Stafford [1],--an unexpected event. My quarrel with Lord Carlisle (their or his brother-in-law) having rendered it improper, I suppose, brought it about. But, if it was to happen at all, I wonder it did not occur before. She is handsome, and must have been beautiful--and her manners are _princessly_. The Stael was at the other end of the table, and less loquacious than heretofore. We are now very good friends; though she asked Lady Melbourne whether I had really any _bonhommie_. She might as well have asked that question before she told C. L. "_c'est un demon_." True enough, but rather premature, for _she_ could not have found it out, and so--she wants me to dine there next Sunday. Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my part, I adhere (in liking) to my Fragment. It is no wonder that I wrote one--my mind is a fragment. Saw Lord Gower, Tierney [2], etc., in the square. Took leave of Lord Gower, who is going to Holland and Germany. He tells me that he carries with him a parcel of _Harolds_ and _Giaours_, etc., for the readers of Berlin, who, it seems, read English, and have taken a caprice for mine. Um!--have I been _German_ all this time, when I thought myself _Oriental_? Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow; and received a new comedy sent by Lady C. A.--but _not hers_. I must read it, and endeavour not to displease the author. I hate annoying them with cavil; but a comedy I take to be the most difficult of compositions, more so than tragedy. Galt says there is a coincidence between the first part of _The Bride_ and some story of his--whether published or not, I know not, never having seen it. He is almost the last person on whom any one would commit literary larceny, and I am not conscious of any _witting_ thefts on any of the genus. As to originality, all pretensions are ludicrous,--"there is nothing new under the sun." [3] Went last night to the play. Invited out to a party, but did not go;--right. Refused to go to Lady----'s on Monday;--right again. If I must fritter away my life, I would rather do it alone. I was much tempted;--C----looked so Turkish with her red turban, and her regular, dark, and clear features. Not that _she_ and _I_ ever were, or could be, any thing; but I love any aspect that reminds me of the "children of the sun." To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for which I have some appetite, not having tasted food for the preceding forty-eight hours. I wish I could leave off eating altogether. [Footnote 1: George Granville Leveson Gower (1758-1833) succeeded his father, in 1803, as second Marquis of Stafford. He married, in 1785, Elizabeth, Countess of Sutherland, and was created, in 1833, first Duke of Sutherland. Lord Carlisle had married, in 1770 Margaret Caroline, sister of the second Marquis of Stafford.] [Footnote 2: George Tierney (1761-1830) entered Parliament as Member for Colchester in 1789. In 1796 he was returned for Southwark. A useful speaker and political writer, he was Treasurer of the Navy in the Addington administration, and President of the Board of Control in that of "All the Talents." His drafting of the petition of the "Society of the Friends of the People," his duel with Pitt in 1798, and his leadership of the Opposition after 1817, are almost forgotten; but he is remembered as the "Friend of Humanity" in 'The Needy Knife-Grinder'.] [Footnote 3: 'Eccles'. i. 9.] * * * * * Saturday, December 11. * * * * * Sunday, December 12. By Galt's answer, I find it is some story in _real life_, and not any work with which my late composition coincides. It is still more singular, for mine is drawn from _existence_ also. I have sent an excuse to Madame de Stael. I do not feel sociable enough for dinner to-day;--and I will not go to Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not that I do not admire and prefer his unequalled conversation; but--that "_but_" must only be intelligible to thoughts I cannot write. Sheridan was in good talk at Rogers's the other night, but I only stayed till _nine_. All the world are to be at the Stael's to-night, and I am not sorry to escape any part of it. I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. Went out--did not go to the Stael's but to Ld. Holland's. Party numerous--conversation general. Stayed late--made a blunder--got over it--came home and went to bed, not having eaten. Rather empty, but _fresco_, which is the great point with me. * * * * * Monday, December 13, 1813. Called at three places--read, and got ready to leave town to-morrow. Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, "he is lucky in having such a _poet_"--something as if one was a packhorse, or "ass, or any thing that is his;" or, like Mrs. Packwood, [1] who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors,--"Laws, sir, we keeps a poet." The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript--"The _Harold and Cookery_ [2] are much wanted." Such is fame, and, after all, quite as good as any other "life in others' breath." 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More. Some editor of some magazine has _announced_ to Murray his intention of abusing the thing "_without reading it_." So much the better; if he redde it first, he would abuse it more. Allen [3] (Lord Holland's Allen--the best informed and one of the ablest men I know--a perfect Magliabecchi [4]--a devourer, a _Helluo_ of books, and an observer of men,) has lent me a quantity of Burns's [5] unpublished and never-to-be-published Letters. They are full of oaths and obscene songs. What an antithetical mind!--tenderness, roughness--delicacy, coarseness--sentiment, sensuality--soaring and grovelling, dirt and deity--all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay! It seems strange; a true voluptuary will never abandon his mind to the grossness of reality. It is by exalting the earthly, the material, the _physique_ of our pleasures, by veiling these ideas, by forgetting them altogether, or, at least, never naming them hardly to one's self, that we alone can prevent them from disgusting. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Packwood is the wife of George Packwood, "the celebrated Razor Strop Maker and Author of 'The Goldfinch's Nest'," whose shop was at 16, Gracechurch Street. 'Packwood's Whim; The Goldfinch's Nest, or the Way to get Money and be Happy', by George Packwood, was published in 1796, and reached a second edition in 1807. It is a collection of his advertisements in prose and verse. The poet, whom Packwood kept, apparently lived in Soho (p. 21), from his verses which appeared in the 'True Briton' for November 9, 1795: "If you wish, Sir, to Shave--nay, pray look not grave, Since nothing on earth can be worse, To P--d repair, you're shaved to a hair, Which I mean to exhibit in verse. "When in moving the beard--I wish to be heard-- The dull razor occasions a curse, The strop that I view will its merits renew; Behold I record it in verse. "Some in fashion's tontine disperse all their spleen, And others their destinies curse; But P--d's fine taste, with his Strops and his Paste, Which I'll show you in Prose and in Verse. "I have taken this plan to comment on a man, Whose merit I'm proud to rehearse; For a razor and knife he will sharpen for life, And deserves every praise in my verse. "Soho, Nov. 6, 1795."] [Footnote 2: 'The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy', "By a Lady," was published anonymously in 1747. The 4th edition (1751) bears the name of H. Glasse. The book was at one time supposed to be the work of Dr. John Hill (1716-1775), and to contain the proverb, "First catch your hare, then cook it." But Hill's claim is untenable, and the proverb is not in the book. Mrs. Rundell's 'Domestic Cookery' was one of Murray's most successful publications. In Byron's lines, "To Mr. Murray" (March 25, 1818), occurs the following passage: "Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine The works thou deemest most divine-- The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine, My Murray."] [Footnote 3: John Allen, M.D. (1771-1843), accompanied Lord Holland to Spain (1801-5 and 1808-9), and lived with him at Holland House. His 'Inquiry into the Rise and Growth of the Royal Prerogative in England', his numerous articles in the 'Edinburgh Review', and his life of Fox in the 'Encyclopedia Britannica', and many other works, justify Byron's praise. In the social life of Holland House he was a prominent figure, and to it, perhaps, he sacrificed his literary powers and acquirements. He was Warden of Dulwich College (1811-20), and Master (1820-43). Allen was the author of the article in the 'Edinburgh Review' on Payne Knight's 'Taste', in which he severely criticized Pindar's Greek, and which Byron, probably trusting to Hodgson (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 196, 'note' 1), or possibly misled by similarity of sound (H. Crabb Robinson's 'Diary', vol. i. p. 277), attributed to "classic Hallam, much renowned for Greek" ('English Bards, etc.', line 513).] [Footnote 4: Antonio Magliabecchi (1633-1714) was appointed, in 1673, Librarian to the Grand-Duke of Tuscany, to whom he bequeathed his immense collection of 30,000 volumes. In Burton's 'Book-hunter' (p. 229) it is said that Magliabecchi "could direct you to any book in any part of the world, with the precision with which the metropolitan policeman directs you to St. Paul's or Piccadilly. It is of him that the stories are told of answers to inquiries after books, in these terms: 'There is but one copy of that book in the world. It is in the Grand Seignior's library at Constantinople, and is the seventh book in the second shelf on the right hand as you go in.'"] [Footnote 5: Byron himself was "likened to Burns," and Sir Walter Scott, commenting on the comparison in a manuscript note, says, "Burns, in depth of poetical feeling, in strong shrewd sense to balance and regulate this, in the 'tact' to make his poetry tell by connecting it with the stream of public thought and the sentiment of the age, in 'commanded' wildness of fancy and profligacy or recklessness as to moral and 'occasionally' as to religious matters, was much more like Lord Byron than any other person to whom Lord B. says he had been compared. "A gross blunder of the English public has been talking of Burns as if the character of his poetry ought to be estimated with an eternal recollection that he was a 'peasant'. It would be just as proper to say that Lord Byron ought always to be thought of as a 'Peer'. Rank in life was nothing to either in his true moments. Then, they were both great Poets. Some silly and sickly affectations connected with the accidents of birth and breeding may be observed in both, when they are not under the influence of 'the happier star.' Witness Burns's prate about independence, when he was an exciseman, and Byron's ridiculous pretence of Republicanism, when he never wrote sincerely about the Multitude without expressing or insinuating the very soul of scorn."] * * * * * December 14, 15, 16. Much done, but nothing to record. It is quite enough to set down my thoughts,--my actions will rarely bear retrospection. * * * * * December 17, 18. Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentality in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our respective and various opinions on him and other _hommes marquans_, and mine was this:--"Whatever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has been, _par excellence_, always the _best_ of its kind. He has written the _best_ comedy (_School for Scandal_), the _best_ drama (in my mind, far before that St. Giles's lampoon, the _Beggar's Opera_), the best farce (the _Critic_--it is only too good for a farce), and the best Address (Monologue on Garrick), and, to crown all, delivered the very best Oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country." Somebody told S. this the next day, and on hearing it he burst into tears! Poor Brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, I would rather have said these few, but most sincere, words than have written the Iliad or made his own celebrated Philippic. Nay, his own comedy never gratified me more than to hear that he had derived a moment's gratification from any praise of mine, humble as it must appear to "my elders and my betters." Went to my box at Covent Garden to-night; and my delicacy felt a little shocked at seeing S----'s mistress (who, to my certain knowledge, was actually educated, from her birth, for her profession) sitting with her mother, "a three-piled b----d, b----d Major to the army," in a private box opposite. I felt rather indignant; but, casting my eyes round the house, in the next box to me, and the next, and the next, were the most distinguished old and young Babylonians of quality;--so I burst out a laughing. It was really odd; Lady----_divorced_--Lady----and her daughter, Lady----, both _divorceable_--Mrs.----, in the next the _like_, and still nearer------! [1] What an assemblage to _me_, who know all their histories. It was as if the house had been divided between your public and your _understood_ courtesans;--but the intriguantes much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On the other side were only Pauline and _her_ mother, and, next box to her, three of inferior note. Now, where lay the difference between _her_ and _mamma_, and Lady----and daughter? except that the two last may enter Carleton and any _other house_, and the two first are limited to the opera and b----house. How I do delight in observing life as it really is!--and myself, after all, the worst of any. But no matter--I must avoid egotism, which, just now, would be no vanity. I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called "_The Devil's Drive_" the notion of which I took from Person's "_Devil's Walk_." [2] Redde some Italian, and wrote two Sonnets on----. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise--and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions. I detest the Petrarch so much, that I would not be the man even to have obtained his Laura, which the metaphysical, whining dotard never could. [Footnote 1: "These names are all left blank in the original" (Moore).] [Footnote 2: Richard Person did not write 'The Devil's Walk', which was written by Coleridge and Southey, and published in the 'Morning Post' for September 6, 1799, under the title of 'The Devil's Thoughts'.] * * * * * January 16, 1814. To-morrow I leave town for a few days. I saw Lewis to-day, who is just returned from Oatlands, where he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about himself, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me. My homage has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have agreed still worse. I don't talk--I can't flatter, and won't listen, except to a pretty or a foolish woman. She bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened--found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh the first man in England. There I agree, at least _one_ of the first--but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I leave to those who can read it to judge and dispute. I could not do the one, and am, consequently, not qualified for the other. She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that I was affected, in the first place; and that, in the next place, I committed the heinous offence of sitting at dinner with my _eyes_ shut, or half shut. I wonder if I really have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. One insensibly acquires awkward habits, which should be broken in time. If this is one, I wish I had been told of it before. It would not so much signify if one was always to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as well see some of one's neighbours, as well as the plate upon the table. I should like, of all things, to have heard the Amabæan eclogue between her and Lewis--both obstinate, clever, odd, garrulous, and shrill. In fact, one could have heard nothing else. But they fell out, alas!--and now they will never quarrel again. Could not one reconcile them for the "nonce?" Poor Corinne--she will find that some of her fine sayings won't suit our fine ladies and gentlemen. I am getting rather into admiration of [Lady C. Annesley] the youngest sister of [Lady F. Webster]. A wife would be my salvation. I am sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done me little good. Catherine is beautiful, but very young, and, I think, a fool. But I have not seen enough to judge; besides, I hate an _esprit_ in petticoats. That she won't love me is very probable, nor shall I love her. But, on my system, and the modern system in general, that don't signify. The business (if it came to business) would probably be arranged between papa and me. She would have her own way; I am good-humoured to women, and docile; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which I should try to prevent, we should be a very comfortable couple. As to conduct, _that_ she must look to. But _if_ I love, I shall be jealous;--and for that reason I will not be in love. Though, after all, I doubt my temper, and fear I should not be so patient as becomes the _bienséance_ of a married man in my station. Divorce ruins the poor _femme_, and damages are a paltry compensation. I do fear my temper would lead me into some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, at any rate, into a summary appeal to the court of twelve paces. So "I'll none on't," but e'en remain single and solitary;--though I should like to have somebody now and then to yawn with one. Ward, and, after him,----, has stolen one of my buffooneries about Mde. de Stael's Metaphysics and the Fog, and passed it, by speech and letter, as their own. As Gibbet says, "they are the most of a gentleman of any on the road." [1] W. is in sad enmity with the Whigs about this Review of Fox [2] (if he _did_ review him);--all the epigrammatists and essayists are at him. I hate _odds_, and wish he may beat them. As for me, by the blessing of indifference, I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better nor worse for a _people_ than another. I shall adhere to my party, because it would not be honourable to act otherwise; but, as to _opinions_, I don't think politics _worth_ an _opinion_. _Conduct_ is another thing:--if you begin with a party, go on with them. I have no consistency, except in politics; and _that_ probably arises from my indifference on the subject altogether. [Footnote 1: The 'Beaux' Stratagem', by George Farquhar (act iv. sc. 3): "'Gibbet'. "And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady: I am most a gentleman that way that ever travelled the road."] [Footnote 2: An article by Ward on 'The Correspondence of Gilbert Wakefield with Mr. Fox', in the 'Quarterly Review' for July, 1813.] * * * * * Feb. 18. Better than a month since I last journalised:--most of it out of London and at Notts., but a busy one and a pleasant, at least three weeks of it. On my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 1812. [1] They are daily at it still;--some of the abuse good, all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our House upon it--be it so. Got up--redde the _Morning Post_ containing the battle of Buonaparte, [2] the destruction of the Customhouse, [3] and a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vituperative, as usual. [4] Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best friend, the most lively, and a man of the most sterling talents extant. 'The Corsair' has been conceived, written, published, etc., since I last took up this journal. They tell me it has great success;--it was written _con amore_, and much from _existence_. Murray is satisfied with its progress; and if the public are equally so with the perusal, there's an end of the matter. Nine o'clock. Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers, and had a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it is said I am "much out of spirits." I wonder if I really am or not? I have certainly enough of "that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart," [5] and it is better they should believe it to be the result of these attacks than of the real cause; but--ay, ay, always _but_, to the end of the chapter. Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of Napoleon, all good and true. My friend H. is the most entertaining of companions, and a fine fellow to boot. Redde a little--wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke says is bad company. "Be not solitary, be not idle." [6]--Um!--the idleness is troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; my passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to wither them,--and yet--and yet--always _yet_ and _but_--"Excellent well, you are a fishmonger--get thee to a nunnery." [7]--"They fool me to the top of my bent." [8] Midnight. Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde--but to little purpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as I promised and ought. No matter, the loss is mine. Smoked cigars. Napoleon!--this week will decide his fate. All seems against him; but I believe and hope he will win--at least, beat back the invaders. What right have we to prescribe sovereigns to France? Oh for a Republic! "Brutus, thou sleepest." [9] Hobhouse abounds in continental anecdotes of this extraordinary man; all in favour of his intellect and courage, but against his _bonhommie_. No wonder;--how should he, who knows mankind well, do other than despise and abhor them? The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is distributed, and becomes lighter by the division among so many--therefore, a Republic! [10] More notes from Madame de Stael unanswered--and so they shall remain. [11] I admire her abilities, but really her society is overwhelming--an avalanche that buries one in glittering nonsense--all snow and sophistry. Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday? um!--I did not go to Marquis Lansdowne's nor to Miss Berry's, though both are pleasant. So is Sir James's,--but I don't know--I believe one is not the better for parties; at least, unless some _regnante_ is there. I wonder how the deuce any body could make such a world; for what purpose dandies, for instance, were ordained--and kings--and fellows of colleges--and women of "a certain age"--and many men of any age--and myself, most of all! "Divesne prisco natus ab Inacho Nil interest, an pauper et infimâ De gente, sub dio ('sic') moreris, Victima nil miserantis Orci. Omnes eodem cogimur," etc. [12] Is there any thing beyond?--_who_ knows? _He_ that can't tell. Who tells that there _is_? He who don't know. And when shall he know? perhaps, when he don't expect, and generally when he don't wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not alike: it depends a good deal upon education,--something upon nerves and habits--but most upon digestion. [Footnote 1: See p. 134, 'note' 2 [Footnote 3 of Letter 241], and Appendix VII.] [Footnote 2: The battle of Brienne was fought February 1, 1814.] [Footnote 3: By fire, on the 12th of February.] [Footnote 4: "We are informed from very good authority, that as soon as the House of Lords meet again, a Peer of very independent principles and character intends to give notice of a motion occasioned by a late spontaneous avowal of a copy of verses by Lord Byron, addressed to the Princess Charlotte of Wales, in which he has taken the most unwarrantable liberties with her august father's character and conduct: this motion being of a personal nature, it will be necessary to give the noble Satirist some days' notice, that he may prepare himself for his defence against a charge of so aggravated a nature," etc. 'Morning Post', February 18.] [Footnote 5: 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 3.] [Footnote 6: These words close the penultimate paragraph of Burton's 'Anatomy of Melancholy'.] [Footnote 7: 'Hamlet', act ii. sc. 2, and act iii. sc. 1.] [Footnote 8: 'Ibid'., sc. 2.] [Footnote 9: "Brutus, thou sleepest, awake." 'Julius Cæsar', act ii. sc. 1.] [Footnote 10: The following extract from 'Detached Thoughts' (1821) implies that this expression of opinion was no passing thought (but see Scott's note, p. 376 [Footnote 5 of Journal entry for December 13th, 1813]): "There is nothing left for Mankind but a Republic, and I think that there are hopes of such. The two Americas (South and North) have it; Spain and Portugal approach it; all thirst for it. Oh Washington!"] [Footnote 11: Here is one of Madame de Staël's notes: "Je renonce à vos visites, pourvu que vous acceptiez mes diners, car enfin à quoi servirait il de vivre dans le même tems que vous, si l'on ne vous voyait pas? Dinez chez moi dimanche avec vos amis,--je ne dirai pas vos admirateurs, car je n'ai rencontré que cela de touts parts. "A dimanche, "DE STAËL. "Mardi. "Je prends le silence pour oui."] [Footnote 12: Horace, 'Odes', II. iii. 21, 'et seqq.'] * * * * * Saturday, Feb. 19. Just returned from seeing Kean [1] in Richard. By Jove, he is a soul! Life--nature--truth without exaggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is perfect;--but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a man; and Kean is Richard. Now to my own concerns. Went to Waite's. Teeth are all right and white; but he says that I grind them in my sleep and chip the edges. That same sleep is no friend of mine, though I court him sometimes for half the twenty-four. [Footnote 1: Edmund Kean (1787-1833), after acting in provincial theatres, appeared at the Haymarket in June, 1806, as "Ganem" in 'The Mountaineers', but again returned to the country. His performance of "Shylock" in the 'Merchant of Venice', at Drury Lane, on January 26, 1814, made him famous. He appeared in "Richard III" on February 12, and still further increased his reputation. In the 'Courier', February 26, 1814, appears this paragraph: "Mr. Kean's attraction is unprecedented in the annals of theatricals--even Cooke's performances are left at an immeasurable distance; his first three nights of 'Richard' produced upwards of £1800, and on repeating that character on Thursday night for the fourthth ('sic') time, the receipts were upwards of £700." On March 1 the same paper says, "Drury Lane Theatre again overflowed last night, at an early hour. Such is the continued and increasing attraction of that truly great actor Mr. Kean." After the retirement of John Kemble (June 23, 1817), he had no rival on the stage, especially in such parts as "Othello," "Lear," "Hamlet," "Sir Giles Overreach," and the two already mentioned. His last appearance on the stage was in "Othello" at Covent Garden, March 25, 1833. "To see Kean act," said Coleridge, "is like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning." "Garrick's nature," writes Leigh Hunt, in the 'Tatler', July 25, 1831, "displaced Quin's formalism; and in precisely the same way did Kean displace Kemble. ... Everything with Kemble was literally a 'personation'--it was a mask and a sounding-pipe. It was all external and artificial.... Kean's face is full of light and shade, his tones vary, his voice trembles, his eye glistens, sometimes with a withering scorn, sometimes with a tear." It was the realism and nature of Kean which so strongly appealed to Byron, and enabled the actor, to the last, in spite of his drunken habits, poor figure, and weak voice, to sway his audiences. The same qualities at first repelled more timid critics, and perhaps justified Hazlitt's saying that Kean was "not much relished in the upper circles." Miss Berry, for example, who saw him in all his principal parts in 1814--in "Richard III," "Hamlet," "Othello," and "Sir Giles Overreach"--remained cold. "His 'Richard III.' pleased me, but I was not enthusiastic. His expression of the passions is natural and strong, but I do not like his declamation; his voice, naturally not agreeable, becomes monotonous" ('Diary', vol. iii. p. 7). Of his "Hamlet" she says, "To my mind he is without grace and without elevation of mind, because he never seems to rise with the poet in those sublime passages which abound in 'Hamlet'" ('ibid.', p. 9). Miss Berry's criticism is supported by good authority. Lewes ('On Actors and the Art of Acting', pp. 6, 11), while calling him "a consummate master of passionate expression," denies his capacity for representing "the intellectual side of heroism." Kean preferred the Coal-Hole Tavern in the Strand, and the society of the Wolf Club, to Lord Holland's dinner-parties. Though he never fell so low as Cooke, his recklessness, irregularities, eccentricities, and habits of drinking, in spite of the large sums of money that passed through his hands, made his closing days neither prosperous nor reputable. Such effect had the passionate energy of Kean's acting on Byron's mind, that, once, in seeing him play "Sir Giles Overreach," he was so affected as to be seized with a sort of convulsive fit. Some years later, in Italy, when the representation of Alfieri's tragedy of 'Mirra' had agitated him in the same violent manner, he compared the two instances as the only ones in his life when "any thing under reality" had been able to move him so powerfully. "To such lengths," says Moore, "did he, at this time, carry his enthusiasm for Kean, that when Miss O'Neil appeared, and, by her matchless representation of feminine tenderness, attracted all eyes and hearts, he was not only a little jealous of her reputation, as interfering with that of his favourite, but, in order to guard himself against the risk of becoming a convert, refused to go to see her act. I endeavoured sometimes to persuade him into witnessing, at least, one of her performances; but his answer was (punning upon Shakspeare's word, 'unanealed'), 'No--I am resolved to continue 'un-Oneiled'.' " In his 'Detached Thoughts' (1821) Byron says, "Of actors Cooke was the most natural, Kemble the most supernatural, Kean the medium between the two. But Mrs. Siddons was worth them all put together."] * * * * * February 20. Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal--I don't know why. Hodgson just called and gone. He has much _bonhommie_ with his other good qualities, and more talent than he has yet had credit for beyond his circle. An invitation to dine at Holland House to meet Kean. He is worth meeting; and I hope, by getting into good society, he will be prevented from falling like Cooke. He is greater now on the stage, and off he should never be less. There is a stupid and underrating criticism upon him in one of the newspapers. I thought that, last night, though great, he rather under-acted more than the first time. This may be the effect of these cavils; but I hope he has more sense than to mind them. He cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, and the nibbling of their admirers. But, if he don't beat them all, why then--merit hath no purchase in "these coster-monger days." [1] I wish that I had a talent for the drama; I would write a tragedy _now_. But no,--it is gone. Hodgson talks of one,--he will do it well;--and I think M---e [Moore] should try. He has wonderful powers, and much variety; besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring home to the heart, the heart must have been tried,--but, perhaps, ceased to be so. While you are under the influence of passions, you only feel, but cannot describe them,--any more than, when in action, you could turn round and tell the story to your next neighbour! When all is over,--all, all, and irrevocable,--trust to memory--she is then but too faithful. Went out, and answered some letters, yawned now and then, and redde the 'Robbers'. Fine,--but 'Fiesco' is better [2]; and Alfieri, and Monti's 'Aristodemo' [3] _best_. They are more equal than the Tedeschi dramatists. Answered--or rather acknowledged--the receipt of young Reynolds's [4] poem, _Safie_. The lad is clever, but much of his thoughts are borrowed,--whence, the Reviewers may find out. I hate discouraging a young one; and I think,--though wild and more oriental than he would be, had he seen the scenes where he has placed his tale,--that he has much talent, and, certainly fire enough. Received a very singular epistle; and the mode of its conveyance, through Lord H.'s hands, as curious as the letter itself. But it was gratifying and pretty. [Footnote 1: 'Henry IV.', Part II. act i. sc. 2.] [Footnote 2: Schiller's 'Robbers' was first produced at Mannheim, January 13, 1782; his 'Fiesco' was published in 1783. The 'Robbers' is included in Benjamin Thompson's 'German Theatre' (1801). 'Fiesco' was translated by G. H. Noehden and John Stoddart in 1798.] [Footnote 3: Monti's three tragedies, 'Caio Gracco', 'Aristodemo', and 'Manfredi', were written in rivalry of Alfieri's tragedies between the years 1788 and 1799.] [Footnote 4: For John Hamilton Reynolds, see 'Letters', vol. iii. (February 20, 1814, 'note' 1).] * * * * * Sunday, February 27. Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was asked,--but not inclined to go any where. Hobhouse says I am growing a _loup garou_,--a solitary hobgoblin. True;--"I am myself alone." [1] The last week has been passed in reading--seeing plays--now and then visitors--sometimes yawning and sometimes sighing, but no writing,--save of letters. If I could always read, I should never feel the want of society. Do I regret it?--um!--"Man delights not me," [2] and only one woman--at a time. There is something to me very softening in the presence of a woman,--some strange influence, even if one is not in love with them--which I cannot at all account for, having no very high opinion of the sex. But yet,--I always feel in better humour with myself and every thing else, if there is a woman within ken. Even Mrs. Mule [3], my firelighter,--the most ancient and withered of her kind,--and (except to myself) not the best-tempered--always makes me laugh,--no difficult task when I am "i' the vein." Heigho! I would I were in mine island!--I am not well; and yet I look in good health. At times, I fear, "I am not in my perfect mind;" [4]--and yet my heart and head have stood many a crash, and what should ail them now? They prey upon themselves, and I am sick--sick--"Prithee, undo this button--why should a cat, a rat, a dog have life--and thou no life at all?" [5] Six-and-twenty years, as they call them, why, I might and should have been a Pasha by this time. "I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun." [6] Buonaparte is not yet beaten; but has rebutted Blucher, and repiqued Schwartzenburg [7]. This it is to have a head. If he again wins, _Væ victis!_ [Footnote 1: "I am myself alone." 'Henry VI.', Part III. act v. sc. 6.] [Footnote 2: 'Hamlet', act ii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 3: "This ancient housemaid, of whose gaunt and witch-like appearance it would be impossible to convey any idea but by the pencil, furnished one among the numerous instances of Lord Byron's proneness to attach himself to any thing, however homely, that had once enlisted his good nature in its behalf, and become associated with his thoughts. He first found this old woman at his lodgings in Bennet Street, where, for a whole season, she was the perpetual scarecrow of his visitors. When, next year, he took chambers in Albany, one of the great advantages which his friends looked to in the change was, that they should get rid of this phantom. But, no,--there she was again--he had actually brought her with him from Bennet Street. The following year saw him married, and, with a regular establishment of servants, in Piccadilly; and here,--as Mrs. Mule had not made her appearance to any of the visitors,--it was concluded, rashly, that the witch had vanished. One of those friends, however, who had most fondly indulged in this persuasion, happening to call one day when all the male part of the establishment were abroad, saw, to his dismay, the door opened by the same grim personage, improved considerably in point of babiliments since he last saw her, and keeping pace with the increased scale of her master's household, as a new peruke, and other symptoms of promotion, testified. When asked 'how he came to carry this old woman about with him from place to place,' Lord Byron's only answer was, 'The poor old devil was so kind to me'". (Moore).] [Footnote 4: 'King Lear', act iv. sc. 7.] [Footnote 5: "Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all?" 'King Lear', act v. sc. 3.] [Footnote 6: "I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate of the world were now undone." 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 5.] [Footnote 7: Napoleon fought the battle of Nangis against Blucher on the 17th of February, 1814, and that of Montereau against Prince Schwartzenberg on the following day.] * * * * * Sunday, March 6. On Tuesday last dined with Rogers,--Madame de Staël, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Erskine [1], and Payne Knight, Lady Donegal, and Miss R. there. Sheridan told a very good story of himself and Madame de Recamier's handkerchief; Erskine a few stories of himself only. _She_ is going to write a big book about England, she says;--I believe her. Asked by her how I liked Miss Edgeworth's thing, called _Patronage_ [2], and answered (very sincerely) that I thought it very bad for _her_, and worse than any of the others. Afterwards thought it possible Lady Donegal [3], being Irish, might be a patroness of Miss Edgeworth, and was rather sorry for my opinion, as I hate putting people into fusses, either with themselves or their favourites; it looks as if one did it on purpose. The party went off very well, and the fish was very much to my gusto. But we got up too soon after the women; and Mrs. Corinne always lingers so long after dinner that we wish her in--the drawing-room. To-day Campbell called, and while sitting here in came Merivale [4]. During our colloquy, C. (ignorant that Merivale was the writer) abused the "mawkishness of the _Quarterly Review_ of Grimm's _Correspondence_." I (knowing the secret) changed the conversation as soon as I could; and C. went away, quite convinced of having made the most favourable impression on his new acquaintance. Merivale is luckily a very good-natured fellow, or God he knows what might have been engendered from such a malaprop. I did not look at him while this was going on, but I felt like a coal--for I like Merivale, as well as the article in question. Asked to Lady Keith's [5] to-morrow evening--I think I will go; but it is the first party invitation I have accepted this "season," as the learned Fletcher called it, when that youngest brat of Lady----'s cut my eye and cheek open with a misdirected pebble--"Never mind, my Lord, the scar will be gone before the _season_;" as if one's eye was of no importance in the mean time. Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous pamphlet, with a marginal note and corrections in his handwriting. Sent it to be bound superbly, and shall treasure it. Sent my fine print of Napoleon [6] to be framed. It _is_ framed; and the Emperor becomes his robes as if he had been hatched in them. [Footnote 1: Thomas, Lord Erskine (1750-1823), youngest son of the tenth Earl of Buchan, a midshipman in the Royal Navy (1764-67), an ensign, and subsequently a lieutenant in the First Foot (1767-75), was called to the Bar in 1778, and became Lord Chancellor in 1806. As an advocate he was unrivalled. "Even the great luminaries of the law," says Wraxall ('Posthumous Memoirs', vol. i. p. 86), "when arrayed in their ermine, bent under his ascendancy, and seemed to be half subdued by his intelligence, or awed by his vehemence, pertinacity, and undaunted character." With a jury he was particularly successful, though he lived to write the lines quoted by Lord Campbell ('Lives of the Chancellors', ed. 1868, vol. viii. p. 233): "The monarch's pale face was with blushes suffused, To observe right and wrong by twelve villains confused, And, kicking their----s all round in a fury, Cried, ''Curs'd be the day I invented a jury!''" A Whig in politics, and in sympathy with the doctrines of the French Revolution, he defended Paine, Frost, Hardy, and other political offenders, and did memorable service to the cause of constitutional liberty. In the House of Commons, which he entered as M. P. for Portsmouth in 1783, he was a failure; his maiden speech on Fox's India Bill fell flat, and he was crushed by Pitt's contempt. As Lord Chancellor (1806-7) he proved a better judge than was expected. At the time when Byron made his acquaintance, he had practically retired from public life, and devoted himself to literature, society, and farming, writing on the services of rooks, and attending the Holkham sheep-shearings. Lord Campbell has collected many of his verses and jokes in vol. ix. chap. cxc. of his 'Lives of the Chancellors'. His famous pamphlet, 'On the Causes and Consequences of the War with France' (1797), was written, as he told Miss Berry ('Journal of Miss Berry', vol. ii. p. 340), "on slips of paper in the midst of all the business which I was engaged in at the time--not at home, but in open court, whilst the causes were trying. When it was not my turn to examine a witness, or to speak to the Jury, I wrote a little bit; and so on by snatches." His 'Armata' was published by Murray in 1817. In society Erskine was widely known for his brilliancy, his puns, and his extraordinary vanity. His egotism gained him such titles as Counsellor Ego, Baron Ego of Eye, and supplied Mathias ('Pursuits of Literature') with an illustration: "A vain, pert prater, bred in Erskine's school."] [Footnote 2: Miss Edgeworth's 'Patronage' was published in 1813-4. In 1813 she had been in London with her father and stepmother. The following entries respecting the family are taken from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts': "Old Edgeworth, the fourth or fifth Mrs. Edgeworth, and 'the' Miss Edgeworth were in London, 1813. Miss Edgeworth liked, Mrs. Edgeworth not disliked, old Edgeworth a bore, the worst of bores--a boisterous Bore. I met them in Society--once at a breakfast of Sir H.D.'s. Old Edgeworth came in late, boasting that he had given 'Dr. Parr a dressing the night before' (no such easy matter by the way). I thought her pleasant. They all abused Anna Seward's memory. When on the road they heard of her brother's--and his son's--death. What was to be done? Their 'London' apparel was all ordered and made! so they sunk his death for the six weeks of their sojourn, and went into mourning on their way back to Ireland. 'Fact!' "While the Colony were in London, there was a book with a subscription for the 'recall of Mrs. Siddons to the Stage' going about for signatures. Moore moved for a similar subscription for the 'recall of 'Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland!'' "Sir Humphry Davy told me that the scene of the French Valet and Irish postboy in 'Ennui' was taken from his verbal description to the Edgeworths in Edgeworthtown of a similar fact on the road occurring to himself. So much the better--being 'life'."] [Footnote 3: The Marquis of Donegal married, in 1795, Anna, daughter of Sir Edward May, Bart.] [Footnote 4: For J. H. Merivale, see 'Letters', vol. iii. (January, 1814. 'note' 1).] [Footnote 5: Hester Maria, eldest daughter and co-heir of Henry Thrale, of Streatham, the friend of Dr. Johnson, married, in 1808, Viscount Keith.] [Footnote 6: Byron's "Portrait of Bonaparte, engraved by Morghen, _very fine impression, in a gilt frame_," was sold at his sale, April 5, 1816.] * * * * * March 7. Rose at seven--ready by half-past eight--went to Mr. Hanson's, Bloomsbury Square--went to church with his eldest daughter, Mary Anne (a good girl), and gave her away to the Earl of Portsmouth. [1] Saw her fairly a countess--congratulated the family and groom (bride)--drank a bumper of wine (wholesome sherris) to their felicity, and all that--and came home. Asked to stay to dinner, but could not. At three sat to Phillips for faces. Called on Lady M. [Melbourne]--I like her so well, that I always stay too long. (Mem. to mend of that.) Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has begun a poem, which promises highly;--wish he would go on with it. Heard some curious extracts from a life of Morosini, [2] the blundering Venetian, who blew up the Acropolis at Athens with a bomb, and be damned to him! Waxed sleepy--just come home--must go to bed, and am engaged to meet Sheridan to-morrow at Rogers's. Queer ceremony that same of marriage--saw many abroad, Greek and Catholic--one, at _home_, many years ago. There be some strange phrases in the prologue (the exhortation), which made me turn away, not to laugh in the face of the surpliceman. Made one blunder, when I joined the hands of the happy--rammed their left hands, by mistake, into one another. Corrected it--bustled back to the altar-rail, and said "Amen." Portsmouth responded as if he had got the whole by heart; and, if any thing, was rather before the priest. It is now midnight and----. [Footnote 1: Lord Portsmouth (see 'Letters', vol. i. p. 9, 'note' 2 [Footnote 3 of Letter 3]), who had long known the Hansons, from whose house he married his first wife, married, March 7, 1814, Mary Anne, eldest daughter of John Hanson. A commission of lunacy was taken out by the brother and next heir, the Hon. Newton Fellowes; but Lord Chancellor Eldon decided that Lord Portsmouth was capable of entering into the marriage contract and managing his own affairs. The commission was, however, ultimately granted. Byron swore an affidavit on the first occasion. "Denman mentioned Lord Byron's affidavit about Lord Portsmouth as a proof of the influence of Hanson over him; Lord B. swearing that Lord P. had 'rather a 'superior' mind than otherwise'" ('Memoirs, etc., of Thomas Moore', vol. vi. p. 47). The following is the note which Byron sent Hanson to embody in his affidavit: "I have been acquainted with Mr. Hanson and his family for many years. He is my solicitor. About the beginning of March last he sent to me to ask my opinion on the subject of Lord Portsmouth, who, as I understood from Mr. H., was paying great attention to his eldest daughter. He stated to me that Mr. Newton Fellowes (with whom I have no personal acquaintance) was particularly desirous that Lord Portsmouth should marry some 'elderly woman' of his (Mr. Fellowes's) selection--that the title and family estates might thereby devolve on Mr. F. or his children; but that Lord P. had expressed a dislike to old women, and a desire to choose for himself. I told Mr. Hanson that, if Miss Hanson's affections were not pre-engaged, and Lord Portsmouth appeared attached to her, there could be, in my opinion, no objection to the match. I think, but cannot be positive, that I saw Lord Portsmouth at Mr. Hanson's two or three times previous to the marriage; but I had no conversation with him upon it. "The night before the ceremony, I received an invitation from Mr. Hanson, requesting me, as a friend of the family, to be present at the marriage, which was to take place next morning. I went next morning to Bloomsbury Square, where I found the parties. Lady Portsmouth, with her brother and sister and another gentleman, went in the carriage to St. George's Church; Lord Portsmouth and myself walked, as the carriage was full, and the distance short. On my way Lord Portsmouth told me that he had been partial to Miss Hanson from her childhood, and that, since she grew up, and more particularly subsequent to the decease of the late Lady P., this partiality had become attachment, and that he thought her calculated to make him an excellent wife. I was present at the ceremony and gave away the bride. Lord Portsmouth's behaviour seemed to me perfectly calm and rational on the occasion. He seemed particularly attentive to the priest, and gave the responses audibly and very distinctly. I remarked this because, in ordinary conversation, his Lordship has a hesitation in his speech. After the ceremony, we returned to Mr. Hanson's, whence, I believe, they went into the country--where I did not accompany them. Since their return I have occasionally seen Lord and Lady Portsmouth in Bloomsbury Square. They appeared very happy. I have never been very intimate with his Lordship, and am therefore unqualified to give a decided opinion of his general conduct. But had I considered him insane, I should have advised Mr. Hanson, when he consulted me on the subject, not to permit the marriage. His preference of a young woman to an old one, and of his own wishes to those of a younger brother, seemed to me neither irrational nor extraordinary." There is nothing in the note itself, or in the draft affidavit, to bear out Moore's report of Denman's statement. Byron, according to the account given by Newton Hanson, is wrong in saying that Mrs. Hanson approved of the marriage. On the contrary, it was the cause of her death, a fortnight later. In 1828 the marriage was annulled, a jury having decided that Lord Portsmouth was 'non compos mentis' when he contracted it.] [Footnote 2: Francesco Morosini (1618-1694) occupied the Morea for Venice (1687), besieged Athens, and bombarded the Parthenon, which had been made a powder-magazine. He became Doge of Venice in 1688.] * * * * * March 10, Thor's Day. On Tuesday dined with Rogers,--Mackintosh, Sheridan, Sharpe,--much talk, and good,--all, except my own little prattlement. Much of old times--Horne Tooke--the Trials--evidence of Sheridan, and anecdotes of those times, when _I_, alas! was an infant. If I had been a man, I would have made an English Lord Edward Fitzgerald. Set down Sheridan at Brookes's,--where, by the by, he could not have well set down himself, as he and I were the only drinkers. Sherry means to stand for Westminster, as Cochrane [1] (the stock-jobbing hoaxer) must vacate. Brougham [2] is a candidate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. Both have talents of the highest order, but the youngster has _yet_ a character. We shall see, if he lives to Sherry's age, how he will pass over the redhot plough-shares of public life. I don't know why, but I hate to see the _old_ ones lose; particularly Sheridan, notwithstanding all his _méchanceté_. Received many, and the kindest, thanks from Lady Portsmouth, _père_ and _mère_, for my match-making. I don't regret it, as she looks the countess well, and is a very good girl. It is odd how well she carries her new honours. She looks a different woman, and high-bred, too. I had no idea that I could make so good a peeress. Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordan superlative in Hoyden, [3] and Jones well enough in Foppington. _What plays_! what wit!--_hélas_! Congreve and Vanbrugh are your only comedy. Our society is too insipid now for the like copy. Would _not_ go to Lady Keith's. Hobhouse thought it odd. I wonder _he_ should like parties. If one is in love, and wants to break a commandment and covet any thing that is there, they do very well. But to go out amongst the mere herd, without a motive, pleasure, or pursuit--'sdeath! "I'll none of it." He told me an odd report,--that _I_ am the actual Conrad, the veritable Corsair, and that part of my travels are supposed to have passed in privacy. Um!--people sometimes hit near the truth; but never the whole truth. H. don't know what I was about the year after he left the Levant; nor does any one--nor-- --nor--nor--however, it is a lie--but, "I doubt the equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth!" [4] I shall have letters of importance to-morrow. Which,----,----, or ----? heigho!------is in my heart,----in my head,----in my eye, and the _single_ one, Heaven knows where. All write, and will be answered. "Since I have crept in favour with myself, I must maintain it;" [5] but I never "mistook my person," [6] though I think others have. ----called to-day in great despair about his mistress, who has taken a freak of----. He began a letter to her, but was obliged to stop short--I finished it for him, and he copied and sent it. If _he_ holds out, and keeps to my instructions of affected indifference, she will lower her colours. If she don't, he will, at least, get rid of her, and she don't seem much worth keeping. But the poor lad is in love--if that is the case, she will win. When they once discover their power, _finita è la musica_. Sleepy, and must go to bed. [Footnote 1: Thomas, Lord Cochrane (1775-1860), eldest son of the ninth Earl of Dundonald, a captain in the Royal Navy, and M. P. for Westminster, had done brilliant service in his successive commands--the 'Speedy', 'Pallas', 'Impérieuse', and the flotilla of fire-ships at Basque Roads in 1809. In the House of Commons he had been a strong opponent of the Government, an advocate of Parliamentary Reform, and a vigorous critic of naval administration. In February, 1814, he had been appointed to the 'Tonnant' for the American Station, and it was while he was on a week's leave of absence in London, before sailing, that the stock-jobbing hoax occurred. During the days February 8-26, 1814, it seemed possible that Napoleon might defeat the Allied Armies, and the Funds were sensitive to every rumour. At midnight on Sunday, February 20, a man calling himself Du Bourg brought news to Admiral Foley, at Dover, that Napoleon had been killed by a party of Cossacks. Hurrying towards London, Du Bourg, whose real name was Berenger, spread the news as he went. Arrived in London soon after daybreak, he went to Cochrane's house, and there changed his uniform. When the Stock Exchange opened at ten on February 21, 1814, the Funds rose rapidly, and among those who sold on the rise was Cochrane. The next day, when the swindle had been discovered, the Stocks fell. A Stock Exchange Committee sat to investigate the case, and their report (March 7) threw grave suspicion on Cochrane. He, his uncle, Cochrane Johnstone, a Mr. Butt, and Berenger, were indicted for a conspiracy, tried before Lord Ellenborough, June 8-9, and convicted. Cochrane was sentenced to a year's imprisonment and a fine of £1000. On the back of the note for £1000 (still kept in the Bank of England) with which he paid his fine on July 3, 1815, he wrote: "My health having suffered by long and close confinement, and my oppressors being resolved to deprive me of property or life, I submit to robbery to protect myself from murder, in the hope that I shall live to bring the delinquents to justice." Cochrane was also expelled from the House of Commons and from the Order of the Bath. There is little doubt that the circumstances were extremely suspicious. Those who wish to form an opinion as to Cochrane's guilt or innocence will find the subject of the trial exhaustively treated in Mr. J.B. Atlay's 'Lord Cochrane's Trial before Lord Ellenborough' (1897).] [Footnote 2: Henry, Lord Brougham (1778-1868) acknowledged that he wrote the famous article on Byron's 'Hours of Idleness' in the 'Edinburgh Review' (Sir M.E. Grant-Duff's 'Notes from a Diary', vol. ii. p. 189). He lost his seat for Camelford in September, 1812, and did not re-enter the House till July, 1815, when he sat for Winchelsea. In the postscript of a letter written by him to Douglas Kinnaird, December 9, 1814, he speaks of Byron thus: "Your friend, Lord B., is, in my opinion, a singularly agreeable person, which is very rarely the case with eminent men. His independent principles give him a great additional charm." But the part which Brougham played in the separation, both as counsel and in society, infuriated Byron, who wrote of him in his letters with the utmost bitterness. (See also the passage, now for the first time published, from Byron's 'Detached Thoughts', on his Parliamentary experiences, p. 198, first paragraph of 'note'. [2md paragraph of Footnote 1 of Letter 285])] [Footnote 3: Dorothy Jordan (1762-1816) first appeared as "Phoebe" in 'As You Like It' at the Crow Street Theatre, Dublin, in 1777. After acting in provincial theatres, she made her 'début' on the London stage at Drury Lane (October 18, 1785) as "Peggy" in Garrick's 'Country Girl', an expurgated version of Wycherley's 'Country Wife'. During the season she appeared also in six of her best parts: "Miss Hoyden" in 'The Trip to Scarborough', "Priscilla Tomboy" in 'The Romp', "Hypolita" in 'She would and she would not', "Mrs. Brady" in 'The Irish Widow', "Viola" in 'Twelfth Night', and "Rosalind" in 'As You Like It'. Her last appearance on the London stage was as "Lady Teazle" in 'The School for Scandal', at Covent Garden, June 1, 1814. A list of her principal characters is given by Genest ('English Stage', vol. viii. pp. 432-434). As a comic actress, Mrs. Jordan was unrivalled; her voice was perfect; and her natural gaiety irresistible. Sir Joshua Reynolds preferred her to all other actresses as a being "who ran upon the stage as a playground, and laughed from sincere wildness of delight." In genteel comedy, critics like Genest ('English Stage', vol. viii. p. 431) and Leigh Hunt ('Dramatic Essays', ed. 1894, p. 82) agree that she failed, perhaps, as the latter suggests, because she was so "perpetually employed" in "broad and romping characters." In private life Mrs. Jordan was chiefly known as the mistress of the Duke of Clarence, to whom she bore ten children. She died at St. Cloud, July 3, 1816. The play acted at Covent Garden, March 10, 1814, was Sheridan's 'Trip to Scarborough', which is a close adaptation of Vanbrugh's 'Relapse'. The performance is thus described in the 'Courier', March 11, 1814: "Mrs. Jordan, the only 'Miss Hoyden' on the stage, supported that character with unabated spirit. In every scene, from her soliloquy on being locked up, which was delivered with extraordinary 'naïveté', both with reference to her tones, her emphasis, and her action, until the consummation of the piece, the house was shaken by loud and quick-succeeding peals of laughter. The style in which she expressed 'Hoyden's' rustic arithmetic, 'Now, 'Nursey', if he gives me 'six hundred pounds' a-year to buy 'pins', what will he give me to buy petticoats?' was uncommonly fine. The frock waving in her hand, the backward bound of two or three steps, the gravity of countenance, induced by a mental glance at the magnitude of the sum, all spoke expectation, delight, and astonishment."] [Footnote 4: 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 5.] [Footnote 5: 'Richard III', act i. sc. 2, line 259.] [Footnote 6: 'Ibid.', line 253.] * * * * * Tuesday, March 15. Dined yesterday with Rogers, Mackintosh, and Sharpe. Sheridan could not come. Sharpe told several very amusing anecdotes of Henderson, the actor. [1] Stayed till late, and came home, having drunk so much _tea_, that I did not get to sleep till six this morning. R. says I am to be in _this Quarterly_--cut up, I presume, as they "hate us youth." [2] _N'importe_. As Sharpe was passing by the doors of some debating society (the Westminster Forum), in his way to dinner, he saw rubricked on the wall _Scott's_ name and _mine_--"Which the best poet?" being the question of the evening; and I suppose all the Templars and _would-bes_ took our rhymes in vain in the course of the controversy. Which had the greater show of hands, I neither know nor care; but I feel the coupling of the names as a compliment--though I think Scott deserves better company. Wedderburn Webster called--Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, etc., etc. Wrote to----_The Corsair_ report. She says she don't wonder, since "Conrad is so _like_." It is odd that one, who knows me so thoroughly, should tell me this to my face. However, if she don't know, nobody can. Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the defensive letter in the _Morning Chronicle_. If so, it is very kind, and more than I did for myself. Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian Novels [3] at the sale to-morrow. To me they will be _nuts_. Redde a satire on myself, called "Anti-Byron," and told Murray to publish it if he liked. The object of the author is to prove me an atheist and a systematic conspirator against law and government. Some of the verse is good; the prose I don't quite understand. He asserts that my "deleterious works" have had "an effect upon civil society, which requires," etc., etc., etc., and his own poetry. It is a lengthy poem, and a long preface, with an harmonious title-page. Like the fly in the fable, I seem to have got upon a wheel which makes much dust; but, unlike the said fly, I do not take it all for my own raising. A letter from _Bella_, [4] which I answered. I shall be in love with her again if I don't take care. I shall begin a more regular system of reading soon. [Footnote 1: John Henderson, the Bath Roscius (1747-1785), without any great personal advantages, was, according to Mrs. Siddons, "a fine actor ... the soul of intelligence." Rogers ('Table-Talk', ed. 1887, p. 110) says, "Henderson was a truly great actor: his Hamlet and his Falstaff were equally good. He was a very fine reader too: in his comic readings, superior, of course, to Mrs. Siddons: his John Gilpin was marvellous." In Sharp's 'Letters and Essays' (ed. 1834, pp. 16-18) will be found an interesting letter to Henderson, written a few days before his death, giving an account of John Kemble's first appearance on the London boards, in the character of "Hamlet." "There has not," says Sharp, "been such a first appearance since yours; yet Nature, though she has been bountiful to him in figure and feature, has denied him a voice.... You have been so long without a 'brother near the throne,' that it will perhaps be serviceable to you to be obliged to bestir yourself in Hamlet, Macbeth, Lord Townley, and Maskwell; but in Lear, Richard, Falstaff, and Benedict, you have nothing to fear, not-withstanding the known fickleness of the public and its love of novelty."] [Footnote 2: 'Henry IV', Part I. act ii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 3: Matteo Bandello (1480-1562), a native of Piedmont, became in 1550 Bishop of Agen. His 214 tales, in the manner of Boccaccio, were published at Milan (1554-73). In the Catalogue of Byron's books, "sold by auction by Mr. Evans, at his house, No. 26, Pall Mall, on Friday, April 5, 1816, and following day," appears "Bandello, 'Novelle', 8 vol., wanting vol. 9, 'Livorn', 1791."] [Footnote 4: Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron.] * * * * * Thursday, March 17. I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise this morning; and mean to continue and renew my acquaintance with the muffles. My chest, and arms, and wind are in very good plight, and I am not in flesh. I used to be a hard hitter, and my arms are very long for my height (5 feet 8 1/2 inches). At any rate, exercise is good, and this the severest of all; fencing and the broad-sword never fatigued me half so much. Redde the 'Quarrels of Authors' [1] (another sort of _sparring_)--a new work, by that most entertaining and researching writer, Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. "I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat." [2] What the devil had I to do with scribbling? It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. But, an it were to do again,--I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share of it;--though I shall think better of myself, if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son--by any body--I will bring up mine heir in the most anti-poetical way--make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or--any thing. But, if he writes too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him off with a Bank token. Must write a letter--three o'clock. [Footnote 1: Disraeli's 'Curiosities of Literature', 2 vols. (1807); 'Calamities of Authors', 2 vols. (1812); and 'Quarrels of Authors', 3 vols. (1814), appear in the Sale Catalogue.] [Footnote 2: 'Henry IV'., Part I. act iv. sc. 2.] * * * * * Sunday, March 20. I intended to go to Lady Hardwicke's, [1] but won't. I always begin the day with a bias towards going to parties; but, as the evening advances, my stimulus fails, and I hardly ever go out--and, when I do, always regret it. This might have been a pleasant one;--at least, the hostess is a very superior woman. Lady Lansdowne's [2] to-morrow--Lady Heathcote's [3] Wednesday. Um!--I must spur myself into going to some of them, or it will look like rudeness, and it is better to do as other people do--confound them! Redde Machiavel, [4] parts of Chardin, and Sismondi, and Bandello--by starts. Redde the _Edinburgh_, 44, just come out. In the beginning of the article on Edgeworth's _Patronage_, I have gotten a high compliment, I perceive. [5] Whether this is creditable to me, I know not; but it does honour to the editor, because he once abused me. Many a man will retract praise; none but a high-spirited mind will revoke its censure, or _can_ praise the man it has once attacked. I have often, since my return to England, heard Jeffrey most highly commended by those who know him for things independent of his talents. I admire him for _this_--not because he has _praised me_ (I have been so praised elsewhere and abused, alternately, that mere habit has rendered me as indifferent to both as a man at twenty-six can be to any thing), but because he is, perhaps, the _only man_ who, under the relations in which he and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, would have had the liberality to act thus; none but a great soul dared hazard it. The height on which he stands has not made him giddy;--a little scribbler would have gone on cavilling to the end of the chapter. As to the justice of his panegyric, that is matter of taste. There are plenty to question it, and glad, too, of the opportunity. Lord Erskine called to-day. He means to carry down his reflections on the war--or rather wars--to the present day. I trust that he will. Must send to Mr. Murray to get the binding of my copy of his pamphlet finished, as Lord E. has promised me to correct it, and add some marginal notes to it. Any thing in his handwriting will be a treasure, which will gather compound interest from years. Erskine has high expectations of Mackintosh's promised History. Undoubtedly it must be a classic, when finished. [6] Sparred with Jackson again yesterday morning, and shall to-morrow. I feel all the better for it, in spirits, though my arms and shoulders are very stiff from it. Mem. to attend the pugilistic dinner:--Marquess Huntley [7] is in the chair. Lord Erskine thinks that ministers must be in peril of going out. So much the better for him. To me it is the same who are in or out;--we want something more than a change of ministers, and some day we will have it. I remember, in riding from Chrisso to Castri (Delphos), along the sides of Parnassus, I saw six eagles in the air. It is uncommon to see so many together; and it was the number--not the species, which is common enough--that excited my attention. The last bird I ever fired at was an _eaglet_, on the shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vostitza. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it, the eye was so bright; but it pined, and died in a few days; and I never did since, and never will, attempt the death of another bird. I wonder what put these two things into my head just now? I have been reading Sismondi, and there is nothing there that could induce the recollection. I am mightily taken with Braccio di Montone, Giovanni Galeazzo, and Eccelino. But the last is _not_ Bracciaferro (of the same name), Count of Ravenna, whose history I want to trace. There is a fine engraving in Lavater, from a picture by Fuseli, of _that_ Ezzelin, over the body of Meduna, punished by him for a _hitch_ in her constancy during his absence in the Crusades. He was right--but I want to know the story. [8] [Footnote 1: Philip Yorke, third Earl of Hardwicke, married, in 1782, Elizabeth, daughter of the fifth Earl of Balcarres.] [Footnote 2: Louisa Emma, daughter of the second Earl of Ilchester, was married, in 1808, to the Marquis of Lansdowne, at that time Lord Henry Petty.] [Footnote 3: Katherine Sophia, daughter of John Manners, of Grantham Grange, co. Lincoln, was married, in 1793, to Sir Gilbert Heathcote.] [Footnote 4: Machiavelli's 'Opere', 13 vols., 'in russia, Milan' (1804); Sismondi's 'De la Littérature du Midi', 4 vols., 'in russia', Paris (1813); and Chardin's 'Voyages en Perse', 10 vols. and Atlas (1811), appear in the Catalogue of Sale.] [Footnote 5: "It is no slight consolation to us, while suffering under alternate reproaches for ill-timed severity, and injudicious praise, to reflect that no very mischievous effects have as yet resulted to the literature of the country, from this imputed misbehaviour on our part. Powerful genius, we are persuaded, will not be repressed even by unjust castigation; nor will the most excessive praise that can be lavished by sincere admiration ever abate the efforts that are fitted to attain to excellence. Our alleged severity upon a youthful production has not prevented the noble author from becoming the first poet of his time." 'Edinburgh Review', vol. xxii. p. 416.] [Footnote 6: Mackintosh wrote (1) a 'History of England' for Lardner's 'Cabinet Cyclopaedia' (1830); (2) a 'History of the Revolution in England' (1834).] [Footnote 7: Afterwards fifth, and last, Duke of Gordon. He died in May, 1836.] [Footnote 8: "Fuseli's picture of Ezzelin Bracciaferro musing over Meduna, slain by him for disloyalty during his absence in the Holy Land, was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1780. Mr. Knowles, in his 'Life' of the painter, relates the following anecdote: 'Fuseli frequently invented the subject of his pictures without the aid of the poet or historian, as in his composition of Ezzelin, Belisaire, and some others: these he denominated "philosophical ideas intuitive, or sentiment personified." On one occasion he was much amused by the following inquiry of Lord Byron: "I have been looking in vain, Mr. Fuseli, for some months, in the poets and historians of Italy, for the subject of your picture of Ezzelin: pray where is it to be found?" "Only in my brain, my Lord," was the answer: "for I invented it"' (vol. i. p. 403)" (Moore).] * * * * * Tuesday, March 22. Last night, _party_ at Lansdowne House. To-night, _party_ at Lady Charlotte Greville's [1]--deplorable waste of time, and something of temper. Nothing imparted--nothing acquired--talking without ideas:--if any thing like _thought_ in my mind, it was not on the subjects on which we were gabbling. Heigho!--and in this way half London pass what is called life. To-morrow there is Lady Heathcote's--shall I go? yes--to punish myself for not having a pursuit. Let me see--what did I see? The only person who much struck me was Lady S--d's [Stafford's] eldest daughter, Lady C. L. [2] [Charlotte Leveson]. They say she is _not_ pretty. I don't know--every thing is pretty that pleases; but there is an air of _soul_ about her--and her colour changes--and there is that shyness of the antelope (which I delight in) in her manner so much, that I observed her more than I did any other woman in the rooms, and only looked at any thing else when I thought she might perceive and feel embarrassed by my scrutiny. After all, there may be something of association in this. She is a friend of Augusta's, and whatever she loves I can't help liking. Her mother, the Marchioness, talked to me a little; and I was twenty times on the point of asking her to introduce me to _sa fille_, but I stopped short. This comes of that affray with the Carlisles. Earl Grey told me laughingly of a paragraph in the last _Moniteur_, which has stated, among other symptoms of rebellion, some particulars of the _sensation_ occasioned in all our government gazettes by the "tear" lines,--_only_ amplifying, in its re-statement, an epigram (by the by, no epigram except in the _Greek_ acceptation of the word) into a _roman_. I wonder the _Couriers_, etc., etc., have not translated that part of the _Moniteur_, with additional comments. [3] The Princess of Wales has requested Fuseli to paint from 'The Corsair'--leaving to him the choice of any passage for the subject: so Mr. Locke tells me. Tired, jaded, selfish, and supine--must go to bed. _Roman_, at least _Romance_, means a song sometimes, as in the Spanish. I suppose this is the _Moniteur's_ meaning, unless he has confused it with 'The Corsair'. [Footnote 1: Daughter of William Henry Cavendish, third Duke of Portland, married, in 1793, to Charles Greville.] [Footnote 2: Afterwards Countess of Surrey.] [Footnote 3: "Londres le 9 Mars... On vient de publier une caricature insolente et grossiere centre le mariage projeté (de la Princesse de Galles) et centre le Prince d'Orange. En commentant cette gravure, le 'Town Talk' a osé avancer que la Princesse Charlotte détestait son époux futur, et que ses véritables affections étaient sacrifices à des vues politiques. Le Lord Byron a fait de ce bruit populaire le sujet d'une romance." 'Moniteur', 17 Mars, 1814.] * * * * * Albany, March 28. This night got into my new apartments, [1] rented of Lord Althorpe, on a lease of seven years. Spacious, and room for my books and sabres. _In_ the _house_, too, another advantage. The last few days, or whole week, have been very abstemious, regular in exercise, and yet very _un_well. Yesterday, dined _tête-à-tête_ at the Cocoa with Scrope Davies--sat from six till midnight--drank between us one bottle of champagne and six of claret, neither of which wines ever affect me. Offered to take Scrope home in my carriage; but he was tipsy and pious, and I was obliged to leave him on his knees praying to I know not what purpose or pagod. No headach, nor sickness, that night nor to-day. Got up, if any thing, earlier than usual--sparred with Jackson _ad sudorem_, and have been much better in health than for many days. I have heard nothing more from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four thousand eight hundred pounds, a debt of some standing, and which I wished to have paid before. My mind is much relieved by the removal of that _debit_. Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. I have refused _every_ body else, but I can't deny her any thing;--so I must e'en do it, though I had as lief "drink up Eisel--eat a crocodile." [2] Let me see--Ward, the Hollands, the Lambs, Rogers, etc., etc.,--every body, more or less, have been trying for the last two years to accommodate this _couplet_ quarrel, to no purpose. I shall laugh if Augusta succeeds. Redde a little of many things--shall get in all my books to-morrow. Luckily this room will hold them--with "ample room and verge, etc., the characters of hell to trace." [3] I must set about some employment soon; my heart begins to eat _itself_ again. [Footnote 1: In 1804 Albany House, in Piccadilly, long occupied by the Duke of York and Albany, was converted into sets of bachelor chambers, and the gardens behind were also built over with additional suites of rooms. Byron's were in the original house on the ground floor, No. 2. Moore, writing to Rogers, April 12, 1814 ('Memoirs, etc'., vol. viii. p. 176), says, "Lord Byron, as you know, has removed into Albany, and lives in an apartment, I should think thirty by forty feet."] [Footnote 2: 'Hamlet', act v. sc. 1, line 299.] [Footnote 3: "Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace." Gray, 'The Bard', lines 51, 52.] * * * * * April 8. Out of town six days. On my return, found my poor little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal;--the thieves are in Paris. It is his own fault. Like Milo, he would rend the oak; [1] but it closed again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts--lion, bear, down to the dirtiest jackal--may all tear him. That Muscovite winter _wedged_ his arms;--ever since, he has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may still leave their marks; and "I guess now" (as the Yankees say) that he will yet play them a pass. He is in their rear--between them and their homes. Query--will they ever reach them? [Footnote 1: He adopted this thought afterwards in his 'Ode to Napoleon', as well as most of the historical examples in the following paragraph: "He who of old would rend the oak, Dream'd not of the rebound; Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-- Alone--how look'd he round?"] * * * * * Saturday, April 9, 1814. I mark this day! Napoleon Buonaparte has abdicated the throne of the world. "Excellent well." Methinks Sylla did better; for he revenged and resigned in the height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his foes--the finest instance of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Dioclesian did well too--Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a dervise--Charles the Fifth but so so--but Napoleon, worst of all. What! wait till they were in his capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up what is already gone!! "What whining monk art thou--what holy cheat?" [1] 'Sdeath!--Dionysius at Corinth was yet a king to this. The "Isle of Elba" to retire to!--Well--if it had been Caprea, I should have marvelled less. "I see men's minds are but a parcel of their fortunes." [2] I am utterly bewildered and confounded. I don't know--but I think _I_, even _I_ (an insect compared with this creature), have set my life on casts not a millionth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may be not worth dying for. Yet, to outlive _Lodi_ for this!!! Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead! _Expende--quot libras in duce summo invenies_? [3] I knew they were light in the balance of mortality; but I thought their living dust weighed more _carats_. [4] Alas! this imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to stick in a glazier's pencil:--the pen of the historian won't rate it worth a ducat. Psha! "something too much of this." [5] But I won't give him up even now; though all his admirers have, "like the thanes, fallen from him." [6] [Footnote 1: In Otway's 'Venice Preserved' (act iv. sc. 2), Pierre says to Jaffier, who had betrayed him: "What whining monk art thou? What holy cheat? That would'st encroach upon my credulous ears, And cant'st thus vilely! Hence! I know thee not!"] [Footnote 2: "I see, men's judgements are a parcel of their fortunes." 'Antony and Cleopatra', act iii. sc. II, line 32.] [Footnote 3: "Expende Hannibalem: quot libras in duce summo Invenies?" Juvenal, 'Sat'. x. 147. "Produce the urn that Hannibal contains, And weigh the mighty dust which yet remains: 'And is this all?'" Gifford's 'Juvenal' (ed. 1802), vol. ii. pp. 338, 339.] [Footnote 4: "In the Statistical Account of Scotland, I find that Sir John Paterson had the curiosity to collect, and weigh, the ashes of a person discovered a few years since in the parish of Eccles. Wonderful to relate, he found the whole did not exceed in weight one ounce and a half! 'And is this all'!" Gifford's 'Juvenal, ut supra'.] [Footnote 5: 'Hamlet', act iii. sc. 2.] [Footnote 6: 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 3, "Doctor, the thanes fly from me!"] * * * * * April 10. I do not know that I am happiest when alone; but this I am sure of, that I never am long in the society even of _her_ I love, (God knows too well, and the devil probably too,) without a yearning for the company of my lamp and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library. Even in the day, I send away my carriage oftener than I use or abuse it. _Per esempio_,--I have not stirred out of these rooms for these four days past: but I have sparred for exercise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, to attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. The more violent the fatigue, the better my spirits for the rest of the day; and then, my evenings have that calm nothingness of languor, which I most delight in. To-day I have boxed an hour--written an ode to Napoleon Buonaparte--copied it--eaten six biscuits--drunk four bottles of soda water [1]--redde away the rest of my time--besides giving poor [? Webster] a world of advice about this mistress of his, who is plaguing him into a phthisic and intolerable tediousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about "the sect." No matter, my counsels are all thrown away. [Footnote 1: The following is one of Byron's bills for soda water: Lord Byron to R. Shipwash, 27 St. Albans St. 1814-- s. d. 4 Octr. 2 Doz. Soda Water 11 0 7 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 13 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 20 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 25 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 30 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 9 Decr. 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 14 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 17 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 22 " 2 Doz. do. do. 11 0 6 1 0 [overstrike 1 7 6] [overstrike 4 13 6] 25th Decr. 1814 Recd. R. Shipwash. * * * * * April 19, 1814. There is ice at both poles, north and south--all extremes are the same--misery belongs to the highest and the lowest only, to the emperor and the beggar, when unsixpenced and unthroned. There is, to be sure, a damned insipid medium--an equinoctial line--no one knows where, except upon maps and measurement. "And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death." [1] I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch-light; and, to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining leaves of this volume, and write, in _Ipecacuanha_, --"that the Bourbons are restored!!!"--"Hang up philosophy." [2] To be sure, I have long despised myself and man, but I never spat in the face of my species before--"O fool! I shall go mad." [3] [Footnote 1: 'Macbeth', act v. sc. 5, line 22.] [Footnote 2: 'Romeo and Juliet', act iii. sc. 3.] [Footnote 3: 'King Lear', act ii. sc. 4.] * * * * * APPENDIX I. ARTICLES FROM 'THE MONTHLY REVIEW'. 1. 'POEMS', BY W. R. SPENCER. (VOL. 67, 1812, PP. 54-60.) Art. VII. Poems by William Robert Spencer. 8vo. 10s. Boards. Cadell and Davies. 1811. The author of this well-printed volume has more than once been introduced to our readers, and is known to rank among that class of poetical persons who have never been highly favoured by stern criticism. The "mob of gentlemen who write with ease" has indeed of late years (like other mobs) become so importunate, as to threaten an alarming rivalry to the regular body of writers who are not fortunate enough to be either easy or genteel. Hence the jaundiced eye with which the real author regards the red Morocco binding of the presumptuous "Littérateur;" we say, _the binding_, for into the book itself he cannot condescend to look, at least not beyond the frontispiece.--Into Mr. Spencer's volume, however, he may dip farther, and will find sufficient to give him pleasure or pain, in proportion to his own candour. It consists chiefly of "_Vers de Société_," calculated to prove very delightful to a large circle of fashionable acquaintance, and pleasing to a limited number of vulgar purchasers. These last, indeed, may be rude enough to expect something more for their specie during the present scarcity of change, than lines to "Young Poets and Poetesses," "Epitaphs upon Years," Poems "to my Grammatical Niece," "Epistle from Sister Dolly in Cascadia to Sister Tanny in Snowdonia," etc.: but we doubt not that a long list of persons of quality, wit, and honour, "in town and country," who are here addressed, will be highly pleased with themselves and with the poet who has _shewn them off_ in a very handsome volume: as will doubtless the "Butterfly at the end of Winter," provided that he is fortunate enough to survive the present inclemencies. We are, however, by no means convinced that the Bellman will relish Mr. S.'s usurpation of a "Christmas Carol;" which looks so very like his own, that we advise him immediately to put in his claim, and it will be universally allowed. With the exception of these and similar productions, the volume contains poems eminently beautiful; some which have been already published, and others that are well worthy of present publication. Of "Leonora," with which it opens, we made our report many years ago (in vol. xx. N.S. p. 451): but our readers, perhaps, will not be sorry to see another short extract. We presume that they are well acquainted with the story, and therefore select one of the central passages: "See, where fresh blood-gouts mat the green, Yon wheel its reeking points advance; There, by the moon's wan light half seen, Grim ghosts of tombless murderers dance. 'Come, spectres of the guilty dead, With us your goblin morris ply, Come all in festive dance to tread, Ere on the bridal couch we lie.' "Forward th' obedient phantoms push, Their trackless footsteps rustle near, In sound like autumn winds that rush Through withering oak or beech-wood sere. With lightning's force the courser flies, Earth shakes his thund'ring hoofs beneath, Dust, stones, and sparks, in whirlwind rise, And horse and horseman heave for breath. "Swift roll the moon-light scenes away, Hills chasing hills successive fly; E'en stars that pave th' eternal way, Seem shooting to a backward sky. 'Fear'st thou, my love? the moon shines clear; Hurrah! how swiftly speed the dead! The dead does Leonora fear? Oh God! oh leave, oh leave the dead!'" Such a specimen of "the Terrible" will place the merit of the poem in a proper point of view: but we do not think that some of the alterations in this copy of Leonora are altogether so judicious as Mr. S.'s well-known taste had led us to expect. "Reviving Friendship" (p. 5) is perhaps less expressive than "Relenting," as it once stood; and the phrase, "ten thousand _furlowed_ heroes" ('ibid'.), throws a new light on the heroic character. It is extremely proper that heroes should have "furlows," since school-boys have holidays, and lawyers have long vacations: but we very much question whether young gentlemen of the scholastic, legal, or heroic calling, would be flattered by any epithet derived from the relaxation of their respectable pursuits. We should feel some hesitation in telling an interesting youth, of any given battalion from Portugal, that he was a "furlowed hero," lest he should prove to us that his "furlow" had by no means impaired his "heroism." The old epithet, "war-worn," was more adapted to heroism and to poetry; and, if we mistake not, it has very recently been superseded by an epithet which precludes "otium cum dignitate" from the soldier, without imparting either ease or dignity to the verse. Why is "horse and horsemen _pant_ for breath" changed to "_heave_ for breath," unless for the alliteration of the too tempting aspirate? "Heaving" is appropriate enough to coals and to sighs, but "panting" _belongs_ to successful lovers and spirited horses; and why should Mr. S.'s horse and horseman not have panted as heretofore? The next poem in arrangement as well as in merit is the "Year of Sorrow;" to which we offered a tribute of praise in our 45th vol. N.S. p. 288.--We are sorry to observe that the compliment paid to Mr. Wedgewood by a "late traveller" (see note, p. 50), viz. that "an Englishman in journeying from Calais to Ispahan may have his dinner served every day on Wedgewood's ware," is no longer a matter of fact. It has lately been the good or evil fortune of one of our travelling department to pass near to Calais, and to have journeyed through divers Paynim lands to no very remote distance from Ispahan; and neither in the palace of the Pacha nor in the caravanserai of the traveller, nor in the hut of the peasant, was he so favoured as to masticate his pilaff from that fashionable service. Such is, in this and numerous other instances, the altered state of the continent and of Europe, since the annotation of the "late traveller;" and on the authority of a _later_, we must report that the ware has been all broken since the former passed that way. We wish that we could efficiently exhort Mr. Wedgewood to send out a fresh supply, on all the _turnpike roads_ by the route of Bagdad, for the convenience of the "latest travellers." Passing over the "Chorus from Euripides," which might as well have slept in quiet with the rest of the author's school-exercises, we come to "the Visionary," which we gladly extract as a very elegant specimen of the lighter poems: "When midnight o'er the moonless skies Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, And nought is wakeful but the dead! "No bloodless shape my way pursues, No sheeted ghost my couch annoys. Visions more sad my fancy views, Visions of long departed joys! "The shade of youthful hope is there, That linger'd long, and latest died; Ambition all dissolved to air, With phantom honours at her side. "What empty shadows glimmer nigh! They once were friendship, truth, and love! Oh, die to thought, to mem'ry die, Since lifeless to my heart ye prove!" We cannot forbear adding the beautiful stanzas in pages 166, 167: "To THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. "Too late I staid, forgive the crime, Unheeded flew the hours; How noiseless falls the foot of Time, That only treads on flow'rs! "What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass, When all its sands are di'mond sparks, That dazzle as they pass? "Ah! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings?" The far greater part of the volume, however, contains pieces which can be little gratifying to the public:--some are pretty; and all are besprinkled with "gems," and "roses," and "birds," and "diamonds," and such like cheap poetical adornments, as are always to be obtained at no great expense of thought or of metre.--It is happy for the author that these _bijoux_ are presented to persons of high degree; countesses, foreign and domestic; "Maids of Honour to Louisa Landgravine of Hesse D'Armstadt;" Lady Blank, and Lady Asterisk, besides---, and---, and others anonymous; who are exactly the kind of people to be best pleased with these sparkling, shining, fashionable trifles. We will solace our readers with three stanzas of the soberest of these odes: "ADDRESSED TO LADY SUSAN FINCASTLE, NOW COUNTESS OF DUNMORE. "What ails you, Fancy? you're become Colder than Truth, than Reason duller! Your wings are worn, your chirping's dumb, And ev'ry plume has lost its colour. "You droop like geese, whose cacklings cease When dire St. Michael they remember, Or like some _bird_ who just has heard That Fin's preparing for September? "Can you refuse your sweetest spell When I for Susan's praise invoke you? What, sulkier still? you pout and swell As if that lovely name would choke you." We are to suppose that "Fin preparing for September" is the lady with whose "lovely name" Fancy runs some risk of being "choked;" and, really, if _killing partridges_ formed a part of her Ladyship's accomplishments, both "Fancy" and Feeling were in danger of a quinsey. Indeed, the whole of these stanzas are couched in that most exquisite irony, in which Mr. S. has more than once succeeded. All the songs to "persons of quality" seem to be written on that purest model, "the song by a person of quality;" whose stanzas have not been fabricated in vain. This sedulous imitation extends even to the praise of things inanimate: "When an Eden zephyr hovers O'er a slumb'ring cherub's lyre, Or when sighs of seraph lovers Breathe upon th' unfinger'd wire." If namby-pamby still leads to distinction, Mr. S., like Ambrose Phillips, will be "preferred for wit." "Heav'n must hear--a bloom more tender Seems to tint the wreath of May, Lovelier beams the noon-day splendour, Brighter dew-drops gem the spray! "Is the breath of angels moving O'er each flow'ret's heighten'd hue? Are their smiles the day improving, Have their tears enrich'd the dew?" Here we have "angels' tears," and "breath," and "smiles," and "Eden zephyrs," "sighs of seraph lovers," and "lyres of slumbering cherubs," dancing away to "the Pedal Harp!" How strange it is that Thomson, in his stanzas on the Æolian lyre (see the 'Castle of Indolence'), never dreamed of such things, but left all these prettinesses to the last of the Cruscanti! One of the best pieces in the volume is an "Epistle to T. Moore, Esq.," which though disfigured with "Fiends on sulphur nurst," and "_Hell's chillest Winter_" ("poor Tom's a'-cold!"), and some other vagaries of the same sort, forms a pleasant specimen of poetical friendship.--We give the last ten lines: "The triflers think your varied powers Made only for life's gala bow'rs, To smooth Reflection's mentor-frown, Or Pillow joy on softer down.-- Fools!--yon blest orb not only glows To chase the cloud, or paint the rose; _These_ are the pastimes of his might, Earth's torpid bosom drinks his light; Find there his wondrous pow'r's true measure, Death turn'd to life, and dross to treasure!" We have now arrived at Mr. Spencer's French and Italian poesy; the former of which is written sometimes in new and sometimes in old French, and, occasionally, in a kind of tongue neither old nor new. We offer a sample of the two former: "'QU'EST CE QUE C'EST QUE LE GENIE?' "Brillant est cet esprit privé de sentiment; Mais ce n'est qu'un soleil trop vif et trop constant, Tendre est ce sentiment qu' aucun esprit n'anime, Mais ce n'est qu'un jour doux, que trop de pluie abime! Quand un brillant esprit de ses rares couleurs, Orne du sentiment les aimables douleurs, Un _Phenomêne_ en nait, le plus beau de la vie! C'est alors que les ris en se mélant aux pleurs, Font ces _Iris de l'ame_, appellê le Genie!" "C'y gist un povre menestrel, Occis par maint ennuict cruel-- Ne plains pas trop sa destinée-- N'est icy que son corps mortel: Son ame est toujours à Gillwell, Et n'est ce pas là l'Elyséé?" We think that Mr. Spencer's Italian rhymes are better finished than his French; and indeed the facility of composing in that most poetical of all languages must be obvious: but, as a composer in Italian, he and all other Englishmen are much inferior to Mr. Mathias. It is very perceptible in many of Mr. S.'s smaller pieces that he has suffered his English versification to be vitiated with Italian 'concetti'; and we should have been better pleased with his compositions in a foreign language, had they not induced him to corrupt his mother-tongue. Still we would by no means utterly proscribe these excursions into other languages; though they remind us occasionally of that aspiring Frenchman who placed in his grounds the following inscription in honour of Shenstone and the Leasowes: "See this stone For William Shenstone-- Who planted groves rural, And wrote verse natural!" The above lines were displayed by the worthy proprietor, in the pride of his heart, to all English travellers, as a tribute of respect for the resemblance of his paternal chateau to the Leasowes, and a striking coincidence between Shenstone's versification and his own.--We do not mean to insinuate that Mr. Spencer's French verses ("_Cy gist un povre menestrel,"_ with an Urn inscribed W. R. S. at the top) are _precisely_ a return in kind for the quatrain above quoted: but we place it as a beacon to all young gentlemen of poetical propensities on the French Parnassus. Few would proceed better on the Gallic Pegasus, than the Anglo-troubadour on ours. We now take our leave of Mr. Spencer, without being blind to his errors or insensible to his merits. As a poet, he may be placed rather below Mr. Moore and somewhat above Lord Strangford; and if his volume meet with half their number of purchasers, he will have no reason to complain either of our judgment or of his own success. * * * * * ARTICLES FROM THE MONTHLY REVIEW. 2. NEGLECTED GENIUS, BY W.H. IRELAND. (VOL. 70, 1813, PP. 203-205.) Art. XV. 'Neglected Genius:' a Poem. Illustrating the untimely and unfortunate Fall of many British Poets; from the Period of Henry VIII. to the Æra of the unfortunate Chatterton. Containing Imitations of their different Styles, etc., etc. By W.H. Ireland, Author of the 'Fisher-Soy', 'Sailor-Boy', 'Cottage-Girl', etc., etc., etc. 8vo. pp. 175. 8s. Boards. Sherwood & Co. 1812. This volume, professing in a moderately long title-page to be "illustrative of the untimely and unfortunate fate of _many_ British Poets," might with great propriety include the author among the number; for if his "imitations of their different styles" resemble the originals, the consequent starvation of "many British poets" is a doom which is calculated to excite pity rather than surprize. The book opens with a dedication to the present, and a Monody on the late Duke of Devonshire (one of the neglected bards, we presume, on whom the author holds his inquest), in which it were difficult to say whether the "enlightened understanding" of the living or the "intellect" of the deceased nobleman is more justly appreciated or more elegantly eulogized. Lest the Monody should be mistaken for anything but itself, of which there was little danger, it is dressed in marginal mourning, like a dying speech, or an American Gazette after a defeat. The following is a specimen--the poet is addressing the Duchess: "Chaste widow'd Mourner, still with tears bedew That sacred Urn, which can imbue Thy worldly thoughts, thus kindling mem'ry's glow: Each retrospective virtue, fadeless beam, Embalms thy _Truth_ in heavenly dream, To soothe the bosom's agonizing woe. "Yet soft--more poignantly to wake the soul, And ev'ry pensive thought controul, Truth shall with energy his worth proclaim; Here I'll record his _philanthropic mind_, Eager to bless all human kind, Yet _modest shrinking_ from the voice of _Fame_. "As _Patriot_ view him shun the courtly crew, And dauntless ever keep in view That bright palladium, England's dear renown. The people's Freedom and the Monarch's good, Purchas'd with Patriotic blood, The surest safeguard of the state and crown. "Or now behold his glowing soul extend, To shine the polish'd social _friend_; His country's _matchless Prince_ his worth rever'd; _Gigantic Fox_, true Freedom's darling child, By kindred excellence beguil'd, To lasting _amity_ the temple rear'd. "As _Critic_ chaste, his judgment could explore The beauties of poetic lore, Or classic strains mellifluent infuse; Yet glowing genius and expanded sense Were crown'd with _innate diffidence_, The sure attendant of a genuine muse." Page 9 contains, forsooth, a very correct imitation of Milton: "To thee, gigantic genius, next I'll sound; The clarion string, and fill fame's vasty round; 'Tis _Milton_ beams upon the wond'ring sight, Rob'd in the splendour of Apollo's light; As when from ocean bursting on the view, His orb dispenses ev'ry brilliant hue, Crowns with resplendent gold th' horizon wide, And cloathes with countless gems the buoyant tide; While through the boundless realms of æther blaze, On spotless azure, streamy saffron rays:-- So o'er the world of genius _Milton_ shone, Profound in science--as the bard--alone." We must not pass over the imitative specimen of "Nahum Tate," because in this the author approximates nearest to the style of his original: "Friend of great _Dryden_, though of humble fame, The Laureat Tate, shall here record his name; Whose sorrowing numbers breath'd a nation's pain, When death from mortal to immortal reign Translated royal _Anne_, our island's boast, Victorious sov'reign, dread of Gallia's host; Whose arms by land and sea with fame were crown'd, Whose statesmen grave for wisdom were renown'd, Whose reign with science dignifies the page; Bright noon of genius--_great Augustan age_. Such was thy Queen, and such th' illustrious time That nurs'd thy muse, and tun'd thy soul to rhyme; Yet wast thou fated sorrow's shaft to bear, Augmenting still this catalogue of care; The gripe of penury thy bosom knew, A gloomy jail obscur'd bright freedom's view; So life's gay visions faded to thy sight, Thy brilliant hopes enscarf'd in sorrow's night." Where did Mr. Ireland learn that _hold fast_ and _ballâst_, _stir_ and _hungêr_, _please_ and _kidnêys_, _plane_ and _capstâne_, _expose_ and _windôws_, _forgot_ and _pilôt_, _sail on_ _and Deucalôn!_ (Lemprière would have saved him a scourging at school by telling him that there was an _i_ in the word), were legitimate Hudibrastic rhymes? (see pp. 116, etc.). Chatterton is a great favourite of this imitative gentleman; and Bristol, where he appears to have been held in no greater estimation than Mr. Ireland himself deserves, is much vituperated in some sad couplets, seemingly for this reason, "All for love, and a little for the bottle," as Bannister's song runs,--"All for Chatterton, and a little for myself," thinks Mr. Ireland. The notes communicate, among other novelties, the new title of "Sir Horace" to the Honourable H. Walpole: surely a perusal of the life of the unfortunate boy, whose fate Mr. I. deplores, might have prevented this piece of ignorance, twice repeated in the same page; and we wonder at the malicious fun of the printer's devil in permitting it to stand, for _he_ certainly knew better. We must be excused from a more detailed notice of Mr. Ireland for the present; and indeed we hope to hear no more of his lamentations, very sure that none but reviewers ever will peruse them: unless, perhaps, the unfortunate persons of quality whom he may henceforth single out as proper victims of future dedication. Though his dedications are enough to kill the living, his anticipated monodies, on the other hand, must add considerably to the natural dread of death in such of his patrons as may be liable to common sense or to chronic diseases. * * * * * APPENDIX II. PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 1. DEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. The order of the day for the second reading of this Bill being read, Lord BYRON rose, and (for the first time) addressed their Lordships as follows: My Lords,--The subject now submitted to your Lordships for the first time, though new to the House, is by no means new to the country. I believe it had occupied the serious thoughts of all descriptions of persons, long before its introduction to the notice of that legislature, whose interference alone could be of real service. As a person in some degree connected with the suffering county, though a stranger not only to this House in general, but to almost every individual whose attention I presume to solicit, I must claim some portion of your Lordships' indulgence, whilst I offer a few observations on a question in which I confess myself deeply interested. To enter into any detail of the riots would be superfluous: the House is already aware that every outrage short of actual bloodshed has been perpetrated, and that the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the rioters, and all persons supposed to be connected with them, have been liable to insult and violence. During the short time I recently passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve hours elapsed without some fresh act of violence; and on the day I left the county I was informed that forty frames had been broken the preceding evening, as usual, without resistance and without detection. Such was then the state of that county, and such I have reason to believe it to be at this moment. But whilst these outrages must be admitted to exist to an alarming extent, it cannot be denied that they have arisen from circumstances of the most unparalleled distress: the perseverance of these miserable men in their proceedings tends to prove that nothing but absolute want could have driven a large, and once honest and industrious, body of the people, into the commission of excesses so hazardous to themselves, their families, and the community. At the time to which I allude, the town and county were burdened with large detachments of the military; the police was in motion, the magistrates assembled; yet all the movements, civil and military, had led to--nothing. Not a single instance had occurred of the apprehension of any real delinquent actually taken in the fact, against whom there existed legal evidence sufficient for conviction. But the police, however useless, were by no means idle: several notorious delinquents had been detected,--men, liable to conviction, on the clearest evidence, of the capital crime of poverty; men, who had been nefariously guilty of lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks to the times! they were unable to maintain. Considerable injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved frames. These machines were to them an advantage, inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing a number of workmen, who were left in consequence to starve. By the adoption of one species of frame in particular, one man performed the work of many, and the superfluous labourers were thrown out of employment. Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus executed was inferior in quality; not marketable at home, and merely hurried over with a view to exportation. It was called, in the cant of the trade, by the name of "Spider-work." The rejected workmen, in the blindness of their ignorance, instead of rejoicing at these improvements in arts so beneficial to mankind, conceived themselves to be sacrificed to improvements in mechanism. In the foolishness of their hearts they imagined that the maintenance and well-doing of the industrious poor were objects of greater consequence than the enrichment of a few individuals by any improvement, in the implements of trade, which threw the workmen out of employment, and rendered the labourer unworthy of his hire. And it must be confessed that although the adoption of the enlarged machinery in that state of our commerce which the country once boasted might have been beneficial to the master without being detrimental to the servant; yet, in the present situation of our manufactures, rotting in warehouses, without a prospect of exportation, with the demand for work and workmen equally diminished, frames of this description tend materially to aggravate the distress and discontent of the disappointed sufferers. But the real cause of these distresses and consequent disturbances lies deeper. When we are told that these men are leagued together not only for the destruction of their own comfort, but of their very means of subsistence, can we forget that it is the bitter policy, the destructive warfare of the last eighteen years, which has destroyed their comfort, your comfort, all men's comfort? that policy, which, originating with "great statesmen now no more," has survived the dead to become a curse on the living, unto the third and fourth generation! These men never destroyed their looms till they were become useless, worse than useless; till they were become actual impediments to their exertions in obtaining their daily bread. Can you, then, wonder that in times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted fraud, and imputed felony are found in a station not far beneath that of your Lordships, the lowest, though once most useful portion of the people, should forget their duty in their distresses, and become only less guilty than one of their representatives? But while the exalted offender can find means to baffle the law, new capital punishments must be devised, new snares of death must be spread for the wretched mechanic, who is famished into guilt. These men were willing to dig, but the spade was in other hands: they were not ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them: their own means of subsistence were cut off, all other employments pre-occupied; and their excesses, however to be deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject of surprise. It has been stated that the persons in the temporary possession of frames connive at their destruction; if this be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such material accessories to the crime should be principals in the punishment. But I did hope, that any measure proposed by his Majesty's government for your Lordships' decision, would have had conciliation for its basis; or, if that were hopeless, that some previous inquiry, some deliberation, would have been deemed requisite; not that we should have been called at once, without examination and without cause, to pass sentences by wholesale, and sign death-warrants blindfold. But, admitting that these men had no cause of complaint; that the grievances of them and their employers were alike groundless; that they deserved the worst;--what inefficiency, what imbecility has been evinced in the method chosen to reduce them! Why were the military called out to be made a mockery of, if they were to be called out at all? As far as the difference of seasons would permit, they have merely parodied the summer campaign of Major Sturgeon; and, indeed, the whole proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the model of those of the mayor and corporation of Garratt.--Such marchings and countermarchings! --from Nottingham to Bullwell, from Bullwell to Banford, from Banford to Mansfield! And when at length the detachments arrived at their destination, in all "the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," they came just in time to witness the mischief which had been done, and ascertain the escape of the perpetrators, to collect the "'spolia opima'" in the fragments of broken frames, and return to their quarters amidst the derision of old women, and the hootings of children. Now, though, in a free country, it were to be wished that our military should never be too formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see the policy of placing them in situations where they can only be made ridiculous. As the sword is the worst argument that can be used, so should it be the last. In this instance it has been the first; but providentially as yet only in the scabbard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it from the sheath; yet had proper meetings been held in the earlier stages of these riots, had the grievances of these men and their masters (for they also had their grievances) been fairly weighed and justly examined, I do think that means might have been devised to restore these workmen to their avocations, and tranquillity to the county. At present the county suffers from the double infliction of an idle military and a starving population. In what state of apathy have we been plunged so long, that now for the first time the House has been officially apprised of these disturbances? All this has been transacting within 130 miles of London; and yet we, "good easy men, have deemed full sure our greatness was a-ripening," and have sat down to enjoy our foreign triumphs in the midst of domestic calamity. But all the cities you have taken, all the armies which have retreated before your leaders, are but paltry subjects of self-congratulation, if your land divides against itself, and your dragoons and your executioners must be let loose against your fellow-citizens.--You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, and ignorant; and seem to think that the only way to quiet the "'Bellua multorum capitum'" is to lop off a few of its superfluous heads. But even a mob may be better reduced to reason by a mixture of conciliation and firmness, than by additional irritation and redoubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labour in your fields and serve in your houses,--that man your navy, and recruit your army,--that have enabled you to defy all the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair! You may call the people a mob; but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people. And here I must remark, with what alacrity you are accustomed to fly to the succour of your distressed allies, leaving the distressed of your own country to the care of Providence or--the parish. When the Portuguese suffered under the retreat of the French, every arm was stretched out, every hand was opened, from the rich man's largess to the widow's mite, all was bestowed, to enable them to rebuild their villages and replenish their granaries. And at this moment, when thousands of misguided but most unfortunate fellow-countrymen are struggling with the extremes of hardships and hunger, as your charity began abroad it should end at home. A much less sum, a tithe of the bounty bestowed on Portugal, even if those men (which I cannot admit without inquiry) could not have been restored to their employments, would have rendered unnecessary the tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims to admit a prospect of domestic relief; though never did such objects demand it. I have traversed the seat of war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most oppressed provinces of Turkey; but never under the most despotic of infidel governments did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return in the very heart of a Christian country. And what are your remedies? After months of inaction, and months of action worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the grand specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state physicians, from the days of Draco to the present time. After feeling the pulse and shaking the head over the patient, prescribing the usual course of warm water and bleeding,--the warm water of your mawkish police, and the lancets of your military,--these convulsions must terminate in death, the sure consummation of the prescriptions of all political Sangrados. Setting aside the palpable injustice and the certain inefficiency of the Bill, are there not capital punishments sufficient in your statutes? Is there not blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be poured forth to ascend to Heaven and testify against you? How will you carry the Bill into effect? Can you commit a whole county to their own prisons? Will you erect a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like scarecrows? or will you proceed (as you must to bring this measure into effect) by decimation? place the county under martial law? depopulate and lay waste all around you? and restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable gift to the crown, in its former condition of a royal chase and an asylum for outlaws? Are these the remedies for a starving and desperate populace? Will the famished wretch who has braved your bayonets be appalled by your gibbets? When death is a relief, and the only relief it appears that you will afford him, will he be dragooned into tranquillity? Will that which could not be effected by your grenadiers be accomplished by your executioners? If you proceed by the forms of law, where is your evidence? Those who have refused to impeach their accomplices when transportation only was the punishment, will hardly be tempted to witness against them when death is the penalty. With all due deference to the noble lords opposite, I think a little investigation, some previous inquiry, would induce even them to change their purpose. That most favourite state measure, so marvellously efficacious in many and recent instances, temporising, would not be without its advantages in this. When a proposal is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate, you deliberate for years, you temporise and tamper with the minds of men; but a death-bill must be passed off-hand, without a thought of the consequences. Sure I am, from what I have heard, and from what I have seen, that to pass the Bill under all the existing circumstances, without inquiry, without deliberation, would only be to add injustice to irritation, and barbarity to neglect. The framers of such a bill must be content to inherit the honours of that Athenian law-giver whose edicts were said to be written not in ink but in blood. But suppose it passed; suppose one of these men, as I have seen them,--meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your Lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking-frame; --suppose this man surrounded by the children for whom he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever from a family which he lately supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his fault that he can no longer so support;--suppose this man--and there are ten thousand such from whom you may select your victims--dragged into court, to be tried for this new offence, by this new law; still, there are two things wanting to convict and condemn him; and these are, in my opinion,--twelve butchers for a jury, and a Jeffreys for a judge! * * * * * 2. DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORE'S MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CLAIMS, APRIL 21, 1812. [Byron's notes for a portion of his speech are in the possession of Mr. Murray.] Lord BYRON rose and said: My Lords,--The question before the House has been so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never perhaps more ably than on this night, that it would be difficult to adduce new arguments for or against it. But with each discussion difficulties have been removed, objections have been canvassed and refuted, and some of the former opponents of Catholic emancipation have at length conceded to the expediency of relieving the petitioners. In conceding thus much, however, a new objection is started; it is not the time, say they, or it is an improper time, or there is time enough yet. In some degree I concur with those who say it is not the time exactly; that time is past; better had it been for the country that the Catholics possessed at this moment their proportion of our privileges, that their nobles held their due weight in our councils, than that we should be assembled to discuss their claims. It had indeed been better: "Non tempore tali Cogere concilium cum muros obsidet hostis." The enemy is without, and distress within. It is too late to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in defence of things more important than the mere ceremonies of religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called together to deliberate, not on the God we adore, for in that we are agreed; not about the king we obey, for to him we are loyal; but how far a difference in the ceremonials of worship, how far believing not too little, but too much (the worst that can be imputed to the Catholics), how far too much devotion to their God may incapacitate our fellow-subjects from effectually serving their king. Much has been said, within and without doors, of church and state; and although those venerable words have been too often prostituted to the most despicable of party purposes, we cannot hear them too often: all, I presume, are the advocates of church and state,--the church of Christ, and the state of Great Britain; but not a state of exclusion and despotism; not an intolerant church; not a church militant, which renders itself liable to the very objection urged against the Romish communion, and in a greater degree, for the Catholic merely withholds its spiritual benediction (and even that is doubtful), but our church, or rather our churchmen, not only refuse to the Catholic their spiritual grace, but all temporal blessings whatsoever. It was an observation of the great Lord Peterborough, made within these walls, or within the walls where the Lords then assembled, that he was for a "parliamentary king and a parliamentary constitution, but not a parliamentary God and a parliamentary religion." The interval of a century has not weakened the force of the remark. It is indeed time that we should leave off these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Lilliputian sophistries, whether our "eggs are best broken at the broad or narrow end." The opponents of the Catholics may be divided into two classes; those who assert that the Catholics have too much already, and those who allege that the lower orders, at least, have nothing more to require. We are told by the former, that the Catholics never will be contented: by the latter, that they are already too happy. The last paradox is sufficiently refuted by the present as by all past petitions: it might as well be said, that the negroes did not desire to be emancipated; but this is an unfortunate comparison, for you have already delivered them out of the house of bondage without any petition on their part, but many from their taskmasters to a contrary effect; and for myself, when I consider this, I pity the Catholic peasantry for not having the good fortune to be born black. But the Catholics are contented, or at least ought to be, as we are told; I shall, therefore, proceed to touch on a few of those circumstances which so marvellously contribute to their exceeding contentment. They are not allowed the free exercise of their religion in the regular army; the Catholic soldier cannot absent himself from the service of the Protestant clergyman; and unless he is quartered in Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligible opportunities of attending his own? The permission of Catholic chaplains to the Irish militia regiments was conceded as a special favour, and not till after years of remonstrance, although an Act, passed in 1793, established it as a right. But are the Catholics properly protected in Ireland? Can the church purchase a rood of land whereon to erect a chapel? No! all the places of worship are built on leases of trust or sufferance from the laity, easily broken, and often betrayed. The moment any irregular wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent landlord meets with opposition, the doors are barred against the congregation. This has happened continually, but in no instance more glaringly than at the town of Newton Barry, in the county of Wexford. The Catholics enjoying no regular chapel, as a temporary expedient hired two barns; which, being thrown into one, served for public worship. At this time, there was quartered opposite to the spot an officer whose mind appears to have been deeply imbued with those prejudices which the Protestant petitions now on the table prove to have been fortunately eradicated from the more rational portion of the people; and when the Catholics were assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in peace and good-will towards men, for the worship of their God and yours, they found the chapel door closed, and were told that if they did not immediately retire (and they were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate), the Riot Act should be read, and the assembly dispersed at the point of the bayonet! This was complained of to the middle-man of government, the secretary at the Castle in 1806, and the answer was (in lieu of redress), that he would cause a letter to be written to the colonel, to prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar disturbances. Upon this fact no very great stress need be laid; but it tends to prove that while the Catholic church has not power to purchase land for its chapels to stand upon, the laws for its protection are of no avail. In the mean time, the Catholics are at the mercy of every "pelting petty officer," who may choose to play his "fantastic tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, and injure his fellow-creatures. Every schoolboy, any footboy (such have held commissions in our service), any footboy who can exchange his shoulder-knot for an epaulette, may perform all this and more against the Catholic by virtue of that very authority delegated to him by his sovereign for the express purpose of defending his fellow-subjects to the last drop of his blood, without discrimination or distinction between Catholic and Protestant. Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by jury? They have not; they never can have until they are permitted to share the privilege of serving as sheriffs and under-sheriffs. Of this a striking example occurred at the last Enniskillen assizes. A yeoman was arraigned for the murder of a Catholic named Macvournagh; three respectable, uncontradicted witnesses, deposed that they saw the prisoner load, take aim, fire at, and kill the said Macvournagh. This was properly commented on by the judge; but, to the astonishment of the bar, and indignation of the court, the Protestant jury acquitted the accused. So glaring was the partiality, that Mr. Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind over the acquitted, but not absolved assassin, in large recognizances; thus for a time taking away his licence to kill Catholics. Are the very laws passed in their favour observed? They are rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious cases. By a late Act, Catholic chaplains are permitted in gaols; but in Fermanagh county the grand jury lately persisted in presenting a suspended clergyman for the office, thereby evading the statute, notwithstanding the most pressing remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate named Fletcher to the contrary. Such is law, such is justice, for the happy, free, contented Catholic! It has been asked, in another place, Why do not the rich Catholics endow foundations for the education of the priesthood? Why do you not permit them to do so? Why are all such bequests subject to the interference, the vexatious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the Orange commissioners for charitable donations? As to Maynooth college, in no instance, except at the time of its foundation, when a noble Lord (Camden), at the head of the Irish administration, did appear to interest himself in its advancement, and during the government of a noble Duke (Bedford), who, like his ancestors, has ever been the friend of freedom and mankind, and who has not so far adopted the selfish policy of the day as to exclude the Catholics from the number of his fellow-creatures; with these exceptions, in no instance has that institution been properly encouraged. There was indeed a time when the Catholic clergy were conciliated, while the Union was pending, that Union which could not be carried without them, while their assistance was requisite in procuring addresses from the Catholic counties; then they were cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and given to understand that "the Union would do every thing"; but the moment it was passed, they were driven back with contempt into their former obscurity. In the conduct pursued towards Maynooth college, every thing is done to irritate and perplex--every thing is done to efface the slightest impression of gratitude from the Catholic mind; the very hay made upon the lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed, must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, this economy in miniature cannot sufficiently be commended, particularly at a time when only the insect defaulters of the Treasury, your Hunts and your Chinnerys, when only those "gilded bugs" can escape the microscopic eye of ministers. But when you come forward, session after session, as your paltry pittance is wrung from you with wrangling and reluctance, to boast of your liberality, well might the Catholic exclaim, in the words of Prior: "To John I owe some obligation, But John unluckily thinks fit To publish it to all the nation, So John and I are more than quit." Some persons have compared the Catholics to the beggar in 'Gil Blas': who made them beggars? Who are enriched with the spoils of their ancestors? And cannot you relieve the beggar when your fathers have made him such? If you are disposed to relieve him at all, cannot you do it without flinging your farthings in his face? As a contrast, however, to this beggarly benevolence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools; to them you have lately granted £41,000: thus are they supported; and how are they recruited? Montesquieu observes on the English constitution, that the model may be found in Tacitus, where the historian describes the policy of the Germans, and adds, "This beautiful system was taken from the woods;" so in speaking of the charter schools, it may be observed, that this beautiful system was taken from the gipsies. These schools are recruited in the same manner as the Janissaries at the time of their enrolment under Amurath, and the gipsies of the present day, with stolen children, with children decoyed and kidnapped from their Catholic connections by their rich and powerful Protestant neighbours: this is notorious, and one instance may suffice to show in what manner:--The sister of a Mr. Carthy (a Catholic gentleman of very considerable property) died, leaving two girls, who were immediately marked out as proselytes, and conveyed to the charter school of Coolgreny; their uncle, on being apprised of the fact, which took place during his absence, applied for the restitution of his nieces, offering to settle an independence on these his relations; his request was refused, and not till after five years' struggle, and the interference of very high authority, could this Catholic gentleman obtain back his nearest of kindred from a charity charter school. In this manner are proselytes obtained, and mingled with the offspring of such Protestants as may avail themselves of the institution. And how are they taught? A catechism is put into their hands, consisting of, I believe, forty-five pages, in which are three questions relative to the Protestant religion; one of these queries is, "Where was the Protestant religion before Luther?" Answer: "In the Gospel." The remaining forty-four pages and a half regard the damnable idolatry of Papists! Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, is this training up a child in the way which he should go? Is this the religion of the Gospel before the time of Luther? that religion which preaches "Peace on earth, and glory to God"? Is it bringing up infants to be men or devils? Better would it be to send them any where than teach them such doctrines; better send them to those islands in the South Seas, where they might more humanely learn to become cannibals; it would be less disgusting that they were brought up to devour the dead, than persecute the living. Schools do you call them? call them rather dung-hills, where the viper of intolerance deposits her young, that when their teeth are cut and their poison is mature, they may issue forth, filthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are these the doctrines of the Church of England, or of churchmen? No, the most enlightened churchmen are of a different opinion. What says Paley? "I perceive no reason why men of different religious persuasions should not sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the same council, or fight in the same ranks, as well as men of various religious opinions upon any controverted topic of natural history, philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered, that Paley was not strictly orthodox; I know nothing of his orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an ornament to the church, to human nature, to Christianity? I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so severely felt by the peasantry; but it may be proper to observe, that there is an addition to the burden, a percentage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in many large livings in Ireland the only resident Protestants are the tithe proctor and his family. Amongst many causes of irritation, too numerous for recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be passed over,--I mean the existence of Orange lodges amongst the privates. Can the officers deny this? And if such lodges do exist, do they, can they tend to promote harmony amongst the men, who are thus individually separated in society, although mingled in the ranks? And is this general system of persecution to be permitted; or is it to be believed that with such a system the Catholics can or ought to be contented? If they are, they belie human nature; they are then, indeed, unworthy to be any thing but the slaves you have made them. The facts stated are from most respectable authority, or I should not have dared in this place, or any place, to hazard this avowal. If exaggerated, there are plenty as willing, as I believe them to be unable, to disprove them. Should it be objected that I never was in Ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it is as easy to know something of Ireland, without having been there, as it appears with some to have been born, bred, and cherished there, and yet remain ignorant of its best interests. But there are who assert that the Catholics have already been too much indulged. See (cry they) what has been done: we have given them one entire college; we allow them food and raiment, the full enjoyment of the elements, and leave to fight for us as long as they have limbs and lives to offer; and yet they are never to be satisfied!--Generous and just declaimers! To this, and to this only, amount the whole of your arguments, when stript of their sophistry. Those personages remind me of a story of a certain drummer, who, being called upon in the course of duty to administer punishment to a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to flog high, he did--to flog low, he did--to flog in the middle, he did,--high, low, down the middle, and up again, but all in vain; the patient continued his complaints with the most provoking pertinacity, until the drummer, exhausted and angry, flung down his scourge, exclaiming, "The devil burn you, there's no pleasing you, flog where one will!" Thus it is, you have flogged the Catholic high, low, here, there, and every where, and then you wonder he is not pleased. It is true that time, experience, and that weariness which attends even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you to flog a little more gently; but still you continue to lay on the lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may be wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs of yourselves and your posterity. It was said by somebody in a former debate, (I forget by whom, and am not very anxious to remember,) if the Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews? If this sentiment was dictated by compassion for the Jews, it might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Catholic, what is it but the language of Shylock transferred from his daughter's marriage to Catholic emancipation: "Would any of the tribe of Barabbas Should have it rather than a Christian!" I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opinion of him whose taste only can be called in question for his preference of the Jews. It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson, (whom I take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan,) that he who could entertain serious apprehensions of danger to the church in these times, would have "cried fire in the deluge." This is more than a metaphor; for a remnant of these antediluvians appear actually to have come down to us, with fire in their mouths and water in their brains, to disturb and perplex mankind with their whimsical outcries. And as it is an infallible symptom of that distressing malady with which I conceive them to be afflicted (so any doctor will inform your Lordships), for the unhappy invalids to perceive a flame perpetually flashing before their eyes, particularly when their eyes are shut (as those of the persons to whom I allude have long been), it is impossible to convince these poor creatures that the fire against which they are perpetually warning us and themselves is nothing but an 'ignis fatuus' of their own drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or "what purgative drug can scour that fancy thence?"--It is impossible, they are given over,--theirs is the true "Caput insanabile tribus Anticyris." These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who protested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all redress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and common sense can urge against the delusions of their absurd delirium. These are the persons who reverse the fable of the mountain that brought forth a mouse; they are the mice who conceive themselves in labour with mountains. To return to the Catholics: suppose the Irish were actually contented under their disabilities; suppose them capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance,--ought we not to wish it for ourselves? Have we nothing to gain by their emancipation? What resources have been wasted? What talents have been lost by the selfish system of exclusion? You already know the value of Irish aid; at this moment the defence of England is intrusted to the Irish militia; at this moment, while the starving people are rising in the fierceness of despair, the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal energy is imparted throughout by the extension of freedom, you cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength which you are glad to interpose between you and destruction. Ireland has done much, but will do more. At this moment the only triumph obtained through long years of continental disaster has been achieved by an Irish general: it is true he is not a Catholic; had he been so, we should have been deprived of his exertions: but I presume no one will assert that his religion would have impaired his talents or diminished his patriotism; though, in that case, he must have conquered in the ranks, for he never could have commanded an army. But he is fighting the battles of the Catholics abroad; his noble brother has this night advocated their cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute of my panegyric; whilst a third of his kindred, as unlike as unequal, has been combating against his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dispersions;--all the vexatious implements of petty warfare that could be wielded by the mercenary guerillas of government, clad in the rusty armour of their obsolete statutes. Your Lordships will doubtless divide new honours between the Saviour of Portugal, and the Disperser of Delegates. It is singular, indeed, to observe the difference between our foreign and domestic policy; if Catholic Spain, faithful Portugal, or the no less Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily, (of which, by the by, you have lately deprived him,) stand in need of succour, away goes a fleet and an army, an ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight pretty hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and always to pay very dearly for our Popish allies. But let four millions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who fight and pay and labour in your behalf, they must be treated as aliens; and although their "father's house has many mansions," there is no resting-place for them. Allow me to ask, are you not fighting for the emancipation of Ferdinand VII, who certainly is a fool, and, consequently, in all probability a bigot? and have you more regard for a foreign sovereign than your own fellow-subjects, who are not fools, for they know your interest better than you know your own; who are not bigots, for they return you good for evil; but who are in worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inasmuch as the fetters of the mind are more galling than those of the body? Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the claims of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate; you know them, you will feel them, and your children's children when you are passed away. Adieu to that Union so called, as "'Lucus a non lucendo'" an Union from never uniting, which in its first operation gave a death-blow to the independence of Ireland, and in its last may be the cause of her eternal separation from this country. If it must be called an Union, it is the union of the shark with his prey; the spoiler swallows up his victim, and thus they become one and indivisible. Thus has great Britain swallowed up the Parliament, the constitution, the independence of Ireland, and refuses to disgorge even a single privilege, although for the relief of her swollen and distempered body politic. And now, my Lords, before I sit down, will his Majesty's ministers permit me to say a few words, not on their merits, for that would be superfluous, but on the degree of estimation in which they are held by the people of these realms? The esteem in which they are held has been boasted of in a triumphant tone on a late occasion within these walls, and a comparison instituted between their conduct and that of noble lords on this side of the House. What portion of popularity may have fallen to the share of my noble friends (if such I may presume to call them), I shall not pretend to ascertain; but that of his Majesty's ministers it were vain to deny. It is, to be sure, a little like the wind, "no one knows whence it cometh or whither it goeth;" but they feel it, they enjoy it, they boast of it. Indeed, modest and unostentatious as they are, to what part of the kingdom, even the most remote, can they flee to avoid the triumph which pursues them? If they plunge into the midland counties, there will they be greeted by the manufacturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, and those halters round their necks recently voted in their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads of those who so simply, yet ingeniously, contrived to remove them from their miseries in this to a better world. If they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to John o' Groat's, every where will they receive similar marks of approbation. If they take a trip from Portpatrick to Donaghadee, there will they rush at once into the embraces of four Catholic millions, to whom their vote of this night is about to endear them for ever. When they return to the metropolis, if they can pass under Temple Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sight of the greedy niches over that ominous gateway, they cannot escape the acclamations of the livery, and the more tremulous, but not less sincere, applause, the blessings, "not loud, but deep," of bankrupt merchants and doubting stock-holders. If they look to the army, what wreaths, not of laurel, but of nightshade, are preparing for the heroes of Walcheren! It is true, there are few living deponents left to testify to their merits on that occasion; but a "cloud of witnesses" are gone above from that gallant army which they so generously and piously despatched, to recruit the "noble army of martyrs." What if in the course of this triumphal career (in which they will gather as many pebbles as Caligula's army did on a similar triumph, the prototype of their own,) they do not perceive any of those memorials which a grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors; what although not even a sign-post will condescend to depose the Saracen's head in favour of the likeness of the conquerors of Walcheren, they will not want a picture who can always have a caricature, or regret the omission of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted into effigy. But their popularity is not limited to the narrow bounds of an island; there are other countries where their measures, and, above all, their conduct to the Catholics, must render them pre-eminently popular. If they are beloved here, in France they must be adored. There is no measure more repugnant to the designs and feelings of Bonaparte than Catholic emancipation; no line of conduct more propitious to his projects than that which has been pursued, is pursuing, and, I fear, will be pursued towards Ireland. What is England without Ireland, and what is Ireland without the Catholics? It is on the basis of your tyranny Napoleon hopes to build his own. So grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to his mind, that doubtless (as he has lately permitted some renewal of intercourse) the next cartel will convey to this country cargoes of Sevres china and blue ribands, (things in great request, and of equal value at this moment,) blue ribands of the Legion of Honour for Dr. Duigenan and his ministerial disciples. Such is that well-earned popularity, the result of those extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to ourselves, and so useless to our allies; of those singular inquiries, so exculpatory to the accused, and so dissatisfactory to the people; of those paradoxical victories, so honourable, as we are told, to the British name, and so destructive to the best interests of the British nation: above all, such is the reward of the conduct pursued by ministers towards the Catholics. I have to apologise to the House, who will, I trust, pardon one not often in the habit of intruding upon their indulgence, for so long attempting to engage their attention. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will be, in favour of the motion. * * * * * 3. DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHT'S PETITION. JUNE 1,1813. Lord BYRON rose and said: My Lords,--he petition which I now hold for the purpose of presenting to the House is one which, I humbly conceive, requires the particular attention of your Lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a single individual, it contains statements which (if not disproved) demand most serious investigation. The grievance of which the petitioner complains is neither selfish nor imaginary. It is not his own only, for it has been and is still felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor indeed within, but may to-morrow be made liable to the same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of an imperious duty for the restoration of the true constitution of these realms, by petitioning for reform in Parliament. The petitioner, my Lords, is a man whose long life has been spent in one unceasing struggle for the liberty of the subject, against that undue influence which has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished; and whatever difference of opinion may exist as to his political tenets, few will be found to question the integrity of his intentions. Even now oppressed with years, and not exempt from the infirmities attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in talent, and unshaken in spirit--"'frangas non flectes'"--he has received many a wound in the combat against corruption; and the new grievance, the fresh insult, of which he complains, may inflict another scar, but no dishonour. The petition is signed by John Cartwright; and it was in behalf of the people and Parliament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the representation which is the best service to be rendered both to Parliament and people, that he encountered the wanton outrage which forms the subject-matter of his petition to your Lordships. It is couched in firm, yet respectful language--in the language of a man, not regardless of what is due to himself, but at the same time, I trust, equally mindful of the deference to be paid to this House. The petitioner states, amongst other matter of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, himself and six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, had waited on him merely as a testimony of respect, were seized by a military and civil force, and kept in close custody for several hours, subjected to gross and abusive insinuation from the commanding officer, relative to the character of the petitioner; that he (the petitioner) was finally carried before a magistrate, and not released till an examination of his papers proved that there was not only no just, but not even statutable charge against him; and that, notwithstanding the promise and order from the presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant against your petitioner, it was afterwards withheld on divers pretexts, and has never until this hour been granted. The names and condition of the parties will be found in the petition. To the other topics touched upon in the petition I shall not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the time of the House; but I do most sincerely call the attention of your Lordships to its general contents--it is in the cause of the Parliament and people that the rights of this venerable freeman have been violated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect that could be paid to the House, that to your justice, rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now commits himself. Whatever may be the fate of his remonstrance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mixed with regret for the occasion, that I have this opportunity of publicly stating the obstruction to which the subject is liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful and imperious of his duties, the obtaining by petition reform in Parliament. I have shortly stated his complaint; the petitioner has more fully expressed it. Your Lordships will, I hope, adopt some measure fully to protect and redress him, and not him alone, but the whole body of the people, insulted and aggrieved in his person, by the interposition of an abused civil and unlawful military force between them and their right of petition to their own representatives. His Lordship then presented the petition from Major Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the circumstances at Huddersfield, and of interruptions given to the right of petitioning in several places in the northern parts of the kingdom, and which his Lordship moved should be laid on the table. Several lords having spoken on the question, Lord BYRON replied, that he had, from motives of duty, presented this petition to their Lordships' consideration. The noble Earl had contended that it was not a petition, but a speech; and that, as it contained no prayer, it should not be received. What was the necessity of a prayer? If that word were to be used in its proper sense, their Lordships could not expect that any man should pray to others. He had only to say, that the petition, though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of address, but was couched in respectful language towards their Lordships; he should therefore trust their Lordships would allow the petition to be received. * * * * * APPENDIX III. LADY CAROLINE LAMB AND BYRON. 1. The following letter is one of the first which Lady Caroline wrote to Byron, in the spring of 1812: "The Rose Lord Byron gave Lady Caroline Lamb died in despight of every effort made to save it; probably from regret at its fallen Fortunes. Hume, at least, who is no great believer in most things, says that many more die of broken hearts than is supposed. When Lady Caroline returns from Brocket Hall, she will dispatch the _Cabinet Maker_ to Lord Biron, with the Flower she wishes most of all others to resemble, as, however deficient its beauty and even use, it has a noble and aspiring mind, and, having once beheld in its full lustre the bright and unclouded sun that for one moment condescended to shine upon it, never while it exists could it think any lower object worthy of its worship and Admiration. Yet the sunflower was punished for its temerity; but its fate is more to be envied than that of many less proud flowers. It is still permitted to gaze, though at the humblest distance, on him who is superior to every other, and, though in this cold foggy atmosphere it meets no doubt with many disappointments, and though it never could, never will, have reason to boast of any peculiar mark of condescension or attention from the bright star to whom it pays constant homage, yet to behold it sometimes, to see it gazed at, to hear it admired, will repay all. She hopes, therefore, when brought by the little Page, it will be graciously received without any more Taunts and cuts about 'Love of what is New.' "Lady Caroline does not plead guilty to this most unkind charge, at least no further than is laudable, for that which is rare and is distinguished and singular ought to be more prized and sought after than what is commonplace and disagreeable. How can the other accusation, of being easily pleased, agree with this? The very circumstance of seeking out that which is of high value shows at least a mind not readily satisfied. But to attempt excuses for faults would be impossible with Lady Caroline. They have so long been rooted in a soil suited to their growth that a far less penetrating eye than Lord Byron's might perceive them--even on the shortest acquaintance. There is not one, however, though long indulged, that shall not be instantly got rid of, if L'd Byron thinks it worth while to name them. The reproof and abuse of some, however severe and just, may be valued more than the easily gained encomiums of the rest of the world. "Miss Mercer, were she here, would join with Lady Caroline in a last request during their absence, that, besides not forgetting his new acquaintances, he would eat and drink like an English man till their return. The lines upon the only dog ever loved by L'd Byron are beautiful. What wrong then, that, having such proof of the faith and friendship of this animal, L'd Byron should censure the whole race by the following unjust remarks: "'Perchance my dog will whine in vain Till fed by stranger hands; But long e'er I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands.' "March 27th, 1812, _Good Friday_." * * * * * 2. The following are the lines written by Lady Caroline when she burned Byron in effigy at Brocket Hall (endorsed, in Mrs. Leigh's handwriting, "December, 1812"): "ADDRESS SPOKEN BY THE PAGE AT BROCKET HALL, BEFORE THE BONFIRE. "Is this Guy Faux you burn in effigy? Why bring the Traitor here? What is Guy Faux to me? Guy Faux betrayed his country, and his laws. England revenged the wrong; his was a public cause. But I have private cause to raise this flame. Burn also those, and be their fate the same. [_Puts the Basket in the fire under the figure_. See here are locks and braids of coloured hair Worn oft by me, to make the people stare; Rouge, feathers, flowers, and all those tawdry things, Besides those Pictures, letters, chains, and rings-- All made to lure the mind and please the eye, And fill the heart with pride and vanity-- Burn, fire, burn; these glittering toys destroy. While thus we hail the blaze with throats of joy. Burn, fire, burn, while wondering Boys exclaim, And gold and trinkets glitter in the flame. Ah! look not thus on me, so grave, so sad; Shake not your heads, nor say the Lady's mad. Judge not of others, for there is but one To whom the heart and feelings can be known. Upon my youthful faults few censures cast. Look to the future--and forgive the past. London, farewell; vain world, vain life, adieu! Take the last tears I e'er shall shed for you. Young tho' I seem, I leave the world for ever, Never to enter it again--no, never--never!" * * * * * 3. The following letter was apparently written in the summer of 1812: "You have been very generous and kind if you have not betray'd me, and I do _not think you have_. My remaining in Town and seeing you thus is sacrificing the last chance I have left. I expose myself to every eye, to every unkind observation. You think me weak, and selfish; you think I do not struggle to withstand my own feelings, but indeed it is exacting more than human nature can bear, and when I came out last night, which was of itself an effort, and when I heard your name announced, the moment after I saw nothing more, but seemed in a dream. Miss Berry's very loud laugh and penetrating eyes did not restore me. She, however, [was] good natur'd and remain'd near me, and Mr. Moor (_sic_), though he really does not approve one feeling I have, had kindness of heart to stay near me. Otherwise I felt so ill I could not have struggled longer. Lady Cahir said, 'You are ill; shall we go away?' which I [was] very glad to accept; but we could not get through, and so I fear it caus'd you pain to see me intrude again. I sent a groom to Holmes twice yesterday morning, to prevent his going to you, or giving you a letter full of flippant jokes, written in one moment of gaiety, which is quite gone since. I am so afraid he has been to you; if so, I entreat you to forgive it, and to do just what you think right about the Picture. "I have been drawing you Mad. de Staël, as the last I sent was not like. If you do not approve this, give it Murray, and pray do not be angry with me. "Do not marry yet, or, if you do, let me know it first. I shall not suffer, if she you chuse be worth you, but she will never love you as I did. I am going to the Chapple Royal at St. James. Do you ever go there? It begins at 1/2 past 5, and lasts till six; it is the most beautiful singing I ever heard; the choristers sing 'By the waters of Babylon.' "The Peers sit below; the Women quite apart. But for the evening service very few go; I wonder that more do not,--it is really most beautiful, for those who like that style of music. If you never heard it, go there some day, but not when it is so cold as this. How very pale you are! What a contrast with Moore! '_Mai io l'ho veduto piu bello che jeri, ma e la belta della morte_,' or a statue of white marble so colourless, and the dark brow and hair such a contrast. I never see you without wishing to cry; if any painter could paint me that face as it is, I would give them any thing I possess on earth,--not one has yet given the countenance and complexion as it is. I only could, if I knew how to draw and paint, because one must feel it to give it the real expression." * * * * * 4. The following letter was evidently written at the time when the separation of Lord and Lady Byron was first rumoured: "Melbourne House, Thursday. "When so many wiser and better surround you, it is not for me to presume to hope that anything I can say will find favour in your sight; but yet I must venture to intrude upon you, even though your displeasure against me be all I gain for so doing. All others may have some object or interest in their's; I have none, but the wish to save you. Will you generously consent to what is for the peace of both parties? and will you act in a manner worthy of yourself? I am sure in the end you will consent. Even were everything now left to your own choice, you never could bring yourself to live with a person who felt desirous of being separated from you. I know you too well to believe this possible, and I am sure that a separation nobly and generously arranged by you will at once silence every report spread against either party. Believe me, Lord Byron, you will feel happier when you act thus, and all the world will approve your conduct, which I know is not a consideration with you, but still should in some measure be thought of. They tell me that you have accused me of having spread injurious reports against you. Had you the heart to say this? I do not greatly believe it; but it is affirmed and generally thought that you said so. You have often been unkind to me, but never as unkind as this. "Those who are dear to you cannot feel more anxious for your happiness than I do. They may fear to offend you more than I ever will, but they cannot be more ready to serve you. I wish to God that I could see one so superior in mind and talents and every grace and power that can fascinate and delight, happier. You might still be so, Lord Byron, if you would believe what some day you will find true. Have you ever thought for one moment seriously? Do you wish to heap such misery upon yourself that you will no longer be able to endure it? Return to virtue and happiness, for God's sake, whilst it is yet time. Oh, Lord Byron, let one who has loved you with a devotion almost profane find favour so far as to incline you to hear her. Sometimes from the mouth of a sinner advice may be received that a proud heart disdains to take from those who are upon an equality with themselves. If this is so, may it now, even now, have some little weight with you. Do not drive things to desperate extremes. Do not, even though you may have the power, use it to ill. God bless and sooth you, and preserve you. I cannot see all that I once admired and loved so well ruining himself and others without feeling it deeply. If what I have said is unwise, at least believe the motive was a kind one; and would to God it might avail. "I cannot believe that you will not act generously in this instance. "Yours, unhappily as it has proved for me, "CAROLINE. "Those of my family who have seen Lady Byron have assured me that, whatever her sorrow, she is the last in the world to reproach or speak ill of you. She is most miserable. What regret will yours be evermore if false friends or resentment impel you to act harshly on this occasion? Whatever my feelings may be towards you or her, I have, with the most scrupulous care for both your sakes, avoided either calling, or sending, or interfering. To say that I have spread reports against either is, therefore, as unjust as it is utterly false. I fear no enquiry." * * * * * 5. The following letter probably refers to the publication of the lines, "Fare thee Well," in April, 1816: "At a moment of such deep agony, and I may add shame--when utterly disgraced, judge, Byron, what my feelings must be at Murray's shewing me some beautiful verses of yours. I do implore you for God sake not to publish them. Could I have seen you one moment, I would explain why. I have only time to add that, however those who surround you may make you disbelieve it, you will draw ruin on your own head and hers if at this moment you shew these. I know not from what quarter the report originates. You accused _me_, and falsely; but if you could hear all that is said at this moment, you would believe one, who, though your enemy, though for ever alienated from you, though resolved never more, whilst she lives, to see or speak to or forgive you, yet would perhaps die to save you. "Byron, hear me. My own misery I have scarce once thought of. What is the loss of one like me to the world? But when I see such as you are ruined for ever, and utterly insensible of it, I must [speak out]. Of course, I cannot say to Murray what I think of those verses, but to you, to you alone, I will say I think they will prove your ruin." * * * * * 6. In 1824, after the death of Byron, and after the publication of Captain Medwin's 'Recollections of Lord Byron', Lady Caroline Lamb sent a letter to Mr. Henry Colburn, the publisher, enclosing one to be given to Medwin and published. Both are given here, and the latter should be read in substantiation or correction of what is stated in the notes. The letter is printed 'verbatim et literati'. (1) Lady Caroline Lamb to Henry Colburn. "[November (?), 1824.] "MY DEAR SIR,--Walter who takes this will explain my wishes. Will you enable him to deliver my letter to Captain Medwin, and will you publish it? you are to give him ten pound for it; I will settle it with you. I am on my death bed, do not fail to obey my wishes. I send you my journals but do not publish them until I am dead. "Yours, "CAROLINE LAMB." (2) Lady Caroline Lamb to Captain Thomas Medwin. [Endorsed, "This copy to be carefully preserved." Hy. Cn. (Henry Colburn?).] "[November (?), 1824.] "SIR,--I hope you will excuse my intruding upon your time, with the most intense interest I have just finished your book which does you credit as to the manner in which it is executed and after the momentary pain in part which it excites in many a bosom, will live in despight of censure--and be gratefully accepted by the Public as long as Lord Byron's name is remembered--yet as you have left to one who adored him a bitter legacy, and as I feel secure the lines 'remember thee--thou false to him thou fiend to me'--were his--and as I have been very ill & am not likely to trouble any one much longer--you will I am sure grant me one favour--let me to you at least confide the truth of the past--you owe it to me--you will not I know refuse me. "It was when the first Child Harold came out upon Lord Byron's return from Greece that I first had the misfortune to be acquainted with him--at that time I was the happiest and gayest of human beings I do believe without exception--_I had married for love_ and love the most romantic and ardent--my husband and I were so fond of each other that false as I too soon proved he never would part with me. Devonshire House was at that time closed from my Uncle's death for one year--at Melbourne House where I lived the Waltzes and Quadrilles were being daily practised, Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, the Duke of Devonshire, Miss Milbanke and a number of foreigners coming there to learn--You may imagine what forty or fifty people dancing from 12 in the morning until near dinner time all young gay and noisy were--in the evenings we either had opposition suppers or went out to Balls and routs--such was the life I then led when Moore and Rogers introduced Lord Byron to me--What you say of his falling upstairs and of Miss Milbanke is all true. Lord Byron 3 days after this brought me a Rose and Carnation and used the very words I mentioned in Glenarvon--with a sort of half sarcastic smile--saying, 'Your Ladyship I am told likes all that is new and rare for a moment'--I have them still, and the woman who through many a trial has kept these relics with the romance of former ages--deserves not that you should speak of her as you do. Byron never never could say I had no heart. He never could say, either, that I had not loved my husband. In his letters to me he is perpetually telling me I love him the best of the two; and my only charm, believe me, in his eyes was, that I was innocent, affectionate, and enthusiastic. Recall those words, and let me not go down with your book as heartless. Tell the truth; it is bad enough; but not what is worse. It makes me so nervous to write that I must stop--will it tire you too much if I continue? I was not a woman of the world. Had I been one of that sort, why would he have devoted nine entire months almost entirely to my society; have written perhaps ten times in a day; and lastly have press'd me to leave all and go with him--and this at the very moment when he was made an Idol of, and when, as he and you justly observe, I had few personal attractions. Indeed, indeed I tell the truth. Byron did not affect--but he loved me as never woman was loved. I have had one of his letters copied in the stone press for you; one just before we parted. See if it looks like a mere lesson. Besides, he was then very good, to what he grew afterwards; &, his health being delicate, he liked to read with me & stay with me out of the crowd. Not but what we went about everywhere together, and were at last invited always as if we had been married--It was a strange scene--but it was not vanity misled me. I grew to love him better than virtue, Religion--all prospects here. He broke my heart, & still I love him--witness the agony I experienced at his death & the tears your book has cost me. Yet, sir, allow me to say, although you have unintentionally given me pain, I had rather have experienced it than not have read your book. Parts of it are beautiful; and I can vouch for the truth of much, as I read his own Memoirs before Murray burnt them. Keep Lord Byron's letter to me (I have the original) & some day add a word or two to your work from his own words, not to let every one think I am heartless. The cause of my leaving Lord Byron was this; my dearest Mother, now dead, grew so terrified about us--that upon hearing a false report that we were gone off together she was taken dangerously ill & broke a blood vessel. Byron would not believe it, but it was true. When he was convinced, we parted. I went to Ireland, & remained there 3 months. He wrote, every day, long kind entertaining letters; it is these he asked Murray to look out, and extract from, when he published the journal; but I would not part with them--I have them now--they would only burn them, & nothing of his should be burnt. At Dublin, God knows why, he wrote me the cruel letter part of which he acknowledges in Glenarvon (the 9th of November, 1812)--He knew it would destroy my mind and all else--it did so--Lady Oxford was no doubt the instigator. What will not a woman do to get rid of a rival? She knew that he still loved me--I need not tire you with every particular. I was brought to England a mere wreck; & in due time, Lady Melbourne & my mother being seriously alarmed for me, brought me to town, and allowed me to see Lord Byron. Our meeting was not what he insinuates--he asked me to forgive him; he looked sorry for me; he cried. I adored him still, but I felt as passionless as the dead may feel.--Would I had died there!--I should have died pitied, & still loved by him, & with the sympathy of all. I even should have pardoned myself--so deeply had I suffered. But, unhappily, we continued occasionally to meet. Lord Byron liked others, I only him--The scene at Lady Heathcote's is nearly true--he had made me swear I was never to Waltz. Lady Heathcote said, Come, Lady Caroline, you must begin, & I bitterly answered--oh yes! I am in a merry humour. I did so--but whispered to Lord Byron 'I conclude I may waltz _now_' and he answered sarcastically, 'with every body in turn--you always did it better than any one. I shall have a pleasure in seeing you."--I did so you may judge with what feelings. After this, feeling ill, I went into a small inner room where supper was prepared; Lord Byron & Lady Rancliffe entered after; seeing me, he said, 'I have been admiring your dexterity.' I clasped a knife, not intending anything. 'Do, my dear,' he said. 'But if you mean to act a Roman's part, mind which way you strike with your knife--be it at your own heart, not mine--you have struck there already.' 'Byron,' I said, and ran away with the knife. I never stabbed myself. It is false. Lady Rancliffe & Tankerville screamed and said I would; people pulled to get it from me; I was terrified; my hand got cut, & the blood came over my gown. I know not what happened after--but this is the very truth. After this, long after, Ld. Byron abused by every one, made the theme of every one's horror, yet pitied me enough to come & see me; and still, in spight of every one, William Lamb had the generosity to retain me. I never held my head up after--never could. It was in all the papers, and put not truly. It is true I burnt Lord Byron in Effigy, & his book, ring & chain. It is true I went to see him as a Carman, after all that! But it is also true, that, the last time we parted for ever, as he pressed his lips on mine (it was in the Albany) he said 'poor Caro, if every one hates me, you, I see, will never change--No, not with ill usage!' & I said, 'yes, I _am_ changed, & shall come near you no more.'--For then he showed me letters, & told me things I cannot repeat, & all my attachment went. This was our last parting scene--well I remember it. It had an effect upon me not to be conceived--3 years I had _worshipped_ him. "Shortly after he married, once, Lady Melbourne took me to see his Wife in Piccadilly. It was a cruel request, but Lord Byron himself made it. It is to this wedding visit he alludes. Mrs. Leigh, myself, Lady Melbourne, Lady Noel, & Lady Byron, were in the room. I never looked up. Annabella was very cold to me. Lord Byron came in & seemed agitated--his hand was cold, but he seemed kind. This was the last time upon this earth I ever met him. Soon after, the battle of Waterloo took place. My Brother was wounded, & I went to Brussels. I had one letter while at Paris from Ld. Byron; a jesting one; hoping I was as happy with the regiment as he was with his 'Wife Bell.' When I returned, the parting between them occurred--& my page affair--& Glenarvon. I wrote it in a month under circumstances would surprise every body, but which I am not at liberty to mention. Besides, it has nothing to do with your book and would only tire you. Previous to this, I once met, & once only, Lady Byron. It was just after the separation occurred. She was so altered I could hardly know her--she appeared heart broken. What she then said to me _I may not repeat_--she was however sent away, she did not go willingly. "She accused me of knowing every thing, & reproached me for not having stopped the marriage. How could I! She had been shewn my letters, and every one else. It is utterly false that she ever opened the desk--the nurse had nothing to do with the separation-- "From that hour, Lady Byron & I met no more, & it was after this, that, indignant & miserable, I wrote Glenarvon. Lady B. was more angry at it than he was--From that time, I put the whole as much as I could from my mind. Ld. Byron never once wrote to me--and always spoke of me with contempt. I was taken ill in March this year--Mrs. Russell Hunter & a nurse sat up with me. In the middle of the night I fancied I saw Ld. Byron--I screamed, jumped out of bed & desired them to save me from him. He looked horrible, & ground his teeth at me; he did not speak; his hair was straight; he was fatter than when I knew him, & not near so handsome. I felt convinced I was to die. This dream took possession of my mind. I had not dreamed of him since we had parted. It was, besides, like no other dream except one of my Mother that I ever had. I am glad to think it occurred before his death as I never did & hope I never shall see a Ghost. I have even avoided enquiring about the exact day for fear I should believe it--it made enough impression as it was. I told William, and my Brother & Murray at the time. Judge what my horror was, as well as grief, when, long after, the news came of his death, it was conveyed to me in two or 3 words--'Caroline, behave properly, I know it will shock you--Lord Byron is dead'--This letter I received when laughing at Brockett Hall. Its effect or some other cause produced a fever from which I never yet have recovered--It was also singular that the first day I could go out in an open Carriage, as I was slowly driving up the hill here,--Lord Byron's Hearse was at that moment passing under these very walls, and rested at Welwyn. William Lamb, who was riding on before me, met the procession at the Turnpike, & asked whose funeral it was. He was very much affected and shocked--I of course was not told; but, as I kept continually asking where & when he was to be buried, & had read in the papers it was to be at Westminster Abbey, I heard it too soon, & it made me very ill again." * * * * * APPENDIX IV. LETTERS OF BERNARD BARTON. The two following letters were written to Byron in 1814, by Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet (see Letter 238, [Foot]note 1):-- I "Woodbridge, Suffolk, Apl. 14th, 1814. "MY LORD,--I received this morning the reply with which your Lordship honour'd my last, and now avail myself of the permission you have so kindly granted to state as briefly as I can the circumstances which have induced me to make this application, and the extent of my wishes respecting your Lordship's interference. "Eight years since, I went into business in this place as a Merchant. I was then just of age, and, shortly after, married. The business in which I was engaged was of a very precarious Nature; and after vainly trying for 4 Years to make the best of it, I was compell'd to relinquish it altogether. Just then, to add to my distress, I lost my best, my firmest, my tenderest friend--the only being for whose sake I ever desir'd wealth, and the only one who could have cheer'd the gloom of Poverty. My Capital being a borrow'd one, I returned it as far as I could to the person who had lent it. Since that time, my Lord, I have been struggling to make the best of a Clerkship of £80 per ann., out of which I have to meet every expence, and still to maintain a respectable appearance in a Place where I have resided under different circumstances. Had I enter'd my present Situation free of all debts, I should have made it an inviolable rule to have limited my expenditure to my Income; but beginning in debt, compell'd by peculiar circumstances to mix with those much superior to myself, I have gone on till I find it quite impossible to go on any longer, and I am compelled to seek for some asylum where, by rigid frugality and indefatigable exertion, I may free myself from my present humiliating embarrassments; but while I am here the thing seems impracticable. Your Lordship will naturally inquire why I do not avail myself of the influence of those friends by whom I am known. As you have, my Lord, done me the honour to encourage me to state my position frankly, I will, without hesitation, inform you. I am, nominally at least, a Quaker. The persons to whom I should, in my present difficulties, naturally look for assistance are among the most respectable of that body; but my attachments to literary and metaphysical studies, and a line of conduct not compatible with the strictness of Quaker discipline, have, I am afraid, brought me into disrepute with those to whom I should otherwise have confided my situation. Were I to disclose it, it would only be consider'd as a fit judgment on me for my scepticism and infidelity. "This, my Lord, is a brief but faithful statement of my present situation; it is, as I before told your Lordship, in every respect an untenable one. I must relinquish it, and throw myself an outcast on society. _Can you, will you_, my Lord, exert _your influence_ to save me from irretrievable ruin? Can you, my Lord, in any possible way, afford employment to me? Can you take me into your service--a young man, not totally destitute of talents, eager to exert them, and willing to do anything or be anything in his power? If you can, my Lord, I will promise to serve you not servilely, but faithfully in any manner you shall point out. Do not, I beg of you, my Lord, refuse my application the moment you peruse it. The mouse, you know, once was able to show its gratitude to the lion; and it may be in my power, if your Lordship will but give me the opportunity, to evince my deep gratitude for any kindness you may show me, not by _words_, but _deeds_. Be assur'd you will not have cause to repent any interest you have taken or may take in my concerns. For the civility you shewed me on a former occasion, my Lord, I felt, as I ought, much indebted; but infinitely more for the generosity of feeling and soundness of judgment which dictated the letter you then did me the honour to address to me. Ever since then I have entertain'd the highest opinion both of your head and your heart. Is it, then, strange, my Lord, that, surrounded by difficulties, perplexed at every step I take, I should look up to your Lordship for _advice_, and, if possible, for assistance? Be the consequences what they may, I have ventur'd on the presumption of doing so. If I have taken too great a liberty, I beg you, my Lord, to forgive me, and let the tale of my perplexities and my misfortunes, my impertinence and its punishment, be alike forgotten; it can, at any rate, only give your Lordship the trouble of reading a letter. If, on the other hand, your Lordship can in any way realize the hopes I have long enthusiastically cherished, why, the 'blessing of him who is ready to perish shall fall on you.' Be the event what it may, '_Crede Byron_' is, your Lordship sees, my motto. "I am, my Lord, "Your Lordship's very obt. servt, "B. BARTON. "P. S.--I shall wait with no common anxiety to see whether your Lordship will so far forgive this intrusion as to answer it." * * * * * 2. "Woodbridge, April 15th, 1814. "My Lord,--I should be truly sorry if my importunity should defeat its own purpose, and, instead of interesting your Lordship on my behalf, should make you regret the indulgence you have already granted me; but I really feel as if I had staked every remaining hope on the cast of the die, and, therefore, before it is thrown, I wish, my Lord, to make one or two more observations. "Although in my last, which, as I before observed, was hastily written, I express'd my wish to be allow'd, _in some capacity or other_, to serve your Lordship, yet I am not so foolish as to think of fastening myself on you, my Lord, _bon gré ou malgré_. One reason for my expressing that wish, was an idea that your Lordship might go abroad before long; and, added to my own wish to see something of the world on which fate has thrown me, it occurred to me at the moment, that on such an occasion the services of one who is warmly attach'd to you, perhaps _romantically_, for I know nothing of your Lordship but by your writings, might be acceptable. "But, my Lord, although I have thus alluded to what would most gratify my own wishes, it was not intended to dictate to you the manner in which you might promote my interest. If your Lordship's superior judgment and greater knowledge of the world can suggest anything else for my consideration, it shall receive every attention. "One more remark, my Lord, and I have done. I am very sensible that in this application to your Lordship I have been guilty of what would be term'd by some a piece of great impertinence, and by most an act of consummate folly. Will you allow me, my Lord, frankly to state to you the arguments on which my resolutions were founded? "I have not address'd you, my Lord, on the impulse of the moment, dictated by desperation, and adopted without reflection. No, my Lord; I had, or, at least, I thought I had, better reasons. I remembered that you had once condescended to address me _'candidly, not critically,'_ that you had even kindly interested yourself on my behalf. I thought that, amid all the keenness and poignancy of your habitual feelings, as powerfully pourtrayed in your writings, I could discern the workings of a heart _truly noble_. I imagin'd that what to a superficial observer appear'd only the overflowings of misanthropy, were, in reality, the effusions of deep sensibility. I convinc'd myself, by repeated perusals of your different productions, that though disappointments the most painful, and sensations the most acute, might have stung your heart to its very core, it had yet many feelings of the most exalted kind. From these I hoped everything. Those hopes may be disappointed, but the opinions which gave rise to them have not been hastily form'd, nor will any selfish feeling of mortification be able to alter them. "I do not, my Lord, intend the above as any idle complimentary apology for what I have done. I am not, God knows, just now in a complimentary mood; and if I were, you, my Lord, are one of the last persons on earth on whom I should be tempted to play off such trash as idle panegyrics. I esteem you, my Lord, not merely for your rank, still less for your personal qualities. The former I respect as I ought; of the latter I know nothing. But I feel something more than mere respect for your genius and your talents; and from your past conduct towards myself I cannot be insensible to your kindness. For these reasons, my Lord, I acted as I have done. I before told you that I consider'd you _no common character_, and I think your Lordship will admit that I have not treated you as such. "Permit me once more, my Lord, to take my leave by assuring you that I am, "With the truest esteem, "Your very obt. and humble servt., "BERNARD BARTON. "P. S.--I hope your Lordship will find no difficulty in making out this scrawl; but really, not being able to mend my pen, I am forced to write with it backwards. When I have the good luck to find my pen-knife, I will endeavour to furnish myself with a better tool." * * * * * Part of the draft of Byron's answer to these two letters is in existence, and runs as follows: "Albany, April 16th, 1814. "Sir,--All offence is out of the question. My principal regret is that it is not in my power to be of service. My own plans are very unsettled, and at present, from a variety of circumstances, embarrassed, and, even were it otherwise, I should be both to offer anything like dependence to one, who, from education and acquirements, must doubly feel sensible of such a situation, however I might be disposed to render it tolerable. "As an adviser I am rather qualified to point out what should be avoided than what may be pursued, for my own life has been but a series of imprudences and conflicts of all descriptions. From these I have only acquired experience; if repentance were added, perhaps it might be all the better, since I do not find the former of much avail without it." * * * * * APPENDIX V. CORRESPONDENCE WITH WALTER SCOTT. The following is Walter Scott's reply to Byron's letter of July 6, 1812: "Abbotsford, near Melrose, 16th July, 1812. "MY LORD,--I am much indebted to your Lordship for your kind and friendly letter; and much gratified by the Prince Regent's good opinion of my literary attempts. I know so little of courts or princes, that any success I may have had in hitting off the Stuarts is, I am afraid, owing to a little old Jacobite leaven which I sucked in with the numerous traditionary tales that amused my infancy. It is a fortunate thing for the Prince himself that he has a literary turn, since nothing can so effectually relieve the ennui of state, and the anxieties of power. "I hope your Lordship intends to give us more of 'Childe Harold'. I was delighted that my friend Jeffrey--for such, in despite of many a feud, literary and political, I always esteem him--has made so handsomely the 'amende honorable' for not having discovered in the bud the merits of the flower; and I am happy to understand that the retractation so handsomely made was received with equal liberality. These circumstances may perhaps some day lead you to revisit Scotland, which has a maternal claim upon you, and I need not say what pleasure I should have in returning my personal thanks for the honour you have done me. I am labouring here to contradict an old proverb, and make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, namely, to convert a bare 'haugh' and 'brae', of about 100 acres, into a comfortable farm. Now, although I am living in a gardener's hut, and although the adjacent ruins of Melrose have little to tempt one who has seen those of Athens, yet, should you take a tour which is so fashionable at this season, I should be very happy to have an opportunity of introducing you to anything remarkable in my fatherland. My neighbour, Lord Somerville, would, I am sure, readily supply the accommodations which I want, unless you prefer a couch in a closet, which is the utmost hospitality I have at present to offer. The fair, or shall I say the sage, Apreece that was, Lady Davy that is, is soon to show us how much science she leads captive in Sir Humphrey; so your Lordship sees, as the citizen's wife says in the farce, 'Thread-needle Street has some charms,' since they procure us such celebrated visitants. As for me, I would rather cross-question your Lordship about the outside of Parnassus, than learn the nature of the contents of all the other mountains in the world. Pray, when under 'its cloudy canopy' did you hear anything of the celebrated Pegasus? Some say he has been brought off with other curiosities to Britain, and now covers at Tattersal's. I would fain have a cross from him out of my little moss-trooper's Galloway, and I think your Lordship can tell one how to set about it, as I recognise his true paces in the high-mettled description of Ali Pacha's military court. "A wise man said--or, if not, I, who am no wise man, now say--that there is no surer mark of regard than when your correspondent ventures to write nonsense to you. Having, therefore, like Dogberry, bestowed all my tediousness upon your Lordship, you are to conclude that I have given you a convincing proof that I am very much "Your Lordship's obliged and very faithful servant, "WALTER SCOTT." * * * * * APPENDIX VI. "THE GIANT AND THE DWARF." The reply of Leigh Hunt's friends to Moore's squib, "The 'Living Dog' and the 'Dead Lion'" (see Letter 291, p. 205, note 1 [Footnote 2]), ran as follows: "THE GIANT AND THE DWARF. "Humbly inscribed to T. Pidcock, Esq., of Exeter 'Change. "A Giant that once of a Dwarf made a friend, (And their friendship the Dwarf took care shouldn't be hid), Would now and then, out of his glooms, condescend To laugh at his antics,--as every one did. "This Dwarf-an extremely diminutive Dwarf,-- In birth unlike G--y, though his pride was as big, Had been taken, when young, from the bogs of Clontarf, And though born quite a Helot, had grown up a Whig. "He wrote little verses--and sung them withal, And the Giant's dark visions they sometimes could charm, Like the voice of the lute which had pow'r over Saul, And the song which could Hell and its legions disarm. "The Giant was grateful, and offered him gold, But the Dwarf was indignant, and spurn'd at the offer: 'No, never!' he cried, 'shall _my_ friendship be sold For the sordid contents of another man's coffer! "'What would Dwarfland, and Ireland, and every land say? To what would so shocking a thing be ascribed? _My Lady_ would think that I was in your pay, And the _Quarterly_ say that I must have been bribed. "'You see how I'm puzzled; I don't say it wouldn't Be pleasant just now to have just that amount: But to take it in gold or in bank-notes!--I couldn't, I _wouldn't_ accept it--on any account. "'But couldn't you just write your Autobiography, All fearless and personal, bitter and stinging? Sure _that_, with a few famous heads in lithography, Would bring me far more than my Songs or my singing. "'You know what I did for poor Sheridan's Life; _Your's_ is sure of my very best superintendence; I'll expunge what might point at your sister or wife,-- And I'll thus keep my priceless, unbought independence!' "The Giant smiled grimly: he couldn't quite see What diff'rence there was on the face of the earth, Between the Dwarf's taking the money in fee, And his taking the same thing _in that money's worth_. "But to please him he wrote; and the business was done: The Dwarf went immediately off to 'the Row;' And ere the next night had pass'd over the sun, The MEMOIRS were purchas'd by Longman and Co. "W. GYNGELL, Showman, Bartholomew Fair." * * * * * APPENDIX VII. ATTACKS UPON BYRON IN THE NEWSPAPERS FOR FEBRUARY AND MARCH, 1814. I. 'THE COURIER'. (1) LORD BYRON ('The Courier', February 1, 1814). A new Poem has just been published by the above Nobleman, and the 'Morning Chronicle' of to-day has favoured its readers with his Lordship's Dedication of it to THOMAS MOORE, Esq., in what that paper calls "an elegant eulogium." If the elegance of an eulogium consist in its extravagance, the 'Chronicle's' epithet is well chosen. But our purpose is not with the Dedication, nor the main Poem, 'The Corsair', but with one of the pieces called Poems, published at the end of the 'Corsair'. Nearly two years ago (in March, 1812), when the REGENT was attacked with a bitterness and rancour that disgusted the whole country; when attempts were made day after day to wound every feeling of the heart; there appeared in the 'Morning Chronicle' an anonymous 'Address to a Young Lady weeping', upon which we remarked at the time ('Courier of March' 7, 1812), considering it as tending to make the Princess CHARLOTTE of WALES view the PRINCE REGENT her father as an object of suspicion and disgrace. Few of our readers have forgotten the disgust which this address excited. The author of it, however, unwilling that it should sleep in the oblivion to which it had been consigned with the other trash of that day, has republished it, and, placed the first of what are called Poems at the end of this newly published work the Corsair, we find this very address: "Weep daughter of a _royal_ line, A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;" _Lord Byron thus avows himself to be the Author._ To be sure the Prince has been extremely _disgraced_ by the policy he has adopted, and the events which that policy has produced; and the realm has experienced _great decay_, no doubt, by the occurrences in the Peninsula, the resistance of Russia, the rising in Germany, the counter-revolution in Holland, and the defeat, disgrace, and shame of BUONAPARTE. But, instead of continuing our observations, suppose we parody his Lordship's Address, and apply it to February 1814: TO A YOUNG LADY. February, 1814. "View! daughter of a royal line, A father's fame, a realm's renown: Ah! happy that that realm is thine, And that its father is thine own! "View, and exulting view, thy fate, Which dooms thee o'er these blissful Isles To reign, (but distant be the date!) And, like thy Sire, deserve thy People's smiles." * * * * * (2) 'The Courier', February 2, 1814. Lord BYRON, as we stated yesterday, has discovered and promulgated to the world, in eight lines of choice doggrel, that the realm of England is in decay, that her Sovereign is disgraced, and that the situation of the country is one which claims the tears of all good patriots. To this very indubitable statement, the 'Morning Chronicle' of this day exhibits an admirable companion picture, a _genuine_ letter from _Paris_, of the 25th ult. * * * * * (3) 'The Courier', February 3, 1814. "'The Courier' is indignant," says the 'Morning Chronicle', "at the discovery now made by Lord BYRON, that he was the author of 'the Verses to a Young Lady weeping,' which were inserted about a twelvemonth ago in the 'Morning Chronicle'. The Editor thinks it audacious in a hereditary Counsellor of the KING to admonish the 'Heir Apparent'. It may not be 'courtly' but it is certainly 'British', and we wish the kingdom had more such honest advisers." The discovery of the author of the verses in question was not made by Lord BYRON. How could it be? When he sent them to the 'Chronicle, without' his name, he was just as well informed about the author as he is now that he has published them in a pamphlet, 'with' his name. The discovery was made to the public. They did not know in March, 1812, what they know in February, 1814. They did not suspect then what they now find avowed, that a Peer of the Realm was the Author of the attack upon the PRINCE; of the attempt to induce the Princess CHARLOTTE of WALES to think that her father was an object not of reverence and regard, but of disgrace. But we "think it audacious in an hereditary Counsellor of the KING to admonish the Heir Apparent." No! we do not think it audacious: it is constitutional and proper. But are anonymous attacks the constitutional duty of a Peer of the Realm? Is that the mode in which he should admonish the Heir Apparent? If Lord BYRON had desired to admonish the PRINCE, his course was open, plain, and known--he could have demanded an audience of the PRINCE; or, he could have given his admonition in Parliament. But to level such an attack--What!--"Kill men i' the dark!" This, however, is called by the 'Chronicle' "certainly 'British'," though it might not be 'courtly', and a strong wish is expressed that "the country had many more such honest advisers" or admonishers. --Admonishers indeed! A pretty definition of admonition this, which consists not in giving advice, but in imputing blame, not in openly proffering counsel, but in secretly pointing censure. * * * * * (4) BYRONIANA NO. I ('The Courier', February 5, 1814). The Lord BYRON has assumed such a poetico-political and such a politico-poetical air and authority, that in our double capacity of men of letters and politicians, he forces himself upon our recollection. We say 'recollection' for reasons which will bye and by, be obvious to our readers, and will lead them to wonder why this young Lord, whose greatest talent it is to forget, and whose best praise it would be to be forgotten, should be such an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. SAM ROGERS'S 'Pleasures of Memory'. The most virulent satirists have ever been the most nauseous panegyrists, and they are for the most part as offensive by the praise as by the abuse which they scatter. His Lordship does not degenerate from the character of those worthy persons, his poetical ancestors: "The mob of Gentlemen who wrote with ease" who of all authors dealt the most largely in the alternation of flattery and filth. He is the severest satirical and the civilest dedicator of our day; and what completes his reputation for candour, good feeling, and honesty, is that the persons whom he most reviles, and to whom he most fulsomely dedicates, are identically the same. We shall indulge our readers with a few instances:--the most obvious case, because the most recent, is that of Mr. THOMAS MOORE, to whom he has dedicated, as we have already stated, his last pamphlet; but as we wish to proceed orderly, we shall postpone this and revert to some instances prior in order of time; we shall afterwards show that his Lordship strictly adheres to HORACE'S rule, in maintaining to the end the ill character in which he appeared at the outset. His Lordship's first dedication was to his guardian and relative, the Earl of CARLISLE. So late as the year 1808, we find that Lord BYRON was that noble Lord's "most affectionate kinsman, etc., etc." Hear how dutifully and affectionately this ingenuous young man celebrates, in a few months after (1809), the praises of his friend: "No Muse will cheer with renovating smile, The _paralytic puling_ of CARLISLE; What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer, Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer! So _dull_ in youth, so _drivelling_ in age, _His_ scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage. But Managers, for once, cried 'hold, enough,' Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, And case his volumes in _congenial calf_: Yes! doff that covering where Morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines." And in explanation of this affectionate effusion, our lordly dedicator subjoins a note to inform us that Lord CARLISLE'S works are splendidly bound, but that "the rest is all but leather and prunella," and a little after, in a very laborious note, in which he endeavours to defend his consistency, he out-Herods Herod, or to speak more forcibly, out-Byrons Byron, in the virulence of his invective against "his guardian and relative, to whom he dedicated his volume of puerile poems." Lord CARLISLE has, it seems, if we are to believe his word, for a series of years, beguiled "the public with reams of most orthodox, imperial _nonsense_," and Lord BYRON concludes by asking, "What can ennoble knaves, or _fools_, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards." "So says POPE," adds Lord BYRON. But POPE does not say so; the words "_knaves and fools_," are not in POPE, but interpolated by Lord BYRON, in favour of his "guardian and relative." Now, all this might have slept in oblivion with Lord CARLISLE'S Dramas, and Lord BYRON'S Poems; but if this young Gentleman chooses to erect himself into a spokesman of the public opinion, it becomes worth while to consider to what notice he is entitled; when he affects a tone of criticism and an air of candour, he obliges us to enquire whether he has any just pretensions to either, and when he arrogates the high functions of public praise and public censure, we may fairly inquire what the praise or censure of such a being is worth: "Thus bad begins, but worse remains behind." * * * * * (5) BYRONIANA NO. 2 ('The Courier', February 8, 1814). "_Crede Byron_" is Lord Byron's armorial motto; 'Trust Byron' is the translation in the Red-book. We cannot but admire the ingenuity with which his Lordship has converted the good faith of his ancestors into a sarcasm on his own duplicity. "Could nothing but your chief reproach, Serve for a motto on your coach?" Poor Lord Carlisle; he, no doubt, _trusted_ in his affectionate ward and kinsman, and we have seen how the affectionate ward and kinsman acknowledged, like _Macbeth_, "_the double trust_" only to abuse it. We shall now show how much another Noble Peer, Lord Holland, has to trust to from his _ingenuous_ dedicator. Some time last year Lord Byron published a Poem, called _The Bride of Abydos_, which was inscribed to Lord Holland, "_with every sentiment of regard and respect by his gratefully obliged and sincere friend_, BYRON." "_Grateful and sincere!_" Alas! alas; 'tis not even so good as what Shakespeare, in contempt, calls "the sincerity of a cold heart." "_Regard and respect!"_ Hear with what regard, and how much respect, he treats this identical Lord Holland. In a tirade against literary assassins (a class of men which Lord Byron may well feel entitled to describe), we have these lines addressed to the Chief of the Critical Banditti: "Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway, Thy _Holland's_ banquets shall each toil repay, While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes, _To Hollands hirelings_, and to _learnings foes!_" By which it appears, that "--These wolves that still in darkness prowl; This coward brood, which mangle, as their prey, By hellish instinct, all that cross their way;" are hired by Lord Holland, and it follows, very naturally, that the "_hirelings_" of Lord Holland must be the "_foes of learning_." This seems sufficiently caustic; but hear, how our dedicator proceeds: "Illustrious Holland! hard would be his lot, His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot! Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and Critics may carouse! Long, long, beneath that hospitable roof Shall _Grub-street_ dine, while duns are kept aloof, And _grateful_ to the founder of the feast Declare the Landlord can _translate_, at least!" Lord Byron has, it seems, very accurate notions of _gratitude_, and the word "_grateful_" in these lines, and in his dedication of 'The Bride of Abydos', has a delightful similarity of meaning. His Lordship is pleased to add, in an explanatory note to this passage, that Lord Holland's life of Lopez de Vega, and his translated specimens of that author, are much "BEPRAISED _by these disinterested guests_." Lord Byron well knows that _bepraise_ and _bespatter_ are almost synonimous. There was but one point on which he could have any hope of touching Lord Holland more nearly; and of course he avails himself, in the most gentlemanly and generous manner, of the golden opportunity. When his club of literary assassins is assembled at Lord Holland's table, Lord Byron informs us "That lest when heated with the unusual grape, Some _glowing_ thoughts should to the press escape, And tinge with red the _female_ reader's cheek, My LADY skims the _cream_ of each critique; Breathes o'er each page _her purity_ of soul, Reforms each error, and refines the whole." Our readers will, no doubt, duly appreciate the manliness and generosity of these lines; but, to encrease their admiration, we beg to remind them that the next time Lord Byron addresses Lord Holland, it is to dedicate to him, in all friendship, _sincerity_, and gratitude, the story of a young, a pure, an amiable, and an affectionate bride! The verses were bad enough, but what shall be said, after _such_ verses, of the insult of _such_ a dedication! We forbear to extract any further specimens of this peculiar vein of Lord Byron's satire; our "gorge rises at it," and we regret to have been obliged to say so much. And yet Lord Byron is, "with all regard and _respect_, Lord Holland's sincere and grateful friend!" It reminds us of the _respect_ which Lear's daughters shewed their father, and which the poor old king felt to be "worse than murder." Some of our readers may perhaps observe that, personally, Lord Holland was not so ill-treated as Lord Carlisle; but let it be recollected, that Lord Holland is only an acquaintance, while Lord Carlisle was "guardian and relation," and had therefore _peculiar_ claims to the ingratitude of a mind like Lord Byron's. _Trust Byron_, indeed! "him," as Hamlet says "_Him_, I would trust as I would _adders_ fang'd." * * * * * (6) BYRONIANA No. 3 ('The Courier', February 12, 1814). "Crede Byron"--"Trust Byron." We have seen Lord Byron's past and present opinions of two Noble Persons whom he has honoured with his satire, and vilified by his dedications; let us now compare the evidence which he has given at different and yet not distant times, on the merits of his third _Dedicatee_, Mr. Thomas Moore. To him Lord Byron has inscribed his last poem as a person "of unshaken _public principle_, and the most undoubted and various talents; as the firmest of Irish _patriots_, and the first of Irish bards." Before we proceed to give Lord Byron's own judgment of this "firmest of patriots," and this "best of poets," we must be allowed to say, that though we consider Mr. Moore as a very good writer of songs, we should very much complain of the poetical supremacy assigned to him, if Lord Byron had not qualified it by calling him the first only of _Irish_ poets, and, as we suppose his Lordship must mean, of _Irish_ poets of the _present_ day. The title may be, for aught we know to the contrary, perfectly appropriate; but we cannot conceive how Mr. Moore comes by the high-sounding name of "_patriot_;" what pretence there is for such an appellation; by what effort of intellect or of courage he has placed his name above those idols of Irish worship, Messrs. Scully, Connell, and Dromgoole. Mr. Moore has written words to Irish tunes; so did Burns for _his_ national airs; but who ever called Burns the "firmest of patriots" on the score of his contributions to the _Scots Magazine_? Mr. Moore, we are aware, has been accused of tuning his harpsichord to the key-note of a faction, and of substituting, wherever he could, a party spirit for the spirit of poetry: this, in the opinion of most persons, would derogate even from his _poetical_ character, but we hope that Lord Byron stands alone in considering that such a prostitution of the muse entitles him to the name of patriot. Mr. Moore, it seems, is an Irishman, and, we believe, a Roman Catholic; he appears to be, at least in his poetry, no great friend to the connexion of Ireland with England. One or two of his ditties are quoted in Ireland as _laments_ upon certain worthy persons whose lives were terminated by the hand of the law, in some of the unfortunate disturbances which have afflicted that country; and one of his most admired songs begins with a stanza, which we hope the Attorney-General will pardon us for quoting: "Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her _faithless sons betrayed her_, When Malachy wore the collar of gold, Which he won from her proud Invader; When her Kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, Ere, the emerald gem of the western world, _Was set in the crown of a Stranger_." This will pretty well satisfy an English reader, that, if it be any ingredient of patriotism to promote the affectionate connexion of the English isles under the constitutional settlement made at the revolution and at the union; and if the foregoing verses speak Mr. Moore's sentiments, he has the same claims to the name of "_patriot_" that Lord Byron has to the title of "trustworthy;" but if these and similar verses do not speak Mr. Moore's political sentiments, then undoubtedly he has never written, or at least published any thing relating to public affairs; and Lord Byron has no kind of pretence for talking of the political character and public principles of an humble individual who is only known as the translator of Anacreon, and the writer, composer, and singer of certain songs, which songs do not (_ex-hypothesi_) speak the sentiments even of the writer himself. But, hold--we had forgot one circumstance: Mr. Moore has been said to be one of the authors of certain verses on the highest characters of the State, which appeared from time to time in the 'Morning Chronicle', and which were afterwards collected into a little volume; this may, probably, be in Lord Byron's opinion, a clear title to the name of _patriot_, in which case, his Lordship has also his claim to the same honour; and, indeed that sagacious and loyal person, the Editor of the 'Morning Chronicle', seems to be of this notion; for when some one ventured to express some, we think not unnatural, indignation at Lord Byron's having been the author of some impudent doggrels, of the same vein, which appeared anonymously in that paper reflecting on his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and her Royal Highness his daughter, the Editor before-mentioned exclaimed--"What! and is not a Peer, an hereditary councillor of the Crown, to be permitted to give his constitutional advice?!!!" If writing such vile and anonymous stuff as one sometimes reads in the 'Morning Chronicle' be the duty of a good subject, or the privilege of a Peer of Parliament, then indeed we have nothing to object to Mr. Moore's title of Patriot, or Lord Byron's open, honourable, manly, and constitutional method of advising the Crown. To return, however, to our main object, Lord Byron's _consistency, truth_, and trustworthiness. His Lordship is pleased to call Mr. Moore not only Patriot and Poet, but he acquaints us also, that "he is the delight alike of his readers and his friends; the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own." Let us now turn to Lord Byron's thrice-recorded opinion of "_this Poet of all Circles_." We shall quote from a Poem which was republished, improved, amended, and reconsidered, not more than _three_ years ago; since which time Mr. Moore has published no Poem whatsoever; therefore, Lord Byron's former and his present opinions are founded upon the same data, and if they do not agree, it really is no fault of Mr. Moore's, who has published nothing to alter them. "Now look around and turn each _trifling_ page, Survey the _precious_ works that please the age, While Little's lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves." Here, by no great length of induction, we find Little's, _i.e._ Mr. Thomas Moore's lyrics, are _trifling, "precious_ works," his Lordship ironically adds, that "please times from which," as his Lordship says, "taste and reason are passed away!" Bye and by his Lordship delivers a still more plain opinion on Mr. Moore's fitness to be the "_Poet of ALL circles_." "Who in soft guise, surrounded by a quire Of virgins _melting_, not to _Vesta's_ fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by _passion_ flush'd, Strikes his wild lyre, while listening dames are hush'd? 'Tis Little, young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay; Griev'd to condemn, the Muse must yet be just, Nor spare melodious _advocates of lust!_" "_O calum et terra!_" as _Lingo_ says. What! this purest of Patriots is _immoral?_ What! "the Poet of _all_ circles" is "the advocate of lust"? Monstrous! But who can doubt Byron? And his Lordship, in a subsequent passage, does not hesitate to speak still more plainly, and to declare, in plain round terms (we shudder while we copy) that Moore, the Poet, the Patriot "Moore, is lewd"!!! After this, we humbly apprehend that if we were to "trust Byron," Mr. Moore, however he may be the idol of his own circle, would find some little difficulty in obtaining admittance into any other. Lord Byron having thus disposed, as far as depended upon him, of the moral character of the first of Patriots and Poets, takes an early opportunity of doing justice to the personal honour of this dear "friend;" one, as his Lordship expresses it, of "the magnificent and fiery spirited" sons of Erin. "In 1806," says Lord Byron, "Messrs. Jeffery and Moore met at Chalk Farm--the duel was prevented by the interference of the Magistracy, and on examination, the balls of the pistols, _like the courage of the combatants_, were found to have _evaporated!_" "Magnificent and fiery spirit," with a vengeance! We are far from thinking of Mr. Moore as Lord Byron either did or does; not so degradingly as his Lordship did in 1810; not so extravagantly as he does in 1813. But we think that Mr. Moore has grave reason of complaint, and almost just cause, to exert "his fiery spirit" against Lord Byron, who has the effrontery to drag him twice before the public, and overwhelm him, one day with odium, and another with ridicule. We regret that Lord Byron, by obliging us to examine the value of his censures, has forced us to contrast his past with his present judgments, and to bring again before the public the objects of his lampoons and his flatteries. We have, however, much less remorse in quoting his satire than his dedications; for, by this time, we believe, the whole world is inclined to admit that his Lordship can pay no compliment so valuable as his censure, nor offer any insult so intolerable as his praise. * * * * * (7) BYRONIANA No. 4 ('The Courier', February 17, 1814). "'Don Pedro.' What offence have these men done? "'Dogberry.' Many, Sir; they have committed false reports; moreover they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixthly and lastly, they have belied a Lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things, and, to conclude, they are lying knaves." 'Much Ado about Nothing.' We have already seen how scurvily Lord Byron has treated _three_ of the four persons to whom he has successively dedicated his Poems; but for the fourth he reserved a species of contumely, which we are confident our readers will think more degrading than all the rest. _He has uniformly praised him! and him alone!!!_--The exalted rank, the gentle manners, the polished taste of his guardian and relation, Lord Carlisle; the considerations due to Lord Holland, from his family, his personal character, and his love of letters; the amiability of Mr. Moore's society, the sweetness of his versification, and the vivacity of his imagination;--all these could not save their possessors from the _brutality_ of Lord Byron's personal satire. It was, then, for a person only, who should have _none_ of these titles to his envy that his Lordship could be expected to reserve the fullness and steadiness of his friendship; and if we had any respect or regard for that small poet and very disagreeable person, Mr. Sam Rogers, we should heartily pity him for being "_damned_" to such "_fame_" as Lord Byron's uninterrupted praise can give. But Mr. Sam Rogers has another cause of complaint against Lord Byron, and which he is of a taste to resent more. His Lordship has not deigned to call _him_ "the firmest of patriots," though we have heard that his claims to that title are not much inferior to Mr. Moore's. Mr. Sam Rogers is reported to have clubb'd with the Irish Anacreon in that scurrilous collection of verses, which we have before mentioned, and which were published under the title of the _Twopenny Post-bag_, and the assumed name of "Thomas Brown." The rumour may be unfounded; if it be, Messrs. Rogers and Moore will easily forgive us for saying that, much as we are astonished at the effrontery with which Lord Byron has acknowledged his lampoon, we infinitely prefer it to the cowardly prudence of the author or authors of the _Twopenny Post-bag_ lurking behind a fictitious name, and "devising impossible slanders," which he or they have not the spirit to avow. But, to return to the more immediate subject of our lucubrations: It seems almost like a fatality, that Lord Byron has hardly ever praised any thing that he has not at some other period censured, or censured any thing that he has not, by and bye, praised or _practised_. It does not often happen that booksellers are assailed for their too great liberality to authors; yet, in Lord Byron's satire, while Mr. Scott is abused, his publisher, Mr. Murray, is sneered at, in the following lines: "And think'st them, Scott, by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance; Though _Murray_ with his Miller may combine, _To yield thy Muse just_ HALF-A-CROWN A LINE? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former _laurels fade_. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who _rack_ their _brains_ for _lucre_, not for fame: Low may they sink to _merited contempt_, And _scorn_ remunerate the _mean_ attempt." Now, is it not almost incredible that this very Murray (the only remaining one of the booksellers whom his Lordship had attacked; Miller has left the trade)--is it not, we say, almost incredible that this very Murray should have been soon after selected, by this very Lord Byron, to be his own publisher? But what will our readers say, when we assure them, that not only was Murray so selected, but that this magnanimous young Lord has actually _sold_ his works to this same Murray? and, what is a yet more singular circumstance, has received and pocketted, for one of his own "stale romances," a sum amounting, not to "_half-a-crown_," but to _a whole crown, a line!!!_ This fact, monstrous as it seems in the author of the foregoing lines, is, we have the fullest reason to believe, accurately true. And the "_faded laurel_," "_the brains rac'd for lucre_," "_the merited contempt_," "_the scorn_," and the "_meanness_," which this impudent young man dared to attribute to Mr. Scott, appear to have been a mere anticipation of his own future proceedings; and thus, "--Even-handed Justice Commends the ingredients of his _poison'd_ chalice To his own lips." How he now likes the taste of it we do not know; about as much, we suspect, as the "incestuous, murderous, damned Dane" did, when _Hamlet_ obliged him to "_drink off the potion_" which he had treacherously drugged for the destruction of others. * * * * * (8) BYRONIANA No. 5 ('The Courier', February 19, 1814). "He professes no keeping oaths; in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool." 'All's Well that ends Well'. We have, we should hope, sufficiently exposed the audacious levity and waywardness of Lord Byron's mind, and yet there are a few touches which we think will give a finish to the portrait, and add, if it be at all wanting, to the strength of the resemblance. * * * * * It must be amusing to those who know anything of Lord Byron in the circles of London, to find him magnanimously defying in very stout heroics, "--all the din of _Melbourne_ House And _Lambes'_ resentment--" and adding that he is "_unscared_" even by "_Holland's spouse_." * * * * * To those who may be in the habit of hearing his Lordship's political descants, the following extract will appear equally curious: "Mr. Brougham, in No. 25 of the 'Edinburgh Review', throughout the article concerning Don Pedro Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so _incensed at the_ INFAMOUS _principles it evinces_, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions;" and in the text of this poem, to which the foregoing is a note, he advises the Editor of the Review to "Beware, lest _blundering Brougham_ destroy the sale; Turn beef to bannacks, cauliflower to kail." Those who have attended to his Lordship's progress as an author, and observed that he has published _four_ poems, in little more than two years, will start at the following lines: "--Oh cease thy song! A bard may chaunt too often and too long; As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare; A FOURTH, alas, were more than we could bear." And as the scene of each of these _four_ Poems is laid in the Levant, it is curious to recollect, that when his Lordship informed the world that he was about to visit "Afric's coast," and "Calpe's height," and "Stamboul's minarets," and "Beauty's native clime," he enters into a voluntary and solemn engagement with the public, "That should he back return, no letter'd rage Shall drag _his_ common-place book on the stage; Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti tell, He'll leave topography to classic Cell, And, _quite content_, no more shall interpose, To _stun_ mankind with _poetry or prose_." And yet we have already had, growing out of this "Tour," four volumes of _poetry_, enriched with copious notes in _prose_, selected from his "_common-place book_." The whole interspersed every here and there with the most convincing proofs that instead of being "_quite content_," his Lordship has returned, as he went out, the most discontented and peevish thing that breathes. But the passage of all others which gives us the most delight is that in which his Lordship attacks his critics, and declares that "Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they _too_ are penetrable stuff." and adds, "--I have-- Learn'd to deride the Critic's stern decree, And _break him on the wheel he meant for me_." We should now, with all humility, ask his Lordship whether _he_ yet feels that "he _too_ is penetrable stuff;" and we should further wish to know how he likes being "_broken on the wheel he meant for others?_" When his Lordship shall have sufficiently pondered on those questions, we may perhaps venture to propound one or two more. * * * * * (9) From 'The Courier' (March 15, 1814). The republication of some _Satires_, which the humour of the moment now disposes the writer to recall, was strenuously censured, the other day, in a Morning Paper. It was there said, amongst other things, that such a republication "contributes to exasperate and perpetuate the divisions of those whom _nature_ and friendship have joined!" This is within six weeks after the deliberate _republication_ of "Weep, daughter," etc., etc.; and thus we are informed of the exact moment at which all retort is to cease; at which misrepresentation towards the public and outrage towards the Personages much more than insulted in those lines, is to be no longer remembered. What privileges does this writer claim for his friends! They are to live in all "the swill'd insolence" of attack upon those on whose character, union, and welfare, the public prosperity mainly depends; they are to instruct the DAUGHTER to hold the FATHER disgraced, because he does not surrender the prime Offices of the State to their ambition. And if, after this, public disgust make the author feel, in the midst of the little circle of flatterers that remains to him, what an insight he has given into the guilt of satire _before_ maturity, _before_ experience, _before_ knowledge; if the original unprovoked intruder upon the peace of others be thus taught a love of privacy and a facility of retraction; if Turnus have found the time, "magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta, et cum spolia ista, diemque Oderit;" if triumphing arrogance be changed into a sentimental humility, O! then 'Liberality' is to call out for him in the best of her hacknied tones; the contest is to cease at the instant when his humour changes from mischief to melancholy; 'affetuoso' is to be the only word; and he is to be allowed his season of sacred torpidity, till the venom, new formed in the shade, make him glisten again in the sunshine he envies! * * * * * II. MORNING POST. (1) VERSES ('Morning Post', February 5, 1814). Suggested by reading some lines of Lord Byron's at the end of his newly published work, entitled "_The Corsair_" which begin: "_Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line._" "'Far better be the thing that crawls, [1] Disgustful on a dungeon's walls; Far better be the worm that creeps, In icy rings o'er him who sleeps;'" "Far better be the reptile scorn'd, Unseen, unheeded, unadorn'd, Than him, to whom indulgent heav'n, Has talents and has genius giv'n; If stung by envy, warp'd by pride, Such gifts, alas! are misapplied; Not all by nature's bounty blest In beauty's dazzling hues are drest; But who shall play the critic's part, If for the form atones the heart? But if the gloomiest thoughts prevail, And Atheist doctrines stain the tale; If calumny to pow'r addrest, Attempts to wound its Sovereign's breast; If impious it shall try to part, The Father from the Daughter's heart; If it shall aim to wield a brand, To fire our fair and native land; If hatred for the world and men, Shall dip in gall the ready pen: "'Oh then far better 'tis to crawl, Harmless upon a dungeon's wall; And better far the worm that creeps, In icy rings o'er him who sleeps.'" [Footnote 1: 'Vide' Lord Byron's works.] * * * * * (2) To LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 7, 1814). "Bard of ungentle wayward mood! 'Tis said of thee, when in the lap, Thy nurse to tempt thee to thy food, Would squeeze a _lemon_ in thy pap. "At _vinegar_ how danc'd thine eyes, Before thy tongue a want could utter, And oft the dame to stop thy cries, Strew'd _wormwood_ on thy bread and butter. "And when in childhood's frolic hour, Thou'dst plait a garland for thy hair; The _nettle_ bloom'd a chosen flow'r, And native thistles flourish'd there. "For _sugar-plum_ thou ne'er did'st pine, Thy teeth no _sweet-meat_ ever hurt-- The _sloe's juice_ was thy favourite wine, And _bitter almonds_ thy desert. "Mustard, how strong so e'er the sort is, Can draw no moisture from thine eye; Not vinegar nor aqua-fortis Could ever set thy face awry. "Thus train'd a Satirist--thy mind Soon caught the bitter, sharp, and sour, And all their various pow'rs combin'd, Produc'd 'Childe Harold', and the 'Giaour'." * * * * * (3) LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 8, 1814). We are very much surprized, and we are not the only persons who feel disgust as well as astonishment, at the uncalled for avowal Lord Byron has made of being the Author of some insolent lines, by inserting them at the end of his new Poem, entitled "_The Corsair_." The lines we allude to begin "_Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line_." Nothing can be more repugnant to every good heart, as well as to the moral and religious feelings of a country, which we are proud to say still cherishes every right sentiment, than an attempt to lower a father in the eyes of his child. Lord Byron is a young man, and from the tenor of his writings, has, we fear, adopted principles very contrary to those of Christianity. But as a man of honour and of _feeling_, which latter character he affects _outrageously_, he ought never to have been guilty of so unamiable and so unprovoked an attack. Should so gross an insult to her Royal Father ever meet the eyes of the illustrious young Lady, for whose perusal it was intended, we trust her own good sense and good heart will teach her to consider it with the contempt and abhorrence it so well merits. Will she _weep for the disgrace of a Father_ who has saved Europe from bondage, and has accumulated, in the short space of two years, more glory than can be found in any other period of British history? Will she "_weep for a realm's decay_," when that realm is hourly emerging under the Government of her father, from the complicated embarrassments in which he found it involved? But all this is too evident to need being particularised. What seems most surprising is, that Lord Byron should chuse to avow Irish trash at a moment when every thing conspires to give it the lie. It is for the _organ of the Party_ alone, or a few insane admirers of Bonaparte and defamers of their own country and its rulers, to applaud him. We know it is now the fashion for our young Gentlemen to become Poets, and a very innocent amusement it is, while they confine themselves to putting their travels into verse, like _Childe Harolde_, and Lord Nugent's _Portugal_. Nor is there any harm in Turkish tales, nor wonderful ditties, of ghosts and hobgoblins. We cannot say so much for all Mr. Moore's productions, admired as he is by Lord Byron. In short, the whole galaxy of minor poets, Lords Nugent and Byron, with Messrs. Rogers, Lewis, and Moore, would do well to keep to rhyme, and not presume to meddle with politics, for which they seem mighty little qualified. We must repeat, that it is innocent to write tales and travels in verse, but calumny can never be so, whether written by poets in St. James's-street, Albany, or Grub-street. * * * * * (4) LINES ('Morning Post', February 8, 1814). Written on reading the insolent verses published by Lord Byron at the end of his new poem, "_The Corsair_" beginning "_Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line_." "Unblest by nature in thy mien, Pity might still have play'd her part, For oft compassion has been seen, To soften into love the heart. But when thy gloomy lines we read, And see display'd without controul, Th' ungentle thought, the Atheist creed, And all the rancour of the soul. When bold and shameless ev'ry tie, That GOD has twin'd around the heart, Thy malice teaches to defy, And act on earth a Demon's part. Oh! then from misanthropic pride We shrink--but pity too the fate Of youth and talents misapplied, Which, _if admired_, [1] we still must hate." [Footnote 1: We say, _if admired_, as there is a great variety of opinions respecting Lord Byron's Poems. Some certainly extol them much, but most of the best judges place his Lordship rather low in the list of our minor Poets.] * * * * * (5) LINES ('Morning Post', February 11, 1814). Suggested by perusing Lord Byron's small Poem, at the end of his "_Corsair_" addressed to a Lady weeping, beginning: "_Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line_." "To LORD BYRON. "Were he the man thy verse would paint, '_A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay_;' Art thou the meek, the pious saint, That _prates_ of feeling night and day? "Stern as the Pirate's [1] heart is thine, Without one ray to cheer its gloom; And shall that Daughter once repine, Because thy rude, unhallow'd line, Would on her virtuous cause presume? "Hide, BYRON! in the shades of night-- Hide in thy own congenial cell The mind that would a fiend affright, _And shock the dunnest realms of hell!_ "No; she will never weep the tears Which thou would'st Virtue's deign to call; Nor will they, in remoter years, Molest her Father's heart at all. "Dark-vision'd man! thy moody vein Tends only to thy mental pain, And cloud the talents Heav'n had meant To prove the source of true content; Much better were it for thy soul, Both here and in the realms of bliss, To check the glooms that now controul Those talents, which might still repay The wrongs of many a luckless day, In such a _cheerless_[2] clime as this. "But never strive to lure the heart From _one_ to which 'tis ever nearest, Lest from its duty it depart, And shun the Pow'r which should be dearest: For heav'n may sting thy heart in turn, And rob thee of thy sweetest treasure But, BYRON! thou hast yet to learn, _That Virtue is the source of pleasure!_" TYRTÆUS. G--n-street, Feb. 9, 1814. [Footnote 1: 'The Corsair'.] [Footnote 2: In allusion to the general melancholy character of his Lordship's poetical doctrines.] * * * * * (6) To LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 15, 1814). Occasioned by reading his Poem, at the end of 'The Corsair', beginning: "_Weep, Daughter of a Royal Line_." Shame on the verse that dares intrude On Virtue's uncorrupted way-- That smiles upon Ingratitude, And charms us only to betray! For this does BYRON'S muse employ The calm unbroken hours of night? And wou'd she basely thus destroy The source of all that's just-upright? Traitor to every moral law! Think what thy own cold heart wou'd feel, If some insidious mind should draw Thy daughter [1] from her filial zeal. And dost thou bid the offspring shun Its father's fond, incessant care? Why, every sister, sire, and son, Must loathe thee as the poison'd air! BYRON! thy dark, unhallow'd mind, Stor'd as it is with Atheist writ, Will surely, never, never find, One convert to admire its wit! Thou art a planet boding woe, Attractive for thy novel mien-- A calm, but yet a deadly foe, Most baneful when thou'rt most serene! Tho' fortune on thy course may shine, Strive not to lead the mind astray, Nor let one impious verse of thine, The unsuspecting heart betray! But rather let thy talents aim To lead incautious youth aright; Thus shall thy works acquire that fame, Which ought to be thy chief delight. "The verse, however smooth it flow, Must be abhorr'd, abjur'd, despis'd, When Virtue feels a secret blow, And order finds her course surpris'd." HORATIO. Fitzroy-square, Feb. 13. [Footnote 1: Supposing LORD BYRON to have a daughter.] * * * * * (7) To LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 16, 1814). "Bard of the pallid front, and curling hair, To London taste, and northern critics dear, Friend of the dog, companion of the bear, APOLLO drest in trimmest Turkish gear. "'Tis thine to eulogize the fell Corsair, Scorning all laws that God or man can frame; And yet so form'd to please the gentle fair, That reading misses wish their Loves the same. "Thou prov'st that laws are made to aid the strong, That murderers and thieves alone are brave, That all religion is an idle song, Which troubles life, and leaves us at the grave. "That men and dogs have equal claims on Heav'n, Though dogs but bark, and men more wisely prate, That to thyself one friend alone was giv'n, That Friend a Dog, now snatch'd away by Fate. "And last can tell how daughters best may shew Their love and duty to their fathers dear, By reckoning up what stream of filial woe Will give to every crime a cleansing tear. "Long may'st thou please this wonder-seeking age, By MURRAY purchas'd, and by MOORE admir'd; May fashion never quit thy classic page, Nor e'er be with thy Turkomania tir'd." UNUS MULTORUM. * * * * * (8) VERSES ADDRESSED TO LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 16, 1814). "Lord _Byron_! Lord _Byron_! Your heart's made of iron, As hard and unfeeling as cold. Half human, half bird, From _Virgil_ we've heard, Were form'd the fam'd harpies of old. "Like those monsters you chatter, Friends and foes you bespatter, And dirty, like them, what you eat: The _Hollands_, your muse Does most grossly abuse, Tho' you feed on their wine and their meat. "Your friend, little _Moore_, You have dirtied before, But you know that in safety you write: You've declared in your lines, That revenge he declines, For the poor little man will not fight. "At _Carlisle_ you sneer, That worthy old Peer, Though united by every tie; But you act as you preach, And do what you teach, And your _God_ and your duty defy. "As long as your aim Was alone to defame, The nearest relation you own; At your malice he smil'd, But he won't see defil'd, By your harpy bespatt'rings, the Throne." * * * * * (9) PATRONAGE EXTRAORDINARY ('Morning Post', February 17, 1814). "Procul este profani--!" "A friendship subsisted, no friendship was closer, 'Twixt the heir of a Peer and the son of a Grocer; 'Tis _true_, though so wide was their difference of station, For, we _always_ find _truth_ in a _long dedication_. Atheistical doctrines in verse we are told, The former sold _wholesale_, was daring and bold; While the latter (whatever _he_ offer'd for sale) Like papa, he disposed of--of course by _retail!_ First--_scraps_ of _indecency_, next _disaffection_, Disguised by the knave from his fear of detection; To court _party favour_, then, sonnets he wrote; Set political squibs to the harpsichord's note. One, as _patron_ was chosen by his brother Poet, The Peer, to be sure, from his rank we may know it; Not the low and indecent composer of jigs-- Yes! yes! 'twas the son of the seller of Figs!! Did the Peer then possess _no respectable friend_ To add weight to his name, and his works recommend?! Atheistical writings we well may believe, None of _worth_ from the Author would deign to receive; So--to cover the faults of his friend he essays, By _daubing_ him _thickly all over with praise_. But, _parents_, attend! if your _daughters_ you _love_, The works of _these serpents_ take _care_ to remove: Their _infernal attacks_ from your _mansions_ repel, Where _filial affection_ and _modesty_ dwell." VERAX. * * * * * (10) LORD BYRON ('Morning Post', February 18, 1814). If it was the object of Lord BYRON to stamp his character, and to bring his name forward by a single act of his life into general notoriety, it must be confessed that he has completely succeeded. We do not recollect any former instance in which a Peer has stood forth as the libeller of his Sovereign. If he disapproves the measures of his Ministers, the House of Parliament, in which he has an hereditary right to sit, is the place where his opinions may with propriety be uttered. If he thinks he can avert any danger to his country by a personal conference with his Sovereign, he has a right to demand it. The Peers are the natural advisers of the Crown, but the Constitution which has granted them such extraordinary privileges, makes it doubly criminal in them to attack the authority from which it is derived, and to insult the power which it is their peculiar province to uphold and protect. What then must we think of the foolish vanity, or the bad taste of a titled Poet, who is the first to proclaim himself the Author of a Libel, because he is fearful it will not be sufficiently read without his avowal. We perfectly remember having read the verses in question a year ago; but we could not then suppose them the offspring of patrician bile, nor should we now believe it without the Author's special authority. It seems by some late quotations from his Lordship's works, which have been rescued from that oblivion to which they were hastening with a rapid step, by one of our co-equals, that this peerless Peer has already gone through a complete course of private ingratitude. The inimitable Hogarth has traced the gradual workings of an unfeeling heart in his progress of cruelty. He has shewn, that malevolence is progressive in its operation, and that a man who begins life by impaling flies, will find a delight in torturing his fellow creatures before he closes it. We have heard that even at school these poetical propensities were strongly manifested in Lord BYRON, and that he began his satirical career against those persons to whom the formation of his mind was entrusted. From his schoolmaster he turned the oestrum of his opening genius to his guardian and uncle, the Earl of CARLISLE. We cannot believe that the Noble Person's conduct has in this instance been a perfect contrast to the general tenor of his life. We have heard, that during his guardianship he tripled the amount of his nephew's fortune. If the Earl of CARLISLE was satisfied with his own 'conscia mens recti', if he wanted no thanks, he must at least have been much surprised to find such attentions and services rewarded with a libel, in which not only his literary accomplishments, but his bodily infirmities, were made the subject of public ridicule. The Noble Earl was certainly at liberty to treat such personal attacks with the contempt which they deserve, but since his Sovereign is become the object of a vile and unprovoked libel, he will no doubt draw the attention of his Peers to a new case of outrage to good order and government, which has been unfortunately furnished by his own nephew. * * * * * III. THE SUN. (1) LORD BYRON AND THE 'MORNING CHRONICLE' ('The Sun', February 4, 1814). That poetical Peer, Lord BYRON, knowing full well that anything insulting to his Prince or injurious to his country would be most thankfully received and published by the 'Morning Chronicle', did in March, 1812, send the following loyal and patriotic lines to that loyal and patriotic Paper, in which of course they appeared: "To A LADY WEEPING. "Weep, daughter of a Royal line, _A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay:_ Ah! happy! if each tear of thine Could wash a father's _fault_ away! "Weep--for thy tears are Virtue's tears-- Auspicious to these suffering isles: And be each drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!" These lines the 'Morning Chronicle', in the following paragraph of yesterday, informs us were aimed at the PRINCE REGENT, and addressed to the Princess CHARLOTTE: "'The Courier' is indignant at the discovery now made by Lord BYRON, that he was the author of 'the Verses to a Young Lady weeping,' which were inserted about a twelvemonth ago in 'the Morning Chronicle'. The Editor thinks it audacious in a hereditary Counsellor of the King to admonish the 'Heir Apparent'. It may not be 'courtly', but it is certainly 'British', and we wish the kingdom had more such honest advisers." No wonder the 'Courier', and every loyal man, should be indignant at the discovery (made by the republication of these worthless lines, in the Noble Lord's new Volume) that this gross insult came from the pen of "a hereditary Counsellor of the KING! "No wonder every good subject should execrate this novel and disagreeable mode of "'admonishing' the Heir Apparent," which is further from being British than it is from being Courtly; for, from Courtier baseness may be expected, but from a Briton no such infamous dereliction of his duty as is involved in a malignant, 'anonymous' attack by a Peer of the Realm upon the person exercising the Sovereign Authority of his Country. But the assertions of Lord BYRON are as false as they are audacious. What was the "Sire's Disgrace" to be thus bewept? He preferred the independence of the Crown to the arrogant dictation of a haughty Aristocracy, who desired to hold him in Leading-strings. It was then, amid a "Realm's (fancied) decay," because this Faction were not admitted to supreme power, that his Royal Highness's early friends drunk his health in contemptuous silence, while their more vulgar partizans "at the lower end of the Hall" hissed and hooted the royal name. But mark the reverse since March, 1812, a reverse which it might have been thought would have induced the Noble Lord, from prudent motives, to have withheld this ill-timed publication! How is his Royal Highness's health toasted 'now'? With universal shouts and acclamations. Treason itself dare not interpose a single discordant sound save in its own private orgies! Where is 'now' the realm's decay? oh short-sighted prognosticators of the prophecies! look around, and dread the fate of the speakers of falsehood among the Jews of old, who were stoned to death by the people! The wide world furnishes the answer to your selfish croakings, and tells Lord BYRON that he is destitute of at least one of the qualities of an inspired Bard. Perhaps we might add another, viz. honesty in acknowledging his plagiarisms, one of which (as we have already said more than his silly verse above quoted deserves, except from the rank of its author) we shall take the liberty of stating to the Public. The 'Bride of Abydos' begins, something in the stile of an old ballad, thus: "Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture--the love of the turtle-- Now melt into sorrow--now madden to crime?-- Know ye the land of the cedar and vine? Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine, Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye." The whole of which passage we take to be a paraphrase, and a bad paraphrase too, of a song of the German of Göthe, of which the following translation was published at Berlin in 1798: "Know'st thou the land, where citrons scent the gale, Where glows the orange in the golden vale, Where softer breezes fan the azure skies, Where myrtles spring and prouder laurels rise? "Know'st them the pile, the colonnade sustains, Its splendid chambers and its rich domains, Where breathing statues stand in bright array, And seem, 'What ails thee, hapless maid?' to say? "Know'st thou the mount, where clouds obscure the day; Where scarce the mule can trace his misty way; Where lurks the dragon and her scaly brood; And broken rocks oppose the headlong flood?" * * * * * (2) EPIGRAM ('The Sun', February 8, 1814). On the Detection of Lord BYRON'S Plagiarism, in 'The Sun' of Friday last. "That BYRON _borrows verses_ is well known, But his _misanthropy_ is all his own." * * * * * (3) LORD BYRON ('The Sun', February 11, 1814). We are informed from very good authority, that as soon as the House of Lords meets again, a Peer of very independent principles and character intends to give notice of a motion, occasioned by the late spontaneous avowal of a copy of verses by Lord BYRON, addressed to the Princess CHARLOTTE of WALES, in which he has taken the most unwarrantable liberties with her august Father's character and conduct; this motion being of a personal nature, it will be necessary to give the Noble Satirist some days notice, that he may prepare himself for his defence against a charge of so aggravated a nature, which may perhaps not be a fit subject for a criminal prosecution, as the laws of the country, not forseeing the probability of such a case ever occurring, under all the present circumstances, have not made a provision against it; but we know that each House of Parliament has a controul over its own members, and that there are instances on the Journals of Parliament, where an individual Peer has been suspended from all the privileges of the high situation to which his birth entitled him, when by any flagrant offence against good order and government, he has rendered himself unworthy of exercising so important a trust. 'Morning Post'. * * * * * (4) PARODY ('The Sun', February 16, 1814). "'WEEP, DAUGHTER OF A ROYAL LINE!' "MOURN, dabbler in dull party rhyme, Thy mind's disease, thy name's disgrace. Ah, lucky! if the hand of Time Should all thy Muse's crimes efface! "MOURN--for thy lays are Rancour's lays-- Disgraceful to a Briton born; And hence each theme of factious praise Consigns thee to thy Country's scorn."