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ALVMNVS BOOK FVND 
 
Trelawny 
 
 with 
 
 Shelley 
 
 and 
 
 Byron 
 
 BY 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER 
 
 1922 
 
 The Biblio Company 
 
 Pompton Lakes, 
 
 New Jersey 
 
TRELAWNY 
 
 WITH 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 AND 
 
 BYRON 
 
 The Ramapo Press Publications, No. 1. 
 
Limited Edition of 
 
 300 Numbered 
 Copies, of Which 
 This is Number Jj^^ 
 
 Written at The Heights, Oakland, California 
 January 1, 1893 
 
Trelawny 
 
 with 
 
 Shelley 
 
 and 
 
 Byron 
 
 BY 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER 
 
 1922 
 
 The Biblio Company 
 
 Pompton Lakes, 
 
 New Jersey 
 
£U-(^ 
 
 tA^Y^y-yv(A>iy 
 
TRELAWNY WITH SHELLEY 
 AND BYRON 
 
 And shall Trelawny die? 
 And shall Trelawny die? 
 Then forty thousand Cornishmen 
 Vv'^ill know the reason why. 
 
 Edward John Trelawny of London, 
 Italy, Greece, Wales, the whole 
 world in fact, was certainly the 
 most singularly fortunate man I ever 
 met, and I have known not a few notable 
 and brave men. He claimed to be not only 
 a descendant of the hero referred to in 
 this stirring old chorus, but to be a de- 
 scendant of kings. To be frank about 
 it there were few things worth claim- 
 ing that ' ' Old Tre, ' ' as the clubmen and 
 scribes in and about London used to call 
 him, did not lay claim to in some way. 
 He had a right to claim much, for what 
 man had ever seen so much or known so 
 7 
 
 5f39H;;^G 
 
much of this world and its great sold- 
 iers, sailors, statesmen and poets? He 
 was the most intimate friend of both 
 Byron and Shelley, was with them in 
 their last hours and laid them both to 
 rest. And this Trelawny was for more 
 than fifty years sole authority on cer- 
 tain facts touching these immortal poets- 
 It is this that makes Trelawny and his 
 books so fascinating. And it is in ref- 
 erence to these poets that I purpose to 
 consider this strange man and his rude 
 and realistic books; for, as you may 
 know, it was this man who asked 
 Fletcher, ;Byron's faithful servant to 
 go out from the room where he lay after 
 death to bring a glass of water in order 
 that he might have a chance to lift the 
 sheet and inspect the dead man's feet. 
 And this is only one of the many cold- 
 blooded, not to say brutal, acts which 
 this man has set down with all the de- 
 termined precision of detail that might 
 characterize a surgeon in the amputa- 
 tion of a limb. We shall be able to pass 
 them nearly all by, however; but no 
 one can help wondering all the time how 
 it happened that this bloodless fellow 
 claimed to be the best friend of these 
 
two most sensitive of all uoble-born Eng- 
 lishmen from the day when he first met 
 them till he laid them in the gi'ave, 
 
 Trelawny was left standing like a 
 lone stormtorn pine on a mountaintop 
 years and years after his last friend was 
 dead. He must have been far up in the 
 eighties when I saw him. Only a few 
 years ago he sent me to Oakland here a 
 revised copy of his books on Byron, 
 Shelley and himself, and for aught I 
 know he may be still living.* He was 
 a forceful man in every way, and but 
 for this cold-blooded coarseness and 
 realism might have been a great man. 
 He told me that he had no schooling or 
 opportunities at all,socially or other- 
 wise, having been a sailor from 10 to 
 well nigh 30. And this only increases 
 our wonder at his familiarity with 
 Byron, Shelley, Lady Blessington and 
 others of their time. When last I saw 
 him he was trying to reform the world 
 by "living naturally," as he called it. 
 I visited him at a very humble hut up 
 the Thames, where he lived alone, ate 
 vegetables, drank water from the river 
 only, and, notwithstanding his wild 
 sailor life and lively days in the Levant, 
 
 Trelawny died in Worthing, England, 
 13 August, 1881. 
 
 9 
 
never touched either rum or wine or 
 tobacco. He was in robust health and 
 insisted on bringing up a fresh bucket 
 of water with his own hands from the 
 river- 
 One peculiar thing about Trelawny 
 was his desire for mystery touching his 
 own life. He insisted to me in a most 
 mysterious tone of voice that he had 
 royal blood from some extinct race of 
 kings in his veins, and that he had in 
 early days been a famous pirate; and if 
 *'old Tre" could look over my shoulder 
 at this moment I think nothing in this 
 sketch would please him so well as an 
 adherence to this account of himself. 
 He certainly had circumnavigated the 
 globe as a sailor, and had set foot here 
 in California long before the most of us 
 were born. He was well up in all the 
 deeds of Morgan and other great pirates 
 of the Spanish Main ; and with increased 
 mystery whispered that he knew to a 
 dot the very spot where a shipload of 
 gold was buried near the harbor of San 
 Diego. You perhaps are aware that 
 Lord Byron made him the hero of more 
 than one wild poetic tale. He was "Con- 
 rad," "Lara," and the like. Possibly 
 10 
 
here was the key to Byron's love for the 
 fellow; he had use for him. And yet, 
 what use could Shelley find for such a 
 man, or what fellowship could he find in 
 such coarse company? None. And so 
 I am forced to the conclusion that Tre- 
 lawny was not half so bad as he thought 
 he was and tried to make others believe. 
 I shall rather say that these refined men 
 found him to be a bluff and honest 
 though rough old savage, good at heart 
 at all times and useful in handling their 
 boats in emergencies. As to where he 
 got money in order to be on a footing 
 with such men, that is certainly a mys- 
 tery. But there are plenty of ways to 
 get a fortune without turning pirate. 
 
 We may stick a pin here and note 
 that it is no new thing to find very good 
 men trying to make out that they are 
 or have been terribly bad- Byron him- 
 self, it seems to me, was of that sort. At 
 the same time, while I cannot concede 
 that Trela wny was entirely bad, we will 
 have to concede that he was entirely 
 coarse and rough. But let us now take 
 up this book about Byron and Shelley, 
 first published about fifty years ago. It 
 may be noted, however, that subsequent 
 11 
 
editions somewhat softened his asperi- 
 ties toward the two poets. 
 
 But certain hard things set down in 
 the first edition could not be softened, 
 and you find your teeth set on edge in 
 every chapter. For instance, having 
 once told us, giving date and place, that 
 Shelle3' took such heavy doses of mor- 
 phine that his life was endangered, he 
 could not well alter the statement, and 
 having told us that Byron was vain and 
 silly, he could not say otherwise later 
 on. And yet we must forgive him these 
 lies, for they were born of the very air 
 and time in which the book was first 
 concerned. But here is a pleasant bit 
 about Shelle3^ which must be true. 
 
 "He would set to work on a book, or 
 a pyramid of books, his eyes glistening 
 with an energy as fierce as that of the 
 most sordid gold-digger who works at a 
 rock of quartz, crushing his way through 
 all impediments, no grain of the pure 
 ore escaping his eager scrutiny. I called 
 on him one morning at 10; he was in 
 his study with a German folio-pen rest- 
 ing on the broad marble mantlepieee 
 over an old-fashioned fireplace, and 
 with a dictionarv in his hand. He al- 
 12 
 
ways read standing if possible. He had 
 promised over night to go with me, but 
 now begged me to let him off. I then 
 rode to Leghorn, eleven or twelve miles 
 distant, and passed the day there; on 
 returning at 6 in the evening to dine 
 with Sirs- Shelley and the Williamses, 
 as I had engaged to do, I went into the 
 poet's room and found him exactly in 
 the position in which I had left him in 
 the morning, but looking pale and ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 " 'Well,' I said, 'have you found it?' 
 
 "Shutting the book and going to the 
 window he replied. 'No, I have lost it,' 
 with a deep sigh. 'I have lost a day.' 
 
 ' ' ' Cheer up, my lad, and come to din- 
 ner. ' 
 
 "Putting his long fingers through his 
 mass of wild tangled hair he answered 
 faintly: 'You go, I have dined. Late 
 eating don't do for me.' 
 
 " 'What is this?' I asked as I was go- 
 ing out of the room, pointing to one of 
 his bookshelves, with a plate contain- 
 ing bread and cold meat on it. 
 
 " 'That [coloring], why that must be 
 my dinner. It's very foolish. I thought 
 I had eaten it' " 
 
 13 
 
Now here is the final scene, the burn- 
 ing of poor Shelley. And let me here 
 say that Shelley was burned because 
 Trela^viiy willed it to be so, as in line 
 with the life and desire of the poet ; not 
 because the Italian Government com- 
 pelled it. This was not required at all. 
 The body had, indeed, been buried some 
 time before it was exhumed and burned. 
 When they (Trelawny and Byron) had 
 fired the funeral pile Byron said to 
 Trelawny : " ' Let us humbly lower our 
 heads and in silence try to pray.' * * * 
 After the fire was well kindled we re- 
 peated the ceremony of the previous 
 day; and more wine was poured over 
 Shelley's dead body than he had con- 
 sumed during his life. This with the 
 oil and salt made the yellow flames 
 glisten and quiver. The heat from the 
 sun and fire was so intense that the at- 
 mosphere was tremulous and wavy. 
 * * * The corpse fell open and the 
 heart was laid bare. * * * 
 
 " 'Let us try the strength of these 
 waters that drowned our friends,' said 
 Byron suddenly, with his usual audac- 
 ity. 'How far out do you think they 
 were when their boat sank?' 
 14 
 
" 'If you don't wish to be put into 
 the furnace you had better not try ; you 
 are not in condition,' said Trelawny. 
 
 "But he stripped and went into the 
 water, and so did I and my companion- 
 Before we got a mile out Byron was 
 sick and persuaded us to return to the 
 shore. My companion, too, was seized 
 with cramp, and reached the land by my 
 aid. At 4 o'clock the funeral pyre 
 burned low, and, when we uncovered 
 the furnace, nothing remained in it but 
 dark-colored ashes with fragments of 
 the larger bones. Poles were now put 
 under the red-hot furnace, and it was 
 gradually cooled in the sea. I gathered 
 together the human ashes and placed 
 them in a small oak box, bearing an in- 
 scription on a brass plate, screwed it 
 down and placed it in Byron's car- 
 riage. ' ' 
 
 And here is Trelawny 's account of the 
 last resting place of the poet's ashes in 
 Rome. 
 
 "When I came to examine the ground 
 with the man who had the custody of it 
 I found Shelley's grave amidst a cluster 
 of others. The old Roman wall partly 
 inclosed the place, and there was a 
 15 
 
niche in the wall formed by two but- 
 tresses — immediately under an ancient 
 pyramid, said to be the tomb of Caius 
 Cestius. There were no graves near it 
 at that time. This suited my taste, so 
 I purchased the recess, and sufficient 
 space for planting a row of the Italian 
 upright cypresses. As the souls of here- 
 tics are foredoomed by the Roman 
 priests, they do not affect to trouble 
 themselves about their bodies. There 
 was no 'faculty' to apply for nor 
 Bishop's license to exhume the body. 
 The custode or guardian, who dwelt 
 within the inclosure and had the key of 
 the gate, seemed to have uncontrolled 
 power within his domain. Without more 
 ado masons were hired and two tombs 
 built in the recess. In one of these when 
 completed I deposited the box with 
 Shelley's ashes and covered it in with 
 solid stone, inscribed with a Latin epi- 
 taph written by Leigh Hunt." 
 
 After this funeral by the sea^ Byron 
 became still more restless, and in a little 
 time longer he and Trelawny were sail- 
 ing away to take part in the glorious at- 
 tempt to restore Greece to her splendor 
 and glory. On one sweet and restful 
 IQ 
 
occasion, as they sailed up the Levant, 
 says Trelawny. "I put a pencil and 
 paper in his hand, saying: 'Perpetuate 
 your curses on tyranny, for poets, like 
 ladies, generally side with the despots. ' 
 
 "He readily took the paper and set 
 to work. I walked the deck to prevent 
 his being disturbed. He looked as crest- 
 fallen as a riotous boy suddenly pounced 
 upon by a master and given an impos- 
 sible task, scrawling and scratching out, 
 sadly perplexed. After a long spell he 
 said: 
 
 " 'You think it is as easy to write 
 poetry as smoke a cigar — look, it's only 
 doggerel. Extemporizing verses is non- 
 sense; poetry is a distinct faculty — it 
 won't come when called — you may as 
 well whistle for a wind; a Pythoness 
 was primed when put upon her tripod. 
 I must chew the cud before I write. I 
 have thought over most of my subjects 
 for years before writing a line-' 
 
 "He did not, however, give up the 
 task and sat pondering over the paper 
 for nearly an hour. Then, gnashing his 
 teeth, he tore up what he had written 
 and threw the fragments overboard. 
 
 "Seeing I looked disappointed, he 
 17 
 
said: 'You might as well ask me to 
 describe an earthquake while the ground 
 is trembling under m.y feet. Give me 
 time — I can't forget the theme; but for 
 this Greek business I should have been at 
 Naples writing a fifth canto of Childe 
 Harold, expressing to give vent to my 
 detestation of the Austrian tyranny in 
 Italy.' 
 
 * * * "Some time after, I sug- 
 gested he should write a M^ar song for 
 the Greeks; he did so afterward. I saw 
 the original among his papers at Misso- 
 longhi and made a copy of it, which I 
 have lost." 
 
 And here is a dialogue which Tre- 
 lawny says he set down soon after it 
 took place : 
 
 Byron — If death comes in the shape 
 of a cannon-ball and takes off my head 
 he is welcome. I have no wish to live, 
 but I can't bear pain. Don't repeat 
 the ceremony you went through with 
 Shelley — no one wants my ashes. 
 
 Tre. — You will be claimed for West- 
 minister Abbey. 
 
 Byron — No, they don't want me; nor 
 would I have my bones mingled with 
 that motlej' throng. 
 18 
 
Tre- — I should prefer being launched 
 into the sea to the nonsense of the land 
 ceremonies. 
 
 Byron — There is a rocky islet off 
 Maina — it is the Pirates' Isle, it sug- 
 gested the "Corsair." No one knows 
 it. I'll show it to you on the way to 
 the Morea. There is the spot I should 
 like my bones to lie. 
 
 Tre. — They won't let me do so with- 
 out you will it. 
 
 Byron — I will, if you are with me 
 when I die ; remind me, and don 't let 
 the blundering blockhead doctors bleed 
 me, or when I am dead maul my car- 
 cass. 
 
 And here the curtain falls on the last 
 act of the great poet. Trelawny says 
 he could not induce Byron to drink 
 brandy or anything else while in the 
 mud and malaria of Western Greece. 
 He says he never smoked, but tried to 
 learn to chew tobacco. I here quote a 
 few paragraphs from Trelawny 's ac- 
 count of his death ; observing that if he 
 is not entirely truthful here he at least 
 seems entirely so, and prudent, too, and 
 thoughtful of Byron's friends at home 
 and all the world. 
 
 19 
 
''Fletcher gave me a sheet of paper, 
 and from his dictation I wrote on By- 
 ron's coffin the following particulars of 
 his last illness and death : 
 
 " 'Particulars of Lord Byron's death, 
 as related by his servant, William 
 Fletcher. Written on his coffin, at the 
 house of the Primate of Argostoli, by 
 Edward Thelawny, April 10, 1824. 
 Lord Byron, taking his usual ride and 
 being warm, was caught in a shower of 
 rain. Jle had but very recently 
 recovered from a violent epileptic 
 fit, which had left him weak. In the 
 course of the eve he complained of be- 
 ing unwell, and there were slight symp- 
 toms of fever. On the 11th he got up 
 as usual, but complained of his head. 
 * * * He was advised to be bled, but 
 had a natural or acquired antipathy to 
 bleeding. On the night of the 14th 
 Fletcher advised a doctor being sent for 
 from Zante. Fletcher thought him at 
 this time confused in his ideas. Byron 
 said: "Where are my shoes? I can 
 only see three, and have been looking 
 this hour." Fletcher said, "There are 
 four." Byron said, "I'm in the hands 
 ot assassins; they will murder me." 
 20 
 
* * * This evening at about 7 
 o'clock he consented to be bled, and a 
 few minutes after he fainted. They 
 took about a pound. Very weak and 
 debilitated, the pain in his head during 
 the night, and he spoke confusedly of 
 Fleming, Hobhouse and Douglas Ean- 
 naird- This was on the 18th. He had 
 been again copiously bled. He took 
 bark at about two, drank a glass of wine 
 and water. He w^as worse after this and 
 became delirious and violent; began to 
 talk and give directions; took hold of 
 one of Fletcher's and one of Tita's 
 hands. Fletcher said, "Shall I write?" 
 Byron muttered to him for half and 
 hour, his lips moving, but indistinct. 
 
 * * * Fletcher said again he did not 
 understand. "Good God!" he said and 
 tried to repeat it, but his lips only 
 moved. He understood Fletcher and 
 seemed to strain hard to make himself 
 understood and to feel his inability. 
 After 6 o'clock this evening he said. "I 
 want to sleep." They had given him 
 opiates, and from that time he never 
 spoke word nor moved hand or foot, nor 
 showed the least appearance of life, ex- 
 
 21 
 
cept by difficulty in swallowing and 
 stiffness.' " 
 
 We need not follow Byron further. 
 And it would seem that this remarkable 
 old man, Trelawny, might well be left 
 alone now- But no, the real event of 
 his most wondrous life is yet to be told. 
 He says Byron would surely have been 
 made King of Greece had he lived. He 
 now aspired to the throne himself. He 
 continued in the struggle for Greek free- 
 dom; was fortified in Mount Parnassus, 
 as if he had not yet been favored enough 
 by the gods of song — think of it ! He 
 had fixed up a cave in Mount Parnassus 
 with munitions of war, and for nearly a 
 year held his fortress against the Turk 
 and all coming. It is butchery to take 
 up only a fragment of what befell now, 
 but space forbids more. Here is his ac- 
 count of one incident. It appears that 
 his mixed men were all more or less 
 treacherous, his only friend being his 
 dog. His guards got him to shoot at a 
 mark in order to empty his pistol; then 
 one of them shot him in the back, and 
 then the dog leaped on the man who 
 shot him and held him to the ground. 
 All this in Mount Parnassus — think of 
 22 
 
it ! But here is what the friend of By- 
 ron and Shelley says : 
 
 "When I was shot I sat down on the 
 rock I had been standing on ; bending 
 down my head to let the blood flow 
 from my mouth a musket ball and sev- 
 eral broken teeth came with it — the 
 socket of the teeth was broken and my 
 right arm paralyzed. I walked without 
 assistance into the small grotto I had 
 boarded up and floored and called my 
 house ; it was divided into two small 
 rooms and there was a broad veranda in 
 front. Squatting in a corner my ser- 
 vant cut open my dress behind and told 
 me I had been shot with two balls be- 
 tween my shoulders, near together, on 
 the right side of my spine, and one of 
 them close to it. One of the balls, as I 
 have said, its force expended on my 
 bones, dropped from my mouth without 
 wounding my face; the other broke my 
 collarbone and remained in my breast — 
 it is still there. No blood issued from 
 the places they had entered at- We had 
 no surgeon or medicines in the cave ; the 
 air was so dry and pure, our living so 
 simple, that this was the first visit sick- 
 ness or sorrow paid us. Nature makes 
 23 
 
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