University of California • Berkeley 
 
CONVERSATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
PRINTED BY A. BELIN. 
 
JOURNAL 
 
 OF THE 
 
 CONVERSATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 NOTED DURING A RESIDENCE WITH HIS LORDSHIP 
 AT PISA, 
 
 IN THE YEARS 1 82 1 AND 1 822. 
 
 BY THOMAS MEDWIN, ESQ. 
 
 OF THE 24TH LIGHT DRAGOONS. 
 AUTHOR OF "AHASUERUS THE WANDERER." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 PARIS : 
 PUBLISHED BY A. AND W. GALIGNANI, 
 
 AT THE FRENCH, ENGLISH, ITALIAN, GERMAN, AND SPANISH 
 LIBRARY, N° 18, RUE VIVIENNE. 
 
 1824. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Publisher of this Work thinks it proper 
 to state, that he felt desirous of suggesting to the 
 Author, who is abroad, the suppression of certain 
 passages ; but finding that these, among various 
 others, had been extracted, with the Author's per- 
 mission, from the original Manuscript before it 
 came into his possession, and also that they have 
 now appeared in print, he has no longer consi- 
 dered it necessary to urge their suppression in 
 the present Volume. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 '' A GREAT poet belongs to no country ; his 
 works are public property, and his Memoirs the 
 inheritance of the public." Such were the sen- 
 timents of Lord Byron ; and have they been 
 attended to? Has not a manifest injustice been 
 done to the world, and an injury to his memory, 
 by the destruction of his Memoirs ? These are 
 questions which it is now late, perhaps needless, 
 to ask ; but I will endeavour to lessen, if not to 
 remedy, the evil. 
 
 I am aware that in publishing these remi- 
 niscences I shall have to contend with much 
 obloquy from some parts of his family, — that I 
 shall incur the animosity of many of his friends. 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 There are authors, too, who will not be pleased 
 to find their names in print, — to hear his real 
 opinion of themselves, or of their works. There 
 are others But I have the satisfaction of feel- 
 ing that I have set about executing the task I 
 have undertaken, conscientiously : I mean neither 
 to throw a veil over his errors, nor a gloss over 
 his virtues. 
 
 My sketch will be an imperfect and a rough 
 one, it is true, but it will be from the life ; and 
 slight as it is, may prove more valuable, perhaps, 
 than a finished drawing from memory. It will 
 be any thing but a panegyric : my aim is to paint 
 him as he was. That his passions were violent 
 and impetuous, cannot be denied; but his feel- 
 ings and affections were equally strong. Both 
 demanded continual employment; and he had 
 an impatience of repose, a " restlessness of rest'," 
 that kept them in constant activity. It is satis- 
 factory too, at least it is some consolation, to 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 reflect, that the last energies of his nature were 
 consumed in the cause of liberty, and for the 
 benefit of mankind. 
 
 How I became acquainted with so many par- 
 ticulars of his history, so many incidents of his 
 life, so many of his opinions, is easily explained. 
 They were communicated during a period of 
 many months' familiar intercourse, without any 
 injunctions to secrecy, and committed to paper 
 for the sake of reference only. They have not 
 been shewn to any one individual , and but for 
 the fate of his MS. would never have appeared 
 before the public. 
 
 I despise mere writing for the sake of book- 
 making, and have disdained to swell out my 
 materials into volumes . I have given Lord Byron's 
 ideas as I noted them down at the time, — in his 
 own words, as far as my recollection served. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 They are, however, in many cases, the substance 
 without the form. The brilliancy of his wit, 
 the flow of his eloquence, the sallies of his imagi- 
 nation, who could do justice to ? His voice, his 
 manner, which gave a charm to the whole, who 
 could forget ? 
 
 '' His subtle talk would cheer the winter night. 
 And make me know myself j and the fire-light 
 Would flash upon our faces, till the day 
 Might dawn, and make me wonder at my stay." 
 
 Shelley's Julian and Maddalo. 
 Geneva, ist August, 4824. 
 
CONTENTS TO VOL. 1. 
 
 \ 
 
 The Writer's arrival at Pisa. Lord Byron's live 
 stock and impedimenta. The Lanfranchi palace ; 
 TJgolino \ Lanfranchi's ghost. English Cerberus. 
 Lord B.'s Leporello ; has reliefs and mantel-pieces i — 2 
 
 Introduction to Lord Byron. His cordiality of man- 
 ner. Description ofhis person 5 his bust by Ber- 
 tolini ; the clouen foot; his temperate habits, and 
 regard for the brute creation. Conversations on 
 Switzerland and Germany; strong predilection for 
 Turkey 2— 9 
 
 Residence at Geneva. Malicious intruders. Madame 
 de Stael. Dinner disaster. Excursions on the 
 lake ; Shelley and Hobhouse : St. Preux and 
 Julia; classical drowning. Lord Byron's horse- 
 manship ; pistol-firing ; remarks on duelling ; 
 his own duels. Anecdote 9 — 14 
 
 Sunset at Venice and Pisa. Routine of Lord Byron's 
 life. The Countess Guiccioli : Lord Byron's attach- 
 ment to her; beautiful Sonnet and Stanzas in ho- 
 nour of her. CawalieriSeruenti, Mode of bringing 
 up Italian females ; its consequences. Italian pro- 
 pensity to love. Intimacy with the Countess : her 
 rescue 1 5 - 24 
 
U CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Lord Byron's preference for Ravenna. Female beauty 
 in Italy and England compared. The Constituti- 
 onalists ; their proscription. Lord Byron's danger. 
 Assassination of the military Commandant at 
 Ravenna. Lord B.'s humanity 24"'2g 
 
 The Byron Memoirs : Mr. Moore, Lady Burghersh, 
 and Lady Byron. Lord B.'s opinion of his own 
 Memoirs j his marriage and separation. Mrs. 
 Williams, the English Sybil. An omen. Lord B.'s 
 introduction to Miss Millbankj his courtship and 
 marriage , 29 —33 
 
 The wedding-ring. An uneasy ride. The honey- 
 moon. Lord and Lady B.'s fashionable dissipation; 
 consequent embarrassment; final separation. 
 Lord B.'s prejudices respecting women. Family 
 Jars; Mrs. Charlemont. Domestic felony. Mrs. 
 Mardyn. Statute of lunacy. Lady Noel's hatred. 
 Anecdote. 34 — 
 
 Lady Byron's abilities. Lord B.'s various counter- 
 parts. " The Examiner" and Lady Jersey. Sale 
 of Newstead Abbey ; departure from England 4^ ~4^' 
 
 Madame do Stael and Goethe. Lord B.'s partiality 
 for America ; curious specimen of American criti- 
 cism. The ' Sketches of Italy.' Lord B.'s life 
 at Venice ; further remarks on his Memoirs ^S-So 
 
 Anecdotes of himself and companions; Lord Falk- 
 land. Lord B.'s presentiments; early horror of 
 matrimony ; anti-matrimonial -wager. Anecdotes 
 of his father. Craniology. Anecdote of his uncle. 
 
 Early love for Scotland; Mary C . Harrow 
 
 School ; Duke of Dorset ; Lords Clare and 
 Calthorpe ; school rebellion .' 5o - 6<» 
 
COJSTEISTS. Ill 
 
 PAGF. 
 
 • The hours of Idleness.' The skull goblelj a new 
 order established at Newstead. Julia Alpinula. 
 Skulls from the field of Morat. * Lord B.'s contempt 
 of academic honours ; his bear ; the ourang-out- 
 ang. A lady in masquerade. Mrs. L. G.'s depra- 
 vity. Singular occurrence. Comparison of En- 
 glish and Italian profligacy 60—67 
 
 Fashionable pastimes; Hell in St. James's Street; 
 chicken-hazard. Scroope Davies, and Lord B.'s 
 pistols ; the deodand. Lord B. commences his 
 travels. His opinion of Venice. His own and 
 Napoleon's opinion of women. The new Forna- 
 rina ; Harlowe the painter. Gallantry sometimes 
 dangerous at Venice 67—74 
 
 Lord Byron's religious opinions ; his scepticism only 
 occasional. English Cathedral Service. Religion 
 of Tasso and Milton. Missionary Societies, and 
 missions to the East. Tentazione dl Sunt' 
 Antonio. Tacitus ; Priestley and Wesley. Dying 
 moments of Johnson, Cowper, Hume, Voltaire, 
 and Creech. Sale. Anything-arians ; Gibbon. 
 Plato's three principles. Lord B.'s correspon- 
 dents; ecstatic epistolary extract. Prayer for 
 Lord B.'s conversion ; his avowal of being a 
 Christian 74-83 
 
 AH Pacha's barbarity. Affecting tale. Real incident 
 in * The Giaour.' Albanian guards. The Doctor 
 in alarm. Lord Byron's ghost. He prophesies 
 that he shall die in Greece. Lord Byron and the 
 Drury Lane Committee, Theatricals. Obstacles 
 to writing for the stage. Kemble ; Mrs. Siddons ; 
 xMunden; Shakspeare; Alfieri ; Maturin; Miss 
 
IV COISTEINTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Baillie. Modern sensitiveness. * Marino Faliero.' 
 
 Ugo Foscolo 84- 1 CO 
 
 Ada. Singular coincidence. Ideas on education. 
 Ada's birth-day. Lord Byron's melancholy and 
 superstition. Birth-day fatalities. Death of 
 Polidori. *The Varapyre' — foundation of the 
 story Lord Byron's ; ' Frankenstein, or the Modern 
 Prometheus.' Query to Sir Humphrey Davy. 
 Scott, Rousseau, and Goethe. Fulfilment of Mrs 
 
 Williams's prophecy. Unlucky numbers loo- toi 
 
 Lord Byron's epigrams. His hospitality. Advances 
 towards a reconciliation with Lady Byron. Death 
 of Lady Noel. Lord Byron's remarks on lyric 
 poetry j Coleridge, Moore, and CampbelL Ode 
 
 on Sir John Moore's funeral • • • 101-119 
 
 Swimming across the Hellespont. Adventures at 
 Brighton and Venice. * Marino Faliero' and * The 
 two Foscari.' Hogg the Ettrick Shepherd's pre- 
 diction. Failure of ' Marino Faliero :' Lord 
 Byron's epigram on the occasion. Louis Dix-huit's jKj 
 
 translation : Jeffrey's critique. Quarterly and ' ^ 
 
 Edinburgh Reviews. Subjects for tragedies i iQ-iSo 
 
 Barry Cornwall. ' Cain.' Gessner's * Death of 
 Abel.' Hobhouse's opinion of * Cain.' Lord B.'s 
 defence of that poem, Goethe's * Faust.' Letter to 
 Murray respecting ' Cain.' Bacchanalian song. 
 Private theatricals. The Definite Article. A 
 
 Play proposed. The Guiccioli's p^isto i3o-!4^ 
 
 Merits of actors. Dowton and Kean. Kean's Richard 
 the Third and Sir Giles Overreach. Garrick's 
 dressing of Othello. Kemble's costume 5 his Cori- 
 olanus and Cato : his colloquial blank verse. 
 
C0:N TENTS. V 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Improvisatori : Theodore Hook : Sgricci j his 
 'Iphigenia.' Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neill. 
 The elephant's legs. Stage courtship. Lamb's 
 
 Specimens. Plagiarisms. * Fanst' i43-i5i 
 
 I 3Lord Byron's * Hours of Idleness.' The ineffectual 
 potation. Severity of Reviewers. ' English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers.' Jeffrey and Moore. 
 Moore's challenge to Lord Byron ; miscarriage of 
 the letter 5 subsequent friendship. Character of 
 Southey i5i-i57 
 
 Mr. Southey's letter in * The Literary Gazette,' Lord 
 Byron's anxiety and anger. * Vision of Judgment.' 
 Southey's critique on ' Foliage.' Shelley's Ahoi 
 ' The Deformed Transformed :' Shelley's opinion 
 thereon. Southey's epitaph. ' Heaven and Earih :' 
 Murray's refusal to print. * Cain,' and the Lord 
 Chancellor. * Loves of the Angels' and ' Lalla 
 Rookh.' Projected completion of * Heaven and 
 Earth.' 'The Prophecy of Dante." Italian en- 
 thusiasm in favour of Dante 157- 17 2 
 
 Shelley's opinion that the study of Dante is unfavour- 
 able to writing : the difBcultyof translating him : 
 Taaffe and Cary. Lord Byron and 'The Pro- 
 phecy of Dante.' Swedenborg's disciples. Trans- 
 lations of Lord Byron's works. The greatest com- 
 
 * pliment ever paid him. Milton and the cat's back. 
 Milton and Shakspeare redwwi. Lord Byron's 
 opinion of Childe Harold,' andtlie inequality of 
 his writings. Epics. Southey's ' Joan of Arc ;' 
 ' Curse of Kehama.' ' Don Jnan ' and the Iliad. 
 Dr. Johnson's censorship defied. Intended plan of 
 ' Don Juan :' adventures and death of the hero 172-178 
 
>'l CONTENTS. 
 
 Murray's plea : ihe Cookery -book his sheet-anchor : 
 reaj cause of his anxiety for Lord Byron's fame. 
 Douglas Kinnaird's friendship. Murray's offer for 
 'Don Juan,' per Canto. Piracy of * Don Juan,' 
 and its cause. The bishops. Murray's dislike to 
 Shelley. Price given for Third Canto of * Childe 
 Harold' 'Manfred' and * The Prisoner of ' Chiilon' 178-182 
 
 The ' Quarterly Review' and its bullies. A literary 
 set-to. Murray and Galignani. Murray's purchase 
 of 'Cain,' ' The Two Foscari,' and ' Sardanapalus.' 
 The deed. Reconciliation with Murray. 'Cain,' 
 and the Anti-constitutional Society. Murray, 
 Lord Byron, and the ' Navy List.' Last book of 
 Lord Byron's published by Murray. Opening 
 fire of ' The Quarterly.' ' The Wanderer.' Cole- 
 ridge's ' Christabel,' and Scott's ' Metrical Tales.' 
 Sir W. Scott's talents at recitation. An English 
 October day. Unconscious plagiarism. ' Kubla 
 Khan.' Madame de Stael. Coleridge's Memoirs. 
 Grammont. Alficri's Life, and Lord B's Confes- 
 sion. Coleridge's want of identity. Poets in 1795 182-189 
 
 Intended Auto da fe. Priestly charity. Duchess 
 of Lucca. Lord Guilford. Grand Duke of Tus- 
 cany. Intended rescue ; escape of the victim. 
 Madame de Stael and the opposition leaders in Eng- 
 and : her ultraisms. Brummell. Reported double 
 marriagej Baron Auguste and Miss Millbank ; 
 Lord B. and the Duchess of Broglie. Madame dc 
 Stael's conversational powers. Gienarvon. Madame 
 de StaeTs amiable heart. Women, and Opera 
 figurantes: pirouetting commonlohoih. Napo- 
 leon and Madame de Stael. Lord B.'s opinion of 
 
CONTENTS. VU 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Napoleon and of his exit. Madame de StaePs his- 
 torical omission. Rocca 190-198 
 
 Complaint against the East India Company. Lord 
 B.'s liberality. Balloons and Horace. Steam. 
 Philosophical system, Romances. Lewis's *Monk :' 
 its ground-work. Secret of Walter Scott's in- 
 spiration. * The Bleeding Nun.' Ghost stories : 
 the haunted room at Manheim j Mina and the 
 passing-bell. Lewis and Matthias. ' Abellino.' 
 • Pizarro' and Sheridan. * The Castle Spectre' 
 in Drury Lane. Lord B.'s sketch of Sheridan. 
 The age of companibility. Monk Lewis and his 
 brother's ghost. Madame de Stael, Lewis, and the 
 Slave Trade. A fatal emetic .. 198-208 
 
 Imputed plagiarisms. A dose of Wordsworth's 
 physic. Shelley's admiration of Wordsworth. 
 Peter Bell's ass, and the family circle. The Re- 
 publican trio. Comparisons. The Botany Bay 
 Eclogue, the Panegyric of Martin the Regicide, 
 and ' Wat Tyler,' uersus the Laureate odes and the 
 Waterloo eulogium. The par nohili mortally 
 wounded. Hogg the Ettrick Shepherd's * Poetic 
 Mirror.' The * Rejected Addresses.' Bowles : 
 Coleridge's praise of him inexplicable, Bowles's 
 good fellowship : his Madeira woods. Pope's 
 Letters to Martha Blount. The evil attending a 
 punnable name. Loid B.'s partiality to Johnson's 
 Lives of the Poets. No monument to Pope in Poet's 
 Corner : the reason. Milton's name in jeopardy. 
 Voltaire's tomb blocked up. Identity of a great 
 poet and a religious man maintained 208-214 
 
CONVERSATIONS, 
 
 ETC. 
 
 1 WENT to Italy late in the autumn of 182 1 for the 
 benefit of my health. Lord Byron, accompanied 
 by Mr. Rogers as far as Florence, had passed on a 
 few days before me, and was already at Pisa when 
 I arrived. 
 
 His travelling equipage was rather a singular 
 one, and afforded a strange catalogue for the Do- 
 gana : seven servants, five carriages, nine horses, 
 a monkey, a bull-dog and mastiff, two cats, three 
 pea-fowls and some hens, ( I do not know whe- 
 ther I have classed them in order of rank, ) formed 
 part of his live stock ; these, and all his books, con- 
 sisting of a very large library of modern works, 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
2 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 (for he bought all the best that came out,) to- 
 gether with a vast quantity of furniture, might 
 well be termed, with Cgesar, '< impediments." 
 
 I had long formed a wish to see and be acquaint- 
 ed with Lord Byron; but his known refusal at 
 that time to receive the visits of strangers, even 
 of some who had brought him letters of intro- 
 duction from the most intimate friend he had, 
 and a prejudice excited against his own country- 
 inen by a late insult, would have deterred me 
 from seeking an interview with him, had not the 
 proposal come from himself, in consequence of 
 his hearing Shelley speak of me. 
 
 2oth November. — '^ This is the Lung' Arno : he 
 has hired the Lanfranchi palace for a year. It is 
 one of those marble piles that seem built for eter- 
 nity, whilst the family whose name it bears no 
 longer exists," said Shelley, as we entered a hall 
 that seemed built for giants. *'I remember the 
 lines in the Inferno," said I: '^a Lanfranchi was 
 one of the persecutors of Ugolino." '*The same," 
 answered Shelley ; *^ you will see a picture of Ugo-^ 
 
LORD BYRON. 6 
 
 lino and his sons in his room. Fletcher, his va- 
 let, is as superstitious as his master, and says the 
 house is haunted, so that he cannot sleep for rum- 
 bling noises overhead, which he compares to the 
 rolling of bowls. No wonder; old Lanfranchi's 
 ghost is unquiet, and walks at night." 
 
 The palace was of such size, that Lord Byron 
 only occupied the first floor; and at the top of the 
 staircase leading to it was the English bull-<iog, 
 whose chain was long enough to guard the door, 
 and prevent the entrance of strangers ; he, how- 
 ever, knew Shelley, growled, and let us pass. In the 
 ante-room we found several servants in livery, 
 and Fletcher, (whom Shelley mentioned, and of 
 whom I shall have occasion to speak,) who had 
 been in his service from the time he left Harrow. 
 "Like many old servants, he is a privileged per- 
 son," whispered Shelley. "Don Juan had not a 
 better Leporello , for imitating his master . He says 
 that he is a Laurel struck by a Metre^ and when 
 I in Greece remarked upon one of the bas-reliefs 
 of the Parthenon, ' La! what mantel-pieces these 
 would make, my Lord!'" When we were an- 
 
4 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 nounced, we found his Lordship writing. His re- 
 ception was frank and kindj he took me cordially 
 by the hand and said : 
 
 " You are a relation and schoolfellow of Shel- 
 ' ' ley's — we do not meet as strangers — you must 
 ' ' allow me to continue my letter on account of 
 *' the post. Here's something for you to read, 
 '' Shelley, giving him part of his MS. of ' Hea- 
 " ven and Earth;' tell me what you think of it." 
 
 During the few minutes that Lord Byron was 
 finishing his letter, I took an opportunity of nar- 
 rowly observing him, and drawing his portrait 
 in my mind. * Thorwaldsen's bust is too thin- 
 necked and young for Lord Byron. None of the 
 
 * Being with him day after day, some time afterwards, 
 whilst he was sitting to Bertolini, the Florentine sculptor, for 
 his bust, I had an opportunity of analyzing his features more 
 critically, but found nothing to alter in my portrait. Berto- 
 lini's is an admirable likeness, at least was so in the clay 
 model. I have not seen it since it was copied in marble, 
 nor have I got a cast ; he promised Bertolini should send me 
 
LORD BYRON. 5 
 
 engravings gave me the least idea of him. I saw a 
 man of about five feet seven or eight, apparently 
 forty years of age : as was said of Milton, he bare- 
 ly escaped being short and thick. His face was 
 fine, and the lower part symmetrically moulded; 
 for the lips and chin had that curved and definite 
 outline that distinguishes Grecian beauty. His 
 forehead was high, and his temples broad ; and 
 he had a paleness in his complexion, almost to 
 wanness. His hair, thin and fine, had almost be- 
 come grey, and waved in natural and graceful 
 curls over his head, that was assimilating itself 
 fast to the " bald first Caesar's." He allowed it 
 to grow longer behind than it is accustomed to be 
 worn, and at that time had mustachios, which 
 
 one. Lord Byron prided himself on his neck} and it must 
 be confessed that his head was worthy of being placed on it. 
 Bertolini destroyed his ebauches more than once before he 
 could please himself. When he had finished, Lord Byron 
 said, 
 
 "It is the last time I sit to sculptor or painter." 
 
 This was on the 4th of January, 1822 
 
6 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 were not sufficiently dark to be becoming. In cri- 
 ticising his features it might, perhaps, be said that 
 his eyes were placed too near his nose, and that 
 one was rather smaller than the other ; they were 
 of a greyish brown, but of a peculiar clearness, 
 and when animated possessed a fire which seemed 
 to look through and penetrate the thoughts of 
 others, while they marked the inspirations of his 
 own. His teeth were small, regular, and white ; 
 these, I afterwards found, he took great pains to 
 preserve.* 
 
 I expected to discover that he had a club, per- 
 haps a cloven^ foot; but it would have been diffi- 
 cult to have distinguished one from the other, 
 either in size or in form. 
 
 On the whole, his figure was manly, and his 
 countenance handsome and prepossessing, aHd 
 
 "^ For this purpose he used tobacco when he first went 
 into the open airj and he told me he was in the habit of 
 grinding his teeth in his sleep, to prevent which he was 
 forced to put a napkin between them. 
 
LORD BYRON. 7 
 
 very expressive ; and the familiar ease of his con- 
 versation soon made me perfectly at home in his 
 society. Our first interview was marked with a 
 cordiality and confidence that flattered while it 
 delighted me ; and I felt anxious for the next day, 
 in order that I might repeat my visit. 
 
 When I called on his Lordship at two o'clock, 
 he had just left his hed-room, and was at break- 
 fast, if it can be called one. It consisted of a cup of 
 strong green tea, without milk or sugar, and an 
 egg, of which he ate the yolk raw. 1 observed 
 the abstemiousness of his meal. 
 
 '^ My digestion is weak; I am too bilious," said 
 he, '' to eat more than once a-day, and gene- 
 " rally live on vegetables. To be sure, I drink 
 ^* two bottles of wine at dinner,, but they form 
 *' only a vegetable diet. Just now I live on cla- 
 ^* ret and soda-water. You are just come from 
 '' Geneva, Shelley tells me. I passed the best part 
 *^ of the summer of i8i6at theCampagna Diodati, 
 " and was very nearly passing this last there. I 
 '' went so far as to write to Hentsh the banker; 
 
8 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^' but Shelley, when he came to visit me at Ra- 
 *' venna, gave me such a flattering account of 
 '* Pisa that I changed my mind. Then it is trou- 
 " blesome to travel so far with so much live and 
 '^ dead stock as I do ; and I don't like to leave be- 
 '' hind me any of my pets that have been accu- 
 ^' mulating since I came on the Continent. * One 
 '^ cannot trust to strangers to take care of them. 
 ''You will see at the farmer's some of my pea- 
 '' £owh en pension. Fletcher tells me that they are 
 " almost as bad fellow-travellers as the monkey^f 
 '' which I will shew you. " 
 
 Here he led the way to a room, where, after 
 playing with and caressing the creature for some 
 time, he proposed a game of billiards. 
 
 He says afterwards in "Don Juan," Canto X, Stanza oo, 
 " He had a kind of inclination, or 
 
 Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, 
 Live animals." 
 
 f He afterwards bought another monkey in Pisa, in the 
 street, because he saw it ill-used. 
 
LORD BYRON. 9 
 
 I brought the conversation back on Switzerland 
 and his travels, and asked him if he had been 
 in Germany ? 
 
 " No," said he, '' not even at Trieste. I hate 
 *' despotism and the Goths too much. I have 
 '' travelled little on the Continent, at least never 
 '' gone out of my way. This is partly owing to 
 *^ the indolence of my disposition, partly owing 
 '' to my incumbrances. I had some idea, when 
 ** at Rome, of visiting Naples, but was at that 
 '* time anxious to get back to Venice. But Pses- 
 ^' tum cannot surpass the ruins of Agrigentum, 
 " which I saw by moonlight; nor Naples, Con- 
 '' stantinople. You have no conception of the 
 '^ beauty of the twelve islands where the Turks 
 " have their country-houses, or of the blue Sym- 
 ^' plegades against which the Bosphorus beats 
 " with such resistless violence. 
 
 *' Switzerland is a country I have been satisfied 
 " with seeing once; Turkey I could live in for 
 '' ever. I never forget my predilections. I was 
 " in a wretched state of health, and worse spirits, 
 
lO CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " when I was at Geneva ; but quiet and the Lake, 
 '' physicians better than Polidori, soon set me up. 
 '* I never led so moral a life as during my resi- 
 '' dence in that country ; but I gained no credit by 
 ** it. Where there is a mortification, there ought 
 '' to be reward. On the contrary, there is no story 
 '*• so absurd that they did not invent at my cost. 
 '^ I was watched by glasses on the opposite side of 
 ^' the Lake, and by glasses too that must have had 
 u very distorted optics. I was waylaid in my 
 ^' evening drives — I was accused of corrupting all 
 " the grisettes in the Rue Basse. I believe that 
 '' they looked upon me as a man-monster, worse 
 '^ than the piqueur. 
 
 *' Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with 
 ^' an opinion of my immorality. I used occasion- 
 '' ally to visit her at Coppet ; and once she invited 
 ''me to a family-dinner, and I found the room 
 '' full of strangers, who had come to stare at me 
 "as at some outlandish beast in a rareeshow. 
 ' ' One of the ladies fainted, and the rest looked 
 ''as if his Satanic Majesty had been among them. 
 * ' Madame de Stael took the liberty to read me a 
 
LORD BYRON. II 
 
 ** lecture before this crowd ; to which I only made 
 " her alow bow. 
 
 ^' I knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh 
 '' was very civil to me ; and I have a great respect 
 *' for Sismondi. I was' forced to return the civi- 
 ** lities of one of their Professors by asking him, 
 ** and an old gentleman, a friend of Gray's, to dine 
 '' with me. I had gone out to sail early in the 
 [^ morning, and the wind prevented me from re- 
 '' turning in time for dinner. I understand that I 
 *' offended them mortally. Polidori did the ho- 
 '^ nours. 
 
 '^ Among our countrymen I made no new ac- 
 ^ ' quaintances ; Shelley, Monk Lewis, and Hob- 
 ^^ house were almost the only English people I 
 ^' saw. No wonder; I shewed a distaste for so- 
 '* ciety at that time, and went little among the 
 ^' Genevese ; besides, I could not speak French. 
 ** What is become of my boatman and boat ? I 
 ^' suppose she is rotten; she was never worth 
 ** much. When I went the tour of the Lake in 
 *' her with Shelley and Hobhouse, she was nearly 
 
12 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' wrecked near the very spot where St. Preux and 
 ^' Julia were in danger of being drowned. It 
 *' would have been classical to have been lost 
 '< there, but not so agreeable, Shelley was on 
 '' the Lake much oftener than I, at all hours of 
 " the night and day : he almost lived on it; his. 
 '* great rage is a boat. We are both building 
 " now at Genoa, I a yacht, and he an open 
 *' boat." 
 
 We played at billiards till the carriage was an- 
 nounced, and I accompanied him in his drive. 
 Soon after we got off the stones, we mounted our 
 horses, which were waiting for us. Lord Byron is 
 an admirable horseman, combining grace with 
 the security of his seat. He prides himself much 
 on this exercise. He conducted us for some miles 
 till we came to a farm-house, where he practises 
 pistol-firing every evening. This is his favourite 
 amusement, and may indeed be called almost a 
 pursuit. He always has pistols in his holster, 
 and eight or ten pair by the first makers in Lon- 
 don carried by his courier. We had each twelve 
 rounds of ammunition, and in a diameter of four 
 
* LORD BYRON. 1 3 
 
 inches he put eleven out of twelve shots. I ob- 
 , served his hand shook exceedingly. He said that 
 when he first began at Manton's he was the worst 
 shot in the world, and Manton was perhaps the 
 best. The subject turned upon duelling, and 
 he contended for its necessity, and quoted some 
 strong arguments in favour of it. 
 
 " I have been concerned," said he, '' in man 
 " duels as second, but only in two as principal j 
 '' one was with Hobhouse before I became inti- 
 '' mate with him. The best marksmen at a target 
 *' are not the surest in the field. Cecil's and 
 " Stackpoole's affair proved this. They fought 
 " after a quarrel of three years, during which 
 '' they were practising daily. Stackpoole was so 
 " good a shot that he used to cut off the heads of 
 '' the fowls for dinner as they drank out of the 
 " coops about. He had every wish to kill his 
 '' antagonist, but he received his death-blow from 
 " Cecil, who fired rather fine, or rather was the 
 '' quickest shot of the two. All he said when 
 
 '* falling was, ' D n it, have I missed him?' 
 
 ** Shelley is a much better shot than I am, but 
 
1 4 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *^ he is thinking of metaphysics rather than of 
 " j&ring." 
 
 I understand that Lord Byron is always in better 
 spirits after having culped (as he calls it) the 
 targe often, or hit a five-franc piece, the counter- 
 part of which is always given to the farmer, who 
 is making a little fortune. All the pieces struck, 
 Lord Byron keeps to put, as he says, in his mu- 
 seum. 
 
 We now continued our ride, and returned to 
 Pisa by the Lucca gate. 
 
 ^' Pisa with its hanging tower and Sophia-like 
 *' dome reminds me," said Lord Byron, '' of an 
 " eastern place." 
 
 He then remarked the heavy smoke that rolled 
 away from the city, spreading in the distance a 
 vale of mist, through which the golden clouds of 
 evening appeared. 
 
f 
 
 LORD BYRON. l5 
 
 ^' It is fine," said Lord Byron, ^^ but no sunsets 
 '' are to be compared with those of Venice. They 
 '' are too gorgeous for any painter, and defy any 
 *-' poet. My rides, indeed, would have been 
 '* nothing without the Venetian sunsets. Ask. 
 '' Shelley." 
 
 ^' Stand on the marble bridge," said Shelley, 
 '' cast your eye, if you are not dazzled, on its river 
 glowing as with fire, then follow the graceful 
 curve of the palaces on the Lung' Arno till the arch 
 is naved by the massy dungeon tower (erroneously 
 called Ugolino's), frowning in dark relief, and tell 
 me if any thing can surpass a sunset at Pisa." 
 
 The history of one, is that of almost every day. 
 It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried life 
 than Lord Byron led at this period. I continued 
 to visit him at the same hour daily. Billiards, 
 conversation, or reading, filled up the intervals 
 till it was time to take our evening drive, ride, and 
 pistol-practice. On our return, which was always 
 in the same direction, we frequently met the 
 
1 6 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 Countess Guiccioli, with whom he stopped to con- 
 verse a few minutes. 
 
 He dined at half an hour after sunset (at twenty- 
 four o'clock) ; then drove to Count Gamba's, the 
 Countess Guiccioli's father, passed several hours 
 in her society, returned to his palace, and either 
 read or wrote till two or three in the morning ; 
 occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as 
 a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic complaint, 
 to which he was, or fancied himself, subject. 
 Such was his life at Pisa. 
 
 The Countess Guiccioli is twenty-three years of 
 age, though she appears no more than seventeen 
 or eighteen. Unlike most of the Italian women, 
 her complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, large, 
 dark, and languishing, are shaded by the longest 
 eyelashes in the world; and her hair, which is 
 ungathered on her head, plays over her falling 
 shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the 
 darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much 
 enbompoint for her height, but her bust is perfect ; 
 her features want little of possessing a Grecian 
 

 LORD BYRON. I^ 
 
 regularity of outline ; and she has the most beau- 
 tiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is im- 
 possible to see without admiring — to hear the 
 Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. Her 
 amiability and gentleness shew themselves in every 
 intonation of her voice, which, and the music of 
 her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to every 
 thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem com- 
 ponent parts of her nature. Notwithstanding 
 that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the 
 exile and poverty of her aged father sometimes 
 affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy 
 on her countenance, which adds to the deep in- 
 terest this lovely girl creates. 
 
 *' Extraordinary pains," said Lord Byron one 
 day, " were taken with the education of Teresa. 
 *^ Her conversation is lively, without being frivo- 
 *' lous ; without being learned, she has read all 
 '' the best authors of her own and the French 
 '' language. She often conceals what she knows, 
 " from the fear of being thought to know too 
 " much; possibly because she knows I am not 
 ^' fond of blues. To use an expression of Jeffrey's, 
 
1 8 COJN VEKSATIOJNS OF 
 
 '' ' If slie has blue stockings, she contrives that 
 '* her petticoat shall hide them.' " 
 
 Lord Byron is certainly very much attached to j 
 her, vsrithout being actually in love. His descrip- " l 
 tion of the Georgioni in the Manfrini palace at 
 Venice is meant for the Countess. The beautiful . | 
 sonnet prefixed to the ' Prophecy of Dante' was I 
 addressed to her ; and I cannot resist copying ^ 
 some stanzas w^ritten when he was about to quit 
 Venice to join her at Ravenna, which will describe 
 the state of his feelings at that time. 
 
 ^' River* that relies t by the ancient walls 
 " Where dwells the lady of my love, wrhen she 
 " Walks by the brink, and there perchance retails 
 " A faint and fleeting memory of me : 
 
 ' ' What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
 *' A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
 " The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
 " Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ? 
 
 ^ The Po. 
 
LORD BYRON. TQ 
 
 ^* What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 
 " Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and strong ? 
 '^ Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 
 '* And such as thou art, were my passions long. 
 
 *' Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever; 
 *' Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye ; 
 *•*• Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! 
 '* Thy floods subside ; and mine have sunk away — 
 
 *' But left long wrecks behind them, and again 
 '* Borne on our old unchanged career, we move; 
 '' Thou tendest wildly onward to the main, 
 '* And I to loving one 1 should not love. 
 
 * * The current I behold will sweep beneath 
 
 ** Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; 
 
 '' Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
 
 '' The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 
 
 ** She will look on thee ; I have lookM on thee, 
 '* Full of that thonght, and from that moment ne'er 
 '* Thy waters could I dream of, name or see, 
 '* Without the inseparable sigh for her. 
 
aO CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream ; 
 '* Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 
 " Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, 
 ' ' That happy wave repass me in its flow. 
 
 '* The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
 '* Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ? 
 '* Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore; 
 *' I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep, 
 
 ' ' But that which keepeth us apart is not 
 
 " Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 
 
 " But the distraction of a various lot, 
 
 *' As various as the climates of our birth. 
 
 '^ A stranger loves a lady of the land, 
 
 " Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
 
 *' Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
 
 " By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 
 
 " My blood is all meridian 5 were it not, 
 '' I had not left my clime ; — I shall not be, 
 " In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
 *' A slave again of love, at least of thee. 
 
LORD BYRON. a I 
 
 " Tis vain to struggle — let me perish youDg — 
 
 * ' Live as I lived , and love as I have loved : 
 
 " To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
 
 " And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved.'* 
 
 Calling on Lord Byron one evening after the 
 Opera, we happened to talk of Ca^alieri Serventi, 
 and Italian women ; and he contended that much 
 was to be said in excuse for them, and in defence 
 of the system. 
 
 '^ We will put out of the question," said he, 
 " a Ca\f alter Serventecism ; that is only another 
 *' term for prostitution, where the women get all 
 " the money they can, and have (as is the case in 
 '^ all such contracts) no love to give in exchange. 
 '^ — I speak of another, and of a different service." 
 
 *' Do you know how a girl is brought up here?" 
 continued he. '' Almost from infancy she is 
 '' deprived of the endearments of home, and shut 
 ''up in a convent till she has attained a mar- 
 '' riageable or marketable age. The father now 
 
ift CONVERSATIOJSS OF 
 
 " looks out for a suitable son-in-law. As a certain 
 *^ portion of his fortune is fixed by law for the 
 " dower of his children, his object is to find some 
 '^ needy man of equal rank, or a very rich one, 
 '' the older the better, who will consent to take 
 ^' his daughter off his hands, under the market 
 ** price. This, if she happen to be handsome, is 
 '* not difficult of accomplishment. Objections 
 " are seldom made on the part of the young lady 
 *^ to the age, and personal or other defects of the 
 '' intended, who perhaps visits her once in the 
 " parlour as a matter of form or curiosity. She 
 ^' is too happy to get her liberty on any terms, 
 '^ and he her money or her person. There is no 
 " love on either side. What happiness is to be 
 " expected, or constancy, from such a liaison? 
 '' Is it not natural, that in her intercourse with 
 " a world, of which she knows and has seen no- 
 '' thing, and unrestrained mistress of her own 
 '' time and actions, she should find somebody 
 *' to like better, and who likes her better, than 
 '' her husband? The Count Guiccioli, for in- 
 • " stance, who is the richest man in Romagna, was 
 '' sixty when he married Teresa j she sixteen. 
 
LORD BYRON. 23 
 
 From the first they had separate apartments, 
 and she always used to call him Sir. What 
 could be expected from such a preposterous 
 connexion? For some time she was an Angio- 
 lina, and he a Marino Faliero, a good old man ; 
 but young women, and your Italian ones too, 
 are not satisfied with your good old men. Love 
 is not the same dull, cold, calculating feeling 
 here as in the North. It is the business, the 
 serious occupation of their lives ; it is a want, 
 a necessity. Somebody properly defines a wo- 
 man, ' a creature that loves.' They die of 
 love ; particularly the Romans : they begin to 
 love earlier, and feel the passion later than 
 the Northern people. When I was at Venice, 
 two dowagers of sixty made love to me. — But 
 to return to the Guiccioli. The old Count did 
 not object to her availing herself of the pri- 
 vileges of her country ; an Italian would have 
 reconciled him to the thing : indeed for some 
 time he winked at our intimacy, but at length 
 made an exception against me, as a foreigner, 
 a heretic, an Englishman, and, what was worse 
 than all, ahberal. 
 
2 4 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " He insisted — the Guiccioli was as obstinate ; 
 '' her family took her part. Cathohcs cannot get 
 " divorces. But, to the scandal of all Romagna, 
 " the matter was at length referred to the Pope, 
 '' who ordered her a separate maintenance, on con- 
 " dition that she should reside under her fa- 
 *' ther's roof. All this was not agreeable, and at 
 '' length I was forced to smuggle her out of Ra- 
 " venna, having discovered a plot laid with the 
 '' sanction of the Legate for shutting her up in a 
 " convent for life, which she narrowly escaped. 
 " — Except Greece, I was never so attached to any 
 ^' place in my life as to Ravenna, and but for the 
 '' failure of the Constitutionalists and this fracas, 
 '' should probably never have left it. The pea- 
 " santry are the best people in the world, and 
 '^ the beauty of their women is extraordinary. 
 " Those at Tivoli and Frescati, who are so much 
 " vaunted, are mere Sabines, coarse creatures, 
 *' compared to the Romagnese. You may talk of 
 " your English women, and it is true that out of 
 '' one hundred Italians and English you will find 
 '' thirty of the latter handsome ; but then there 
 " will be one Italian on the other side of the scale, 
 
LORD BYRON. * 2 5 
 
 *' wlio will more than balance the deficit in nuni- 
 '^ bers — one who, like the Florence Venus, has 
 ^' no rival, and can have none in the North. I 
 ^' have learnt more from the peasantry of the 
 '' countries I have travelled in than from any 
 '' other sources, especially from the women :* 
 '^ they are more intelligent, as well as communi- 
 " cative, than the men. I found also at Ravenna 
 ' ' much education and liberality of thinking among 
 '' the higher classes. The climate is delightful. 
 " I was unbroken in upon by society. It lies out 
 " of the way of travellers. I was never tired of 
 " my rides in the pine-forest : it breathes of the 
 " Decameron ; it is poetical ground. Francesca 
 ' ' lived, and Dante was exiled and died at Ravenna . 
 '.' There is something inspiring in such an air. f 
 
 ^ " Female hearts are such a genial soil 
 
 Foe kinder feeling, whatsoe'er their nation, 
 They generally pour the wine and oil, 
 Samaritans in every situation. 
 
 Don Juan, Canto V. Stanza I23. 
 
 •J- The following lines will shew the attachment Lord Byron 
 had to the tranqriil life he led at Ravenna : 
 
 " Sweet hour of twilight, in the solitude 
 
 '^ Of the pine forest and the silent shore 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
28 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '• knew that I never missed my aim; perhaps 
 ' this saved me . An event occurred at this time at 
 ' Ravenna that made a deep impression on me ; 
 ^ I alluded to it in ' Don Juan . ' The military 
 ' Commandant of the place, who, though sus- 
 ' pected of being secretly a Carbonaro, was too 
 ' powerful a man to be arrested, was assassinated 
 ' opposite to my palace ; a spot perhaps selected 
 * by choice for the commission of the crime. The 
 ' measures which were adopted to screen the 
 ' murderer prove the assassination to have taken 
 ' place by order of the police. I had my foot in 
 ' the stirrup at my usual hour of exercice, when 
 ' my horse started at the report of a gun. On 
 ' looking up I perceived a man throw down 
 ' a carbine and run away at full speed, and 
 ' another stretched upon the pavement a few 
 ' yards from me. On hastening towards him, 
 ' I found that it was the unhappy Commandant. 
 ' A crowd was soon collected, but no one ven- 
 ' tured to offer the least assistance. I soon di- 
 ' rected my servant to lift up the bleeding body 
 ' and carry it into my palace ; but it was repre- 
 ' sented to me that by so doing I should confirm 
 
LORD BYRON. 29 
 
 " the suspicion of being of his party, and incur the 
 "displeasure of the Government. However, it 
 ' ' was no time to calculate between humanity and 
 '' danger. I assisted in bearing him into the 
 " house, and putting him on a bed. He was 
 '' already dead from several wounds ; he appeared 
 " to have breathed his last without a struggle. 
 " I never saw a countenance so calm. His adju- 
 '^ tant followed the corpse into the house. 1 re- 
 '' member his lamentation over him: — ^ Povero 
 '' diavolo ! non aveva fatto male, anche ad un 
 
 '' I am sorry," said he, " not to have a copy of 
 ' ^ my Memoirs to shew you ; I gave them to Moore, 
 ''or rather to Moore's little boy, at Venice. I 
 *' remember saying, ' Here are 2000/. for you, 
 '' my young friend.' I made one reservation in 
 '' the gift, — that they were not to be published 
 '' till after my death. 
 
 " I have not the least objection to their being 
 " circulated ; in fact they have been read by some 
 '' of mine, and several of Moore's friends and ac- 
 
) CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 knew that I never missed my aim; perl 
 ' this saved me . An event occurred at this time at 
 ' Ravenna that made a deep impression on me ; 
 ' I alluded to it in ' Don Juan. ' The military 
 ' Commandant of the place, who, though sus- 
 ' pected of being secretly a Carbonaro, was too 
 ' powerful a man to be arrested, was assassinated 
 ' opposite to my palace ; a spot perhaps selected 
 ' by choice for the commission of the crime. The 
 ' measures which were adopted to screen the 
 ' murderer prove the assassination to have taken 
 ' place by order of the police. I had my foot in 
 ' the stirrup at my usual hour of exercice, when 
 ' my horse started at the report of a gun. On 
 ' looking up I perceived a man throw down 
 ' a carbine and run away at full speed, and 
 ' another stretched upon the pavement a few 
 ' yards from me. On hastening towards him, 
 ' I found that it was the unhappy Commandant. 
 ' A crowd was soon collected, but no one ven- 
 ' tured to offer the least assistance. I soon di- 
 ' rected my servant to lift up the bleeding body 
 ' and carry it into my palace ; but it was repre- 
 ' sented to me that by so doing I should confirm 
 
LORD BYRON. 29 
 
 *' the suspicion of being of his party, and incur the 
 ''displeasure of the Government. However, it 
 '' w^as no time to calculate between humanity and 
 '' danger. I assisted in bearing him into the 
 '' house, and putting him on a bed. He was 
 " already dead from several wounds ; he appeared 
 '' to have breathed his last without a struggle. 
 " I never saw a countenance so calm. His adju- 
 '' tant followed the corpse into the house. 1 re- 
 '' member his lamentation over him : — ' Povero 
 '' diavolo ! non aveva fatto male, anche ad un 
 
 '' I am sorry," said he, " not to have a copy of 
 *' my Memoirs to shew you; I gave them to Moore, 
 " or rather to Moore's little boy, at Venice. I 
 *' remember saying, ' Here are 2000/. for you, 
 '' my young friend.' I made one reservation in 
 '' the gift, — that they were not to be published 
 '' till after my death. 
 
 '' I have not the least objection to their being 
 " circulated ; in fact they have been read by some 
 '' of mine, and several of Moore's friends and ac- 
 
3o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' quaintances ; among others, they were lent to 
 ^^ Lady Burghersh. On returning the MS. her 
 *' Ladyship told Moore that she had transcribed 
 '' the whole work. This wdisunpeufort, and he 
 '' suggested the propriety of her destroying the 
 " copy. She did so, by putting it into the fire in 
 '' his presence. Ever since this happened, Doug- 
 '^ las Kinnaird has been recommending me to 
 ' ' resume possession of the MS. , thinking to fright- 
 ^' en me by saying that a spurious or a real copy, 
 " surreptitiously obtained, may go forth to the 
 ^' world. I am quite indifferent about the world 
 " knowing all that they contain. There are very 
 " few licentious adventures of my own, or scan- 
 '' dalous anecdotes that will affect others, in the 
 '^ book. It is taken up from my earliest recol- 
 " lections, almost from childhood, — very incohe- 
 '^ rent, and written in a very loose and familiar 
 " style. The second part will prove a good lesson 
 " to young men ; for it treats of the irregular life 
 '' I led at one period, and the fatal consequences 
 " of dissipation. There are few parts that may 
 '' not, and none that will not, be read by wo- 
 '' men." 
 
LORD BYRON. OI 
 
 Another time he said : — 
 
 *' A very full account of my marriage and sepa- 
 ' ration is contained in my Memoirs. After they 
 ' were completed, I wrote to Lady Byron, propo- 
 ' sing to send them for her inspection, in order 
 ' that any mistatements or inaccuracy (if any 
 * such existed, which I was not aware of,) might 
 ' be pointed out and corrected. In her answer 
 ' she declined the offer, without assigning any 
 ' reason ; but desiring, if not on her account, 
 ' for the sake of her daughter, that they might 
 ' never appear, and finishing with a threat. My 
 ' reply was the severest thing I ever wrote, and 
 ' contained two quotations, one from Shakspeare, 
 ' and another from Dante.* I told her that she 
 ' knew all I had written was incontrovertible 
 ^ truth, and that she did not wish to sanction the 
 ^ truth. I ended by sayings that she might de- 
 ^ pend on their being published. It was not till 
 ' after this correspondence that I made Moore 
 ' the depositary of the MS. 
 
 "^ I could not retain tbera. 
 
J 2 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ' ^ The first time of my seeing Miss Millbank was 
 
 " at Lady 's. It was a fatal day; and I re- 
 
 " member that going up stairs I stumbled, and 
 " remarked to Moore, who accompanied me, that 
 " it was a bad omen. I ought to have taken the 
 '•' warning. On entering the room I observed a 
 " young lady, more simply dressed than the rest 
 " of the assembly, sitting alone upon a sofa. I 
 " took her for a humble companion, and asked 
 '' if I was right in my conjecture ? ' She is a great 
 " heiress,' said he in a whisper that became lower 
 '' as he proceeded; 'you had better marry her, 
 " and repair the old place, Newstead.' 
 
 ^K 
 
 * There was something piquant, and what we 
 ^Iterm pretty, in Miss Millbank. 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 fermality, and stu- 
 *' died stiffness, which is called fashion. She in- 
 '^ terested me exceedingly. It is unnecessary to 
 
LORD BYRON. 33 
 
 *' detail the progress of our acquaintance. I be- 
 *' came daily more attached to her, and it ended 
 ^' in my making her a proposal that was rejected. 
 ' ' Her refusal was couched in terms that could not 
 ^' offend me. I was besides persuaded that, in 
 '^ declining my offer, she was governed by the 
 " influence of her mother; and was the more 
 *' confirmed in this opinion by her reviving our 
 *' correspondence herself twelve months after. 
 *' The tenor of her letter was, that although she 
 '' could not love me, she desired my friendship. 
 " Friendship is a dangerous word for young 
 " ladies; it is Love full-fledged, and waiting for 
 ^* a fine day to fly. 
 
 " It had been predicted by Mrs. Williams, that 
 " twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me. 
 '^ The fortune-telling witch was right; it was de&- 
 *' tined to prove so. I shall never forget the 2d 
 " of January ! Lady Byron (Byrn, he pronounced 
 '' it) was the only unconcerned person present; 
 '' Lady Noel, her mother, cried ; I trembled like 
 *' a leaf, made the wrong responses, and after the 
 '' ceremony called her Miss Millbank. 
 
34 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " There is a singular history attached to the 
 '' ring. The very day the match was concluded, 
 '' a ring of my mother's, that had been lost, was 
 '* dug up by the gardener atNewstead. I thought 
 '' it was sent on pui-pose for the wedding; but 
 * ' my mother's marriage had not been a fortunate 
 ^' one, and this ring was doomed to be the seal of 
 ^' an unhappier union still."^ 
 
 '' After the ordeal was over, we set off for a 
 '^ country-seat of Sir Ralph's ; and I was surprised 
 ^' at the arrangements for the journey, and some- 
 ^' what out of humour to find a lady's-maid stuck 
 ^^ between me and my bride. It was rather too 
 ' ' early to assume the husband ; so I was forced 
 ^' to submit, but it was not with a very good 
 ^^ grace. Put yourself in a similar situation, and 
 *' tell me if I had not some reason to be in the 
 ^' sulks. I have been accused of saying, on get- 
 ^ ^ ting into the carriage , that I had married Lady 
 
 ^ __ — « Save the ring, 
 
 Which, being the damned'st part of matrimony — '' 
 Don Juan, Canto IX. Stanza 70. 
 
LORD BYRON. 35 
 
 *' Byron out of spite, and because she had refused 
 '* me twice. Though I was for a moment vexed 
 " at her prudery, or whatever you may choose to 
 '' call it, if I had made so uncavalier, not to say 
 *' brutal a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron 
 '' would instantly have left the carriage to me 
 '' and the maid (I mean the lady's). She had 
 '' spirit enough to have done so, and would pro- 
 '' perly have resented the affront. 
 
 " Our honey-moon was not all sunshine ; it had 
 ^' its clouds : and Hobhouse has some letters 
 '' which would serve to explain the rise and fall 
 " in the barometer, — but it was never down at 
 '' zero. 
 
 ^' You tell me the world says I married Miss 
 ^' Millbank for her fortune, because she was a 
 *' great heiress. All I have ever received, or am 
 '^ likely to receive, (and that has been twice paid 
 " back too,) was 10,000/. My own income at this 
 '' period was small, and somewhat bespoke. New- 
 * ^ stead was a very unprofitable estate , and brought 
 " me in a bare i5oo/. a~yearj the Lancashire 
 
36 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *^ property was hampered with a law-suit, which 
 ^' has cost me i4j00o/., and is not yet finished. 
 
 '' We had a house in town, gave dinner-parties, 
 *' had separate carriages, and launched into every 
 *' sort of extravagance. This could not last long. 
 *' My wife's 10,000/. soon melted away. I was 
 " beset by duns, and at length an execution was 
 '' levied, and the bailiffs put in possession of the 
 ' ' very beds we had to sleep on. This was no very 
 " agreeable state of affairs, no very pleasant scene 
 ' ' for Lady Byron to witness ; and it was agreed 
 '' she should pay her father a visit till the storm 
 " had blown over, and some arrangements had 
 '•' been made with my creditors. You may sup- 
 ^^ pose on what terms we parted, from the style of 
 '' a letter she wrote me on the road : you will 
 '^ think it began ridiculously enough, — 'Dear 
 ''Duck I '-^ 
 
 "*" Shelley, who knew this story, used to say these two 
 words would look odd in an Italian translation, Jlnitra 
 carissinia. 
 
LORD BYRON. Sj 
 
 *' Imagine my astonishment to receive, imme- 
 ^' diately on her arrival in London, a few lines 
 '* from her father, of a very dry and unaffectionate 
 " nature, beginning ' Sir,' and ending with say- 
 " ing that his daughter should never see me 
 '' again. 
 
 " In my reply I disclaimed his authority as a 
 '' parent over my wife, and told him I was con- 
 '' vinced the sentiments expressed were his, not 
 *' hers. Another post, however, brought me a 
 " confirmation (under her own hand and seal) of 
 " her father's sentence. I afterwards learnt from 
 '' Fletcher's (my valet's) wife, who was at that time 
 ^' Jemme^de^chambre to Lady Byron, that after 
 " her definite resolution was taken, and the fatal 
 '' letter consigned to the post-office, she sent to 
 " withdraw it, and was in hysterics of joy that it 
 " was not too late. It seems, however, that they 
 *' did not last long, or that she was afterwards 
 " over-persuaded to forward it. There can be 
 " no doubt that the influence of her enemies pre- 
 " vailed over her affection for me. You ask me 
 '' if no cause was assigned for this sudden resolu- 
 
38 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 "• tion ? — if I formed no conjecture about the 
 '' cause? I will tell you. 
 
 " I have prejudices about women : I do not like 
 " to see them eat. Rousseau makes Julie iin peu 
 '' gourmajide ; but that is not at all according to 
 '' my taste. I do not like to be interrupted when 
 '^ I am writing. Lady Byron did not attend to 
 '' these whims of mine. The only harsh thing I 
 '' ever remember saying to her was one evening 
 " shortly before our parting. I was standing be~ 
 '' fore the fire, ruminating upon the embarrass- 
 '' ment of my affairs, and other annoyances, when 
 '^ Lady Byron came up to me and said, ^ Byron, am 
 '^ I in your way V to which I replied, 'damnably I' 
 '' I was afterwards sorry, and reproached myself 
 '' for the expression : but it escaped me unconsci- 
 ' ' ously — involuntarily ; I hardly knew what I said. 
 
 '' I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlment iiad 
 '' been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind 
 '' against me ; — that she had employed herself and 
 " others in watching me in London, and had re- 
 '' ported having traced me into a house in Port- 
 
LORD BYRON. 6g 
 
 *' land-place. There was one act of which I might 
 " justly have complained, and which was unwor- 
 ' ' thy of any one but such a confidante : I allude 
 '' to the breaking open my writing-desk. A book 
 " was found in it that did not do much credit to 
 '' my taste in literature, and some letters from a 
 ' ' married woman with whom I had been intimate 
 " before my marriage. The use that was made of 
 " the latter was most unjustifiable, whatever may 
 ' ' be thought of the breach of confidence that led 
 "■ to their discovery. Lady Byron sent them to the 
 " husband of the lady, who had the good sense to 
 " take no notice of their contents. The gravest 
 ' ' accusation that has been made against me is that 
 '' of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in my 
 '' own house ; introduced her to my own table, etc. 
 ^' There never was a more unfounded calumny. 
 '' Being on the Committee of Drury-lane Theatre, 
 ' ' I have no doubt that several actresses called on 
 " me : but as to Mrs. Mardyn, who was a beautiful 
 " woman, and might have been a dangerous vi- 
 '*• sitress, I was scarcely acquainted (to speak) with 
 '' her. I might even make a more serious charge 
 ' ' against than employing spies to watch sus- 
 
4o conversatiojSs of 
 
 " pected amours, m ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ^^ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥¥¥¥¥¥ 
 
 ¥¥¥¥¥¥ ¥ 
 
 ^' I had been shut up in a dark street in London, 
 '' writing (I think he said) ' The Siege of Corinth,' 
 ^' and had refused myself to every one till it was 
 '^ finished. I was surprised one day by a Doctor 
 '' and a Lawyer almost forcing themselves at the 
 " same time into my room. I did not know till 
 ^' afterwards the real object of their visit. I 
 '' thought their questions singular, frivolous, and 
 " somewhat importunate, if not impertinent : but 
 " what should I have thought, if I had known 
 " that they were sent to provide proofs of my 
 *' insanity? ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 (t) 
 
 f ** For Inez called some druggists and physicians, 
 *^ And tried to prove her loving lord was mad; 
 *' But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
 " She next decided he was only had. 
 *^ Yet when they asked her for her depositions, 
 " No sort of explanation could be had, 
 
LORB BYRON. ^l 
 
 " I have no doubtthat my answers to these emissa- 
 '' ries' mterrogations were not very rational or con- 
 " sistent, for my imagination was heated by other 
 '' things. But Dr. Baillie could not conscientiously 
 '* make me out a certificate for Bedlam ; and per- 
 *' haps the Lawyer gave a more favourable report 
 " to his employers. The Doctor said afterwards, 
 " he had been told that I always looked down 
 " when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and ex- 
 " hibited other symptoms equally infallible, par— 
 " ticularly those that marked the late King's case 
 '' so strongly. I do not, however, tax Lady By- 
 '' ron with this transaction ; probably she was not 
 " privy to it. She was the tool of others. Her 
 
 " Save that her duly both to man and God 
 
 " Required this conduct, — which seem'd very odd. 
 
 " She kept a journal where his faults were noted, 
 " And opened certain trunks of books and letters, 
 " All which might, if occasion served, be quoted : 
 *- And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
 " Besides her good old grandmother ." 
 
 Hi 
 
 Don JuaUy Canto L Stanzas 37 and aS, 
 2. 
 
4^ CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' mother always detested me; she had not even 
 '^ the decency to conceal it in her own house* Di- 
 '' ning one day at Sir Ralph's, (who was a good 
 '' sort of man, and of whom you may form some 
 ^' idea, when I tell you that a leg of mutton was 
 ^' always served at his table, that he might cut 
 '' the same joke upon it,) 1 broke a tooth, and 
 " was in great pain, which I could not avoid shew- 
 '' ing. ' It will do you good, ' said Lady Noel ; 
 " 'I am glad of it I ' I gave her a look I 
 
 '' You ask if Lady Byron were ever in love with 
 *'me- — I have answered that question already — 
 ' ' No ! 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. She was a spoiled 
 " child, and naturally of a jealous disposition; 
 ' ' and this was increased by the infernal machi- 
 ^' nations of those in her confidence. 
 
 * ' She was easily made the dupe of the design- 
 " ing, for she thought her knowledge of man- 
 
' LORD BYRON. 4^ 
 
 '^' kind infallible : she had got some foolish idea 
 ^' of Madame de StaeVs into her head, thataper- 
 ^ ' son may be better known in the first hour than 
 '' in ten years. She had the habit of drawing 
 *^ people's characters after she had seen them once 
 '^ or twice. vShe wrote pages on pages about my 
 ^* character, but it was as unlike as possible. 
 
 ^' Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never 
 ^' express them; wrote poetry too, but it was only 
 ^' good by accident. Her letters were always 
 ^' enigmatical, often unintelligible. She was go- 
 " verned by what she called fixed rules and prin- 
 '' ciples , squared mathematically. * She would 
 ^* have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge. 
 '' It must be confessed, however, that she gave no 
 '' proof of her boasted consistency. First, she re- 
 ^* fused me, then she accepted me, then she sepa- 
 ^ ' rated herself from me : — so much for consis- 
 
 ^ " I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
 " Meant to personify the mathematics." 
 
 Don Juan, Canto III. Stanza 
 
44 ' CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ' tency. I need not tell you of the obloquy and 
 ' opprobium that were cast upon my name when 
 ' our separation was made public. I once made 
 ' a list from the Journals of the day, of the diffe- 
 ' rent worthies, ancient and modern, to whom I 
 ' was compared. I remember a few : Nero, Api- 
 ' cius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry 
 
 ' the Eighth, and lastly the . All my former 
 
 ' friends, even my cousin, George Byron, who 
 ' had been brought up with me, and whom I 
 ' loved as a brother, took my wife's part. He fol- 
 ' lowed the stream when it was strongest against 
 ' me, and can never expect any thing from me : 
 ' he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. I was 
 ' looked upon as the worst of husbands, the most 
 ' abandoned and wicked of men, and my wife as 
 ' a suffering angel — an incarnation of all the vir- 
 ' tues and perfections of the sex. I was abused 
 ' in the public prints, made the common talk of 
 ' private companies, hissed as I went to the House 
 ^ of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to go to 
 ' the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. Mar- 
 * dyn had been driven with insult. The Exami- 
 ' ncr was the only paper that dared say a word 
 
LORD BYRON. 4^ 
 
 *' in my defence, and Lady Jersey the only person 
 *' in the fashionable world that did not look upon 
 *' me as a monster. 
 
 " I once addressed some lines to her that made 
 " her my friend ever after. The subject of them 
 " was suggested by her being excluded from a cer- 
 " tain cabinet of the beauties of the day. I have 
 '* the lines somewhere, and will shew them to you. 
 
 " In addition to all these mortifications my af- 
 '^ fairs were irretrievably involved, and almost so 
 ''as to make me what they wished. I was com- 
 '' pelled to part with Newstead, which I never 
 '' could have ventured to sell in my mother's life- 
 '' time. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for 
 '' having done so; though I am told that the 
 " estate would not now bring half as much as I 
 '' got for it. This does not at all reconcile me to 
 '' having parted with the old abbey. * I did not 
 
 ^ The regard which he entertained for it is proved by the 
 passage in Don Juan, Canto XIII. Stanza ^^^ beginning 
 thus : 
 
 " To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair," etc. 
 
46 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' make up my mind to this step, but from the last 
 *^ necessity. I had my wife's portion to repay, 
 '^ and was determined to add 10,000 /. more of my 
 " own to it; which I did. I always hated being 
 '' in debt, and do not owe a guinea. The moment 
 ' * I had put my affairs in train , and in little more 
 ^' than eighteen months after my marriage, I left 
 ''England, an involuntary exile, intending it 
 " should be for ever."* 
 
 Speaking of the multitude of strangers, whose 
 visits of curiosity or impertinence he was harassed 
 by for some years after he came abroad, particu- 
 larly at Venice, he said: 
 
 * His feelings may be conceived by the two following 
 passages : 
 
 " 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." — 
 
 Don Juan, Canto II. Stanza i2« 
 
 " Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 '' With nought of hope left." 
 
 Childe Harold, Canto III. Stanza 16. 
 
lORD BYRON. 4? 
 
 ^' Who would wish to make a show-bear of 
 '^ himself, and dance to any tune any fool likes to 
 " play? Madame de Stael said, I think of Goethe, 
 '' that people who did not wish to be judged by 
 *' what they said, did not deserve that the world 
 '' should trouble itself about what they thought. 
 '^ She had herself a most unconscionable insatia- 
 " bili:jy of talking and shining. If she had talk- 
 '' ed less, it would have given her time to have 
 ' ' written more, and would have been better. For 
 *' my part, it is indifferent to me what the world 
 '* says or thinks of me. Let them know me in 
 '' my books. My conversation is never brilliant. 
 
 '' Americans arejthe only people to whom I never 
 " refused to shew myself. The Yankees are great 
 '' friends of mine. I wish to be well thought of 
 * ' on the other side of the Atlantic ; not that I am 
 " better appreciated there, than on this; perhaps 
 " worse. Some American reviewer has been per- 
 ^ ' severing in his abuse and personality , but he 
 '' should have minded his ledger; he never exci- 
 '' ted my spleen.* I was confirmed in my reso- 
 ^' lution of shutting my door against all the tra- 
 
48 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' veiling English by the impertinence of an ano- 
 '' nymous scribbler, who said he might have 
 '' known me, but would not." ^ 
 
 I interrupted him by telling him he need not 
 have been so angry on that occasion, — that it was 
 an authoress who had been guilty of that remark. 
 " I don't wonder," added I, ^' that a spinster 
 should have avoided associating with so danger- 
 ous an acquaintance as you had the character of 
 being at Venice." 
 
 '' Well, I did not know that these ' Sketches of 
 
 ^ The taste and critical acumen of the American maga- 
 zine will appear from the following extract : 
 
 "The verses (it is of the * Prisoner of Chillon' that it 
 
 * * speaks) are in the eight syllable measure, and occasionally 
 
 * ' display some pretty poetry; at all events, there is little in 
 ^* them to offend. 
 
 *' We do not find any passage of sufficient beauty or ori- 
 " ginality to warrant extract." 
 
 Am. Critical Rewiew, 1817. 
 
LORD BYRON. 49 
 
 '^ Italy' were the production of a woman; but 
 '* whether it was a Mr., Mrs., or Miss, the remark 
 " was equally uncalled for. To be sure, the life 
 ' ' I led at Venice was not the most saintlike in the 
 " world." 
 
 " Yes," said I, ''if you were to be canonized, it 
 must be as San Ciappelletto." 
 
 " Not so bad as that either," said he, somewhat 
 seriously. 
 
 " Venice," resumed he, " is a melancholy place 
 " to reside in : — to see a city die daily as she does, 
 '' is a sad contemplation. I sought to distract my 
 '' mind from a sense of her desolation, and my 
 " own solitude, by plunging into a vortex that 
 '' was any thing but pleasure. When one gets 
 '' into a mill-stream, it is difficult to swim against 
 '' it, and keep out of the wheels. The conse- 
 '' quences of being carried down by it would 
 " furnish an excellent lesson for youth. You are 
 " too old to profit by it. But, who ever profited 
 *' by the experience of others, or his own? When 
 
 VOL. L 3 
 
5o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " you read my Memoirs, you will learn the evils, 
 " moral and physical, of true dissipation. I assure 
 '^ you my life is very entertaining, and very in- 
 *' structive." 
 
 • 
 I said, " I suppose, when you left England, you 
 were a Childe Harold, and at Venice a Don Gio- 
 vanni, and Fletcher your Leporello." He laughed 
 at the remark. I asked him, in what way his life 
 would prove a good lesson ? and he gave me se- 
 veral anecdotes of himself, which I have thrown 
 into a sort of narrative. 
 
 " Almost all the friends of my youth are dead; 
 '' either shot in duels, ruined, or in the galleys :" 
 (mentioning the names of several.) 
 
 "Among those I lost in the early part of my 
 "career, was Lord Falkland, — poor fellow! our 
 "fathers' fathers were friends. He lost his life 
 " for a joke, and one too he did not make himself. 
 " The present race is more steady than the last. 
 " They have less constitution and not so much 
 
LORD BYRON. 5 1 
 
 '' money— that accounts for the change in their 
 '' morals. 
 
 " I am now tamed ; but before I married, shewed 
 <^ some of the blood of my ancestors. It is 
 '' ridiculous to say that we do not inherit 
 '' our passions, as well as the gout, or any other 
 " disorder. 
 
 " I was not so young when my father died, but 
 ' ' that I perfectly remember him j and had very 
 '' early a horror of matrimony, from the sight of 
 " domestic broils : this feeling came over me very 
 ' ' strongly at my wedding. Something whispered 
 " me that I was sealing my own death-warrant. 
 " I am a great believer in presentiments. So- 
 *' crates' demon was no fiction. Monk Lewis 
 '' had his monitor, and Napoleon many warnings. 
 *' At the last moment I would have retreated, if I 
 " could have done so. I called to mind a friend 
 '' of mine, who had married a young, beautiful, 
 " and rich girl, and yet was miserable. He had 
 " strongly urged me against putting my neck in 
 " the same yoke: and to shew you how firmly 
 
5 2 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^' I was resolved to attend to his advice, I betted 
 '' Hay fifty guineas to one, that I should always 
 '' remain single. Six years afterwards I sent him 
 ' ^ the money. The day before I proposed to Lady 
 " Byron, I had no idea of doing so." 
 
 After this digression he continued :— - 
 
 ' ' I lost my father when I was only six years of 
 ^' age. My mother, when she was in a rage with 
 '' me, (and I gave her cause enough,) used to say, 
 ' ^ ' Ah, you little dog, you are a Byron all over ; 
 " you are as bad as your father I' It was very 
 "- different from Mrs. Malaprop's saying, 'Ah! 
 " good dear Mr. Malaprop, I never loved him till 
 '' he was dead.' But, in fact, my father was, in 
 *' his youth, any thing but a ' Coelebs in search 
 " of a wife.' He would have made a bad hero for 
 '' Hannah More. He ran out three fortunes, and 
 '' married or ran away with three women, and 
 ^' once wanted a guinea, that he wrote for ; I have 
 *' the note. He seemed born for his own ruin, 
 '' and thfit of the other sex. He began by se- 
 ^' ducing Lady Carmarthen, and spent for her 
 
LORD BYRON. 53 
 
 ** 4^^^^* a-year; and not content with one ad- 
 '' venture of this kind, afterwards eloped with 
 " Miss X^ordon. His marriage was not destined 
 " to be a very fortunate one either, and I don't 
 '' wonder at her differing from Sheridan's widow 
 '^ in the play. They certainly could not have 
 " claimed the flitch. 
 
 *' The phrenologists tell me that other lines 
 '' besides that of thought, (the middle of three 
 '* horizontal lines on his forehead, on which he 
 '' prided liimself,) are strongly developed in the 
 " hinder part of my cranium; particularly that 
 '^ called philoprogenitiveness. ^ I suppose, too, 
 '' the pugnacious bump might be found some- 
 ^^ where, because my uncle had it. 
 
 '' You have heard the unfortunate story of his 
 *' duel with his relation and neighbour. After 
 *' that melancholy event, he shut himself up at 
 " Ncwstead, and was in the habit of feeding 
 
 ^ He appears to have mistaken the meaning of this word 
 in the vocabulary of the Craniologists, as in Don Juan. 
 
54 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ' crickets, which were his only companions. He 
 ' had made them so tame as to crawl over him, 
 ' and used to whip them with a whisp of straw, 
 ' if too familiar. When he died, tradition says 
 ' that they left the house in a body, I suppose 
 ' I derive my superstition from this branch of 
 ' the family; but though I attend to none of 
 ' these new-fangled theories, I am inclined to 
 ' think that there is more in a chart of the 
 ' skull than the Edinburgh Reviewers suppose.* 
 * However that may be, I was a wayward youth, 
 ' and gave my mother a world of trouble, — as I 
 ' fear Ada will her's, for I am told she is a little 
 ' termagant. I had an ancestor too that expired 
 ' laughing, (I suppose that my good spirits came 
 ' from him,) and two whose affection was such 
 ' for each other, that they died almost at the 
 ' same moment. There seems to have been a flaw 
 ' in my escutcheon there, or that loving couple 
 ' have monopolized all the connubial bliss of 
 ' the family. 
 
 ^ He had probably been reading ihe article on Gail and 
 Spiirzheim. 
 
LORD B\RON. 55 
 
 '' I passed my boyhood at Maiiodge near Aber- 
 *' deen, occasionally visiting the Highlands ; and 
 '' long retained an affection for Scotland; — that, 
 '' I suppose, I imbibed from my mother. My love 
 '* for it, however, was at one time much shaken 
 '' by the critique in ' The Edinburgh Review' on 
 " ' The Hours of Idleness,' and I transferred a 
 '^ portion of my dislike to the country ; but my 
 '^ affection for it soon flowed back into its old 
 '' channel. 
 
 " I don't know from whom I inherited verse- 
 *' making; probably the wild scenery of Morven 
 *' and Loch-na-garr, and the banks of the Dee, 
 " were the parents of my poetical vein, and the 
 '^ developers of my poetical boss. If it was so, it mt 
 ^' was dormant ; at least, I never wrote any thing |H 
 " worth mentioning till I was in love. Dante 
 ^* dates his passion for Beatrice at twelve. I was 
 " almost as young when I fell over head and ears 
 
 JVote. — He wrote about this time *The Curse of Minerva;' 
 in which he seems very closely to have followed Churchill. 
 He came to England in 1 798". 
 
56 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' in love ; but I anticipate. I was sent to Harrow 
 *' at twelve, and spent my vacations at Newstead. 
 
 ' ' It was there that I first saw Mary C *. 
 
 '^ She was several years older than myself: but, 
 '^ at my age, boys like something older than 
 
 ^ "It was a name 
 
 " Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not ;— and why ? 
 " Tim^ tanglit him a deep answer." 
 
 7'he Dream. 
 
 *' 1 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 cpiite free. 
 
 " But I grow sad !" 
 
 Don Juan, Canto V. Stanza 4. 
 
 -" 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 the pure feelings gone for ever! 
 
 *' 'Twas the boy's *mite,' and, like the * widow's,' may, 
 
 " Perhaps, be weighed hereafter, if not now." 
 
 Don Juan, Canto VI. Stanza 5, etc. 
 
LORD BYRON, S7 
 
 ^^ themselves, as they do younger, later in life. 
 '-^ Our estates adjoined : but, owing to the un- 
 *' happy circumstance of the feud to whichlbefore 
 ** alluded, our families (as is generally the case 
 ** with neighbours who happen to be relations,) 
 ^' were never on terms of more than common 
 '' civility, — scarcely those. I passed the summer 
 *' vacation of this year among the Malvern hills : 
 ' ' those were days of romance ! She was the beau 
 *' ideal of all that my youthful fancy could paint 
 " of beautiful; and I have taken all my fables 
 i' about the celestial nature of women from the 
 * ' perfection my imagination created in her. — I say 
 '* created, for I found her, like the rest of the sex, 
 ** any thing but angelic. 
 
 *' I returned to Harrow, after my trip to Chel- 
 ^' tenham, more deeply enamoured than ever, 
 '' and passed the next holidays atNewstead. I 
 *' now began to fancy myself a man, and to make 
 * ' love in earnest. Our meetings were stolen ones, 
 '' and my letters passed through the medium of a 
 
 '' confidante. A gate leading from Mr. C 's 
 
 " grounds to those of my mother, was the place 
 
58 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' of our interviews. But 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.* 
 
 " During the last year that I was at Harrow, 
 ** all my thoughts were occupied on this love- 
 '' affair. I had, besides, a spirit that ill brooked 
 *' the restraints of school-discipline ; for I had 
 *' been encouraged by servants in all my violence 
 " of temper, and was used to command. Every 
 '' thing like a task was repugnant to my nature ; 
 '' and I came away a very indifferent classic, and 
 '^ read in nothing that was useful. That subor- 
 '* dination, which is the soul of all discipline, 
 
 * He had always a black ribbon round his neck, to which 
 was attached a locket containing hair and a picture. We 
 had been playing at billiards one night till the balls appeared 
 double, when all at once he searched hastily for something 
 under his waistcoat, and said, in great alarm, " Good God! 
 I have lost my !" but before he had finished the sen- 
 tence, he discovered the hidden treasure. 
 
LORD BYRON. Sg 
 
 *' I submitted to with great difficulty ; yet I did 
 ' ' submit to it : and I have always retained a sense 
 ^' of Drury's ^ kindness, which enabled me to 
 *' bear it and fagging too. The Duke of Dorset 
 ^ * was my fag. I was not a very hard task-master. 
 '' There were times in which, if I had not con- 
 '' sidered it as a school, I should have been happy 
 '^ at Harrow. There is one spot I should like 
 " to see again : I was particularly delighted with 
 '' the view from the Church-yard, and used to sit 
 '' for hours on the stile leading into the fields ; 
 '' — even then I formed a wish to be buried there. 
 '* Of all my schoolfellows, I know no one for whom 
 '^ I have retained so much friendship as for Lord 
 '^ Clare. I have been constantly corresponding 
 * ' with him ever since I knew he was in Italy ; and 
 " look forward to seeing him, and talking over 
 "■ with him our old Harrow stories, with infinite 
 '' delight. There is no pleasure in life equal to 
 '' that of meeting an old friend. You know how 
 " glad I was to see Hay. Why did not Scroope 
 
 See Lines addressed to him in ' The Hours of Idleness.' 
 
6o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '* Davies come to see me? Some one told me 
 '* that he was at Florence, but it is impossible. 
 
 <' There are two things that strike me at this 
 " moment, which I did at Harrow : I fought 
 ^' Lord Calthorpe for writing ' D— -d Atheist!' 
 "' under my name; and prevented the school- 
 '' room from being burnt during a rebellion, by 
 *' pointing out to the boys the names of their 
 '' fathers and grandfathers on the walls. 
 
 " Had I married Miss C , perhaps the whole 
 
 '' tenor of my life would have been different.* 
 '' She jilted me, however, but her marriage prov- 
 " ed any thing but a happy one.f She was at 
 
 '' length separated from Mr. M -, and proposed 
 
 '' an interview with me, but by the advice of my 
 
 ■•" Perhaps in his lyrical pieces, even those * To Thyrza,' he 
 never surpassed those exc[iiisitely feeling Stanzas, beginning — 
 " had my fate been join'd to thine," etc. 
 
 i" *' the one 
 
 " To end in madness j both in misery.*' 
 
 The Dream, 
 
LORD BYRON. 6 1 
 
 ^^ sister I declined it. I remember meeting her 
 *^ after my return from Greece, but pride had 
 ^' conquered my love; and yet it was not with 
 " perfect indifference I saw her.* 
 
 " For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch 
 *' and Dante) he must be in love, or miserable. 
 '* I was both when I wrote the ' Hours of Idleness ;' 
 '^ some of those poems, in spite of what the 
 '' reviewers say, are as good as any I ever pro- 
 ^' duced. 
 
 '• For some years after the event that had so 
 
 *' much influence on my fate, I tried to drown 
 
 # the remembrance of it and her in the most 
 
 " depraving dissipation ; f but the poison was in 
 
 ^ Yet I was calm. I knew the time 
 My heart would swell but at thy look ; 
 But now to tremble were a crime. 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook ! 
 
 i" *' And monks might deem their time was come agcn 
 " If ancient tales say true, nor wrong the holy men." 
 
 Childe Harold J Canto I. Stanza 7, 
 
62 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ''the cup. "^ * * * * 
 
 ¥¥¥¥¥¥¥ 
 
 " There had been found by the gardener, in 
 '' digging, a skull that had probably belonged to 
 '' some jolly friar or monk of the Abbey about the 
 '' time it was dis-monasteried." 
 
 ''1 heard at the Countess S 's the other 
 
 evening," said I, interrupting him, " that you 
 drink out of a skull now." He took no notice of 
 my observation, but continued : 
 
 "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 tortoise-shell (Colonel 
 '' Wildman now has it). I remember scribbling 
 '' some lines about it; but that was not all : I 
 " afterwards established at the Abbey a new or- 
 '' der. The members consisted of twelve, and 1 
 '' elected myself grand master, or Abbot of the 
 '' Skull, a grand heraldic title. A set of black 
 
LORD BYRON. 63 
 
 '^ gowns, mine distinguished from the rest, was 
 *' ordered, and from time to time, when a par- 
 " ticular hard day was expected, a chapter was 
 " held ; the crane was filled with claret, and, in 
 '' imitation of the Goths of old, passed about to 
 *' the gods of the Consistory, whilst many a grim 
 " joke was cut at its expense." 
 
 " You seem," said I, " to have had a particular 
 predilection for skulls and cross-bones ; a friend 
 
 of mine, Mr. , told me he took some home for 
 
 you from Switzerland." 
 
 " They were from the field of Morat," said he ; 
 *' a single bone of one of those heroes is worth all 
 " the skulls of all the priests that ever existed." 
 
 ^' Talking of Morat," said I, "where did you 
 
 find the story of Julia Alpinula? M and I 
 
 searched among its archives in vain." 
 
 '' I took the inscription," said he, "from an 
 " old chronicle ; the stone has no existence. — But 
 " to continue. You know the story of the bear 
 
64 cojSVersations of 
 
 '' that I brought up for a degree when I was at 
 " Trinity. I had a great hatred of College rules, 
 " and contempt for academical honours. How 
 '^ many of their wranglers have ever distinguished 
 '^ themselves in the world? There was, by the 
 " by, rather a witty satire founded on my bear. 
 ^* A friend of Shelley's made an Ourang Outang 
 '' (Sir Oran Haut-ton) the hero of a novel, had 
 " him created a baronet, and returned for the 
 '' borough of One Vote — I forget the name of the 
 '' novel.* I believe they were as glad to get rid 
 ' ' of me at Cambridgef as they were at Harrow. ^ 
 
 " Another of the wild freaks I played during 
 
 " my mother's life-time, was to dress up Mrs. , 
 
 *' and to pass her off as my brother Gordon, in 
 '' order that my mother might not hear of 
 " my having such a female acquaintance. You 
 " would not think me a Scipio in those days, but I 
 '^ can safely say I never seduced any woman. I will 
 *' give you an instance of great forbearance: — . 
 
 "^ Melincourt. 
 t He lemained at Cambridge till nineteen. 
 
LORD B\RO:^. 65 
 
 '^ Mrs. L. G wrote and offered to let me have 
 
 '' her daughter for lool. Can you fancy such de- 
 ^^ pravity? The old lady's P. 6". was excellent. 
 '' ' With cUlicaci every thing may be made asj.^ 
 ' '- But the same post brought me a letter from the 
 *' young one, deprecating my taking advantage 
 *' of their necessities, and ending with saying that 
 '^ she prized her virtue. I respected it too, and 
 *' sent her some money. There are few Josephs 
 " in the world, and many Potiphar's wives. 
 
 ^ ' A curious thing happened to me shortly after 
 '* the honey-moon, which was very awkward at 
 " the time, but has since amused me much. It 
 '^ so happened that three married women were on 
 '' a wedding visit to my wife, (and in the same 
 '' room, at the same time,) whom 1 had known to 
 ** be all birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene 
 ' * of confusion that ensued I 
 
 *' 1 have seen a great deal of Italian society, and 
 
 *' swum in a gondola, but nothing could equal the 
 
 '' profligacy of high life in England, especially 
 
 ** that of when I knew it. 
 
 3. 
 
 # 
 
66 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' There was a lady at that time, 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. I was 
 '* as fond of, indeed more attached than I ought 
 *' to have been, to one who had bestowed her 
 ' ' favours on many ; but I was flattered at a pref e- 
 " rence that had led her to discard another, who 
 *' in personal attractions and fashion was far my 
 " superior. She had been sacrificed, almost be- 
 '^ fore she was a woman, to one whose mind and 
 " body were equally contemptible in the scale of 
 ' ' creation ; and on whom she bestowed a nu- 
 ' ' merous 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 
 
LORD BYRON. 67 
 
 '* had been inconstant to me ; and once was on 
 '' the point of going abroad with her, — and nar- 
 '' rowly escaped this folly. I was at this time 
 " a mere Bond-street lounger — a great man at 
 *' lobbies, coffee, and gambling-houses: my after- 
 ** noons were passed in visits, luncheons, loung- 
 " ing and boxing — not to mention drinking! If 
 "• I had known you in early life, you would not 
 '^ have been alive now. I remember Scroope 
 
 " Davies, H , and myself, clubbing 19^., all 
 
 " we had in our pockets, and losing it at a hell in 
 '' St. James's-street, at chicken-hazard, which 
 '' may be called fowl; and afterwards getting 
 '^ drunk together till H. and S. D. quarrelled. 
 '' Scroope afterwards wrote to me for my pistols 
 '' to shoot himself; but I declined lending them, 
 '' on the plea that they would be forfeited as a 
 " deodand. I knew my answer would have more 
 '* effect than four sides of prosing. 
 
 '' Don't suppose, however, that I took any 
 '' pleasure in all these excesses, or that parson 
 " A. K. or W — were associates to my taste. The 
 ** miserable consequences of such a life are de- 
 
68 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^' tailed at length in my Memoirs. My own mas- 
 '•^ ter at an age when I most required a guide, and 
 '' left to the dominion of my passions when they 3^ 
 '' were the strongest, with a fortune anticipated 
 " before I came into possession of it, and a consti- 
 '^ tution impaired by early excesses, I commenced 
 *' my travels in 1809, ^^^ a joyless indifference 
 " to a world that was all before me." ^ 
 
 '' Well might you say, speaking feelingly," 
 said I : — 
 
 '^ There is no sterner moralist than pleasure." f 
 
 I asked him about Venice : 
 
 ■*" *^I wish they knew the life of a young noble; 
 
 ■y- •¥• ■¥■ -»<. ^t ^ 
 
 '* They're 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." 
 Don Juan, Canto XI. Stanzas 74 ^^^ 7^. 
 
 f He used to say there were three great men ruined in one 
 year, Brummel, himself, and Napoleon ! 
 
LORD BYRON. 69 
 
 '' Venice I" said he, ^* I detest every recollec- 
 ^^ tion of the place, the people, and my pursuits. 
 ^' T there mixed again in society, trod again the 
 '' old round of conversaziones, balls, and concerts, 
 ^' was every night at the Opera, a constant fre- 
 ^^ quenter of the Ridotta during the Carnival, 
 *•' and, in short, entered into all the dissipation of 
 ^' that luxurious place. Every thing in a Vene- 
 '^ tian life, — its gondolas, its effeminating indo- 
 '' lence, its Siroccos, — tend to enervate the mind 
 '' and body. My rides were a resource and a 
 *' stimulus ; but the deep sands of Lido broke my 
 '^ horses down, and I got tired of that monotonous 
 '^ sea-shore ; — to be sure, I passed the Yillagiatura 
 ^' on the Brenta.* 
 
 ^ To give the reader an idea of the stories circulated and 
 believed about Lord Byron, I will state one as a specimen 
 of the rest, which I heard the other day : — 
 
 '* Lord Byron, who is an execrable bad horseman, was 
 riding one evening in the Brenta, spouting * Metastasio.' A 
 Venetian, passing in a close carriage at the time, laughed at 
 his bad Italian; upon which his Lordship horsewhipped 
 him, and threw a card in at the window. The nobleman 
 took no notice of the insult." — Answer. Lord Byron was an 
 
^O CON VERS ATIONS OF 
 
 '^ I wrote little at Venice, and was forced into 
 ^' the search of pleasure, — an employment I was 
 '^ soon jaded with the pursuit of. 
 
 " Women were there, as they have ever been 
 *' fated to be, my bane. Like Napoleon, I have 
 '' always had a great contempt for women; and 
 '^ formed this opinion of them not hastily, but 
 '' from my own fatal experience. My writings, 
 '' indeed, tend to exalt the sex ; and my imagina- 
 '^ tion has always delighted in giving them a beau 
 '' ideal likeness, but I only drew them as a painter 
 '' or statuary would do, — as they should be.* 
 '' Perhaps my prejudices, and keeping them at 
 
 excellent horseman, never read a line of ^Metastasio,' and 
 pronounced Italian like a native. He must have been re- 
 markably ingenious to horsewhip in a close carriage, and 
 find a nobleman who pocketed the affront ! But " ex uno 
 disce onmesy 
 
 ^ His Medora, Gulnare (Kaled), Zuleika, Thyrza, Angio- 
 lina, Myrrha, Adah, and Haidee in Don Juan, are beautiful 
 creations of gentleness, sensibility, firmness, and constancy. 
 If, as a reviewer has sagely discovered, all his male charac- 
 
LORD BYRON. 7 I 
 
 '^ a distance, contributed to prevent the illusion 
 '* from altogether being worn out and destroyed as 
 '' to their celestial qualities. 
 
 " They are in an unnatural state of society. 
 '' The Turks and Eastern people manage these 
 '* matters better than we do. They lock them 
 '' up, and they are much happier. Give a woman 
 '^ a looking-glass and a few sugar-plums, and she 
 ^' will be satisfied. 
 
 "I have suffered from the other sex ever since 
 *^' I can remember any thing. I began by being 
 " jilted, and ended by being unwived. Those are 
 ' ' wisest w ho make no connexion of wife or mis- 
 ** tress. The /^night-service of the Continent, 
 *' with or without the k, is perhaps a slavery 
 '' as bad, or worse, than either. An intrigue 
 '' with a married woman at home, though more 
 '' secret, is equally difficult to break. I had no 
 
 ters, from Childe Harold down to Lucifer, are the same, he 
 cannot he denied the dramatic faculty in his women, — in 
 whem there is little family likeness. 
 
73i CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' tie of any kind at Venice, yet I was not without 
 '' my annoyances. You may remember seeing 
 ''the portrait of a female which Murray got en- 
 '' graved, and dubbed my ' Fornarina.' 
 
 '' Harlowe, the poor fellow who died soon after 
 ' his return from Rome, and who used to copy 
 ' pictures from memory, took my likeness when 
 ' he was at Venice : and one day this frail one, 
 ' who was a casual acquaintance of mine, hap- 
 ' pened to be at my palace, and to be seen by the 
 ' painter, who was struck with her, and begged 
 ' she might sit to him. She did so, and I sent the 
 ' drawing home as a specimen of the Venetians, 
 'and not a bad one either; for the jade was hand- 
 ' some, though the most troublesome shrew and 
 ' termagant I ever met with. To give you an 
 ' idea of the lady, she used to call me the Gj^an 
 ' Cane della Madonna. When once she obtained 
 ' a footing inside my door, she took a dislike to 
 ' the outside of it, and I had great difficulty in 
 ' uncolonizing her. She forced her way back 
 ' one day when I was at dinner, and snatching a 
 ' knife from the table, offered to stab herself if I 
 
LORD BYRON. ^3 
 
 '* did not consent to her stay. Seeing I took 
 *' no notice of her threat, as knowing it to be only 
 *' a feint, she ran into the balcony and threw 
 " herself into the canal. As it was only knee-deep 
 '' and there were plenty of gondolas, one of them 
 '' picked her up. This affair made a great noise 
 '^ at the time. Some said that I had thrown her 
 " into the water, others that she had drowned 
 " herself for love ; but this is the real story. 
 
 ** I got into nearly as great a scrape by making 
 '' my court to a spinster. As many Dowagers as 
 *' you please at Venice, but beware of flirting with 
 '* Raggazzas. I had been one night under her 
 '' window serenading, and the next morning who 
 '* should be announced at the same time but a 
 *' priest and a police officer, come, as I thought, 
 '' either to shoot or marry me again, — I did not 
 '^ care which. I was disgusted and tired with the 
 '' life I led at Venice, and was glad to turn my 
 ** back on it. The Austrian Government, too, 
 *^^ partly contributed to drive me away. They in- 
 " tercepted my books and papers, opened my let- 
 ^' ters,and proscribed my works. I was not sorry 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
74 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' for this last arbitrary act, as a very bad tran- 
 '^ slation of ' Childe Harold' had just appeared, 
 *^ which I was not at all pleased with. I did not 
 ' ' like my old friend in his new loose dress ; it was 
 '' a dishabille that did not at all become him, — 
 '' those sciolti ver si thdit they put him into." 
 
 It is difficult to judge, from the contradictory 
 nature of his writings, what the religious opinions 
 of Lord Byron really were. Perhaps the conver- 
 sations I held with him may throw some light 
 upon a subject that cannot fail to excite curiosity. 
 On the whole, I am inclined to think that if he were 
 occasionally sceptical, and thought it, as he says, 
 
 4' A pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float, 
 
 V' Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation, "* 
 
 yet his wavering never amounted to a disbelief in 
 the divine Founder of Christianity. 
 
 ^ Don Juariy Canto IX, Stanza 18. 
 
LORD BYRON. ^5 
 
 ^^I always took great delight," observed he, 
 " in the English Cathedral service. It cannot fail 
 '' to inspire every man, who feels at all, withde- 
 *' votion. Notwithstanding which, Christianity 
 *' is not the best source of inspiration for a poet. 
 ' ' No poet should be tied down to a direct profes- 
 " sion of faith. Metaphysics open a vast field; 
 " Nature, and anti-Mosaical speculations on the 
 " origin of the world, a wide range, and sources 
 '' of poetry that are shut out by Christianity. " 
 
 I advanced Tasso and Milton. 
 
 '' Tasso and Milton," replied he, ^^ wrote ou 
 *' Christian subjects, it is true; but how did they 
 '' treat them? The 'Jerusalem Delivered' deals 
 '' little in Christian doctrines, and the 'Paradise 
 "Lost' makes use of the heathen mythology, 
 " which is surely scarcely allowable. Milton dis- 
 " carded papacy, and adopted no creed in its 
 " room; he never attended divine worship. 
 
 " His great epics, that nobody reads, prove no- 
 " thing. He took his text from the Old and New 
 
76 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " Testaments. He shocks the severe apprehensions 
 ' ' of the Catholics, as he did those of the Divines of 
 " his day, by too great a familiarity with Heaven, 
 " and the introduction of the Divinity himself; 
 '' and, more than all, by making the Devil his 
 " hero, and deifying the demons. 
 
 '' He certainly excites compassion for Satan, and 
 " endeavours to make him out an injured person- 
 ^' age — he gives him human passions too, makes 
 " him pity Adam and Eve, and justify himself 
 " much as Prometheus does. Yet Milton was ne- 
 '' ver blamed for all this. I should be very curious 
 " to know what his real belief was."^ The 'Para- 
 " dise Lost' and ' Regained' do not satisfy me on 
 " this point. One might as well say that Moore 
 •^^ is a fire-worshipper, or a follower of Mokanna, 
 " because he chose those subjects from the East ; 
 •^ or that I am a Cainist. " 
 
 Another time he said : 
 
 ^ A religious work of Milton's has since been discovered, 
 and will throw light on this interesting subject. 
 
LORD BYRON. 77 
 
 *^ One mode of worship yields to another ; no re- 
 *' ligionhas lasted more than two thousand years. 
 >' Out of the eight hundred millions that the globe 
 *' contains, only two hundred millions are Chris- 
 " tians. Query, — What is to become of the six 
 '' hundred millions that do not believe, and of 
 '^ those incalculable millions that lived before 
 '' Christ? 
 
 ^' People at home are mad about Missionary So- 
 *^ cieties, and missions to the East. I have been 
 " applied to to* subscribe, several times since, 
 " and once before I left England. The Catholic 
 *' priests have been labouring hard for nearly a 
 ''century; but what have they done? Out of 
 *' eighty millions of Hindoos, how many prose- 
 " lytes have been made ? Sir J. Malcolm said at 
 " Murray's before several persons, that the Padres, 
 ''as he called them, had only made six converts 
 " at Bombay during his time, and that even this 
 " black little flock forsook their shepherds when 
 " the rum was out. Their faith evaporated with 
 " the fumes of the arrack. Besides, the Hindoos 
 " believe that they have had nine incarnations : 
 
78 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *^ the Missionaries preach , that a people whom 
 '^ the Indians only know to despise, have had one. 
 '^ It is nine to one against them, by their own 
 " shewing. 
 
 " Another doctrine can never be in repute 
 *^ among the Solomons of the East. It cannot be 
 " easy to persuade men who have had as many 
 " wives as they pleased, to be content with one; 
 *' besides, a woman is old at twenty in thatcoun- 
 " try. What are men to do ? They are not all 
 " St. Anthonies. — I will tell you a story. A cer- 
 " tain Signior Antonio of my acquaintance mar- 
 '' ried a very little round fat wife, very fond of 
 "waltzing, who went by the name of the T'en- 
 '' tazione di S ant' Antonio. There is a picture, 
 " a celebrated one, in which a little woman not 
 *' unresembling my description plays the prin- 
 " cipal role^ and is most troublesome to the Saint, 
 ' ' most trying to his virtue . Very few of the mo- 
 " dern saints will have his forbearance, though 
 '' they may imitate him in his martyrdom. 
 
 '' I have been reading," said he one day, '' Ta- 
 
LORD BYRON. 79 
 
 " citus' account of the siege of Jerusalem, under 
 *' Titus. What a sovereign contempt the Romans 
 '' had for the Jews I Their country seems to have 
 '' been little better than themselves. 
 
 ^' Priestley denied the original sin, and that any 
 *' would be damned. Wesley, the object of Sou- 
 " they's panegyric, preached the doctrines of elec- 
 *' tion and faith, and, like all the sectarians, does 
 *' not want texts to prove both. 
 
 <' The best Christians can never be satisfied of 
 ^' their own salvation. Dr. Johnson died like a 
 *' coward, and Cowper was near shooting himself; 
 *' Hume went off the stage like a brave man, and 
 '* Voltaire's last moments do not seem to have 
 *' been clouded by any fears of what was to come. 
 *' A man may study any thing till he believes in 
 *' it. Creech died a Lucretian, Burckhardt and 
 *' Browne were Mohammedans. Sale, the tran- 
 '* slator of the Koran, was suspected of being an 
 " Islamite, but a very different one from you, 
 *' Shiloh"*'(as he sometimes used to call Shelley). 
 
 * Alluding to the * Revolt of Islam.' 
 
8o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^ ' You are a Protestant — you protest against all 
 
 '^ religions. There is T will traduce Dante 
 
 '' till he becomes a Dantist. I am called a Mani- 
 ^' chaean : 1 may rather be called an Any-chaean, 
 "or an Anything-arian. How do you like my 
 " sect? The sect of Anything-arians sounds well, 
 "does it not?" 
 
 Calling on him the next day, we found him, as 
 was sometimes the case, silent, dull, and sombre. 
 At length he said : — 
 
 " Here is a little book somebody has sent me 
 " about Christianity, that has made me very un- 
 " comfortable : the reasoning seems to me very 
 " strong, the proofs are very staggering. I don't 
 " think you can answer it, Shelley ; at least I am 
 " sure I can't, and what is more, I don't wish it." 
 
 " Speaking of Gibbon, he said: — 
 
 " L B thought the question set at 
 
 " rest in the ' History of the Decline and Fall,' but 
 " I am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter 
 
LORD BYRON. 8t 
 
 ^^ of volition to unbelieve. Who likes to own 
 '^ that he has been a fool all his life, — to unlearn 
 '' all that he has been taught in his youth? or ean 
 " think that some of the best men that ever lived 
 ''have been fools? I have often wished I had 
 '' been born a Catholic, That purgatory of 
 " theirs is a comfortable doctrine ; I wonder 
 " the reformers gave it up, or did not substitute 
 " something as consolatory in its room. It is an 
 "improvement on the transmigration, Shelley ,^ 
 '* which all your wiseacre philosophers taught. 
 
 '' You believe in Plato's three principles ; — why 
 " not in the Trinity ? One is not more mystical 
 *' than the other. I don't know why I am consi- 
 '' dered an enemy to religion, and an unbeliever. 
 '' I disowned the other day that I was of Shelley's 
 "school in metaphysics, though I admired his 
 " poetry; not but what he has changed his mode 
 " of thinking very much since he wrote the 
 " Notes to ' Queen Mab,' which I was accused of 
 " haying a hand in. I know, however, that I am 
 " considered an infidel. My wife and sister, 
 " when they joined parties, sent me prayer-books. 
 
8a CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " There was a Mr. Mulock, who went about the 
 '* Continent preaching orthodoxy in politics and 
 '' religion, a writer of bad sonnets, and a lecturer 
 '' in worse prose, — he tried to convert me to some 
 '' new sect of Christianity. He was a great anti- 
 " materialist, and abused Locke ." 
 
 On another occasion he said : 
 
 '' I am always getting new correspondents. 
 '' Here are three letters just arrived, from stran- 
 '' gers all of them. One is from a French woman, 
 '^ who has been writing to me off and on for the 
 " last three years. She is not only a blue-bottle, 
 *' but a poetess, I suspect. Her object in address- 
 *' ing me now, she says, is to get me to write on 
 *' the loss of a slave-ship, the particulars of which 
 " she details. 
 
 '' The second epistle is short, and in a hand I 
 ^' know very well : it is anonymous too. Hear 
 ^' what she says : ' I cannot longer exist without 
 ^' acknowledging the tumultuous and agonizing 
 
LORD BYRON. 83 
 
 '* delight with which my soul burns at the glowing 
 *' beauties of yours.' 
 
 '' A third is of a very different character from 
 *' the last ; it is from a Mr. Sheppard, inclosing a 
 " prayer made for my welfare by his wife a few 
 '' days before her death. The letter states that 
 ** he has had the misfortune to lose this amiable 
 ** woman, who had seen me at Ramsgate, many 
 *' years ago, rambling among the cliffs ; that she 
 ' ' had been impressed with a sense of my irreli- 
 *' gion from the tenor of my works, and had often 
 " prayed fervently for my conversion, particularly 
 '' in her last moments. The prayer is beautifully 
 *' written. I like devotion in women. She must 
 *' have been a divine creature. I pity the man 
 *' who has lost her I I shall write to him by re- 
 '' turn of the courier, to condole with him, and 
 
 '' tell him that Mrs. S need not have enter- 
 
 " tained any concern for my spiritual affairs, for 
 " that no man is more of a Christian than I am, 
 *' whatever my writings may have led her and 
 ** others to stispect." 
 
84 X^ONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 January. 
 
 ^^ A circumstance took place in Greece that 
 
 '' impressed itself lastingly on my memory. I had 
 
 '' once thought of founding a tale on it ; but the 
 
 *' subject is too harrowing for any nerves, — too 
 
 '' terrible for any pen ! An order was issued at 
 
 '' Zanina by its sanguinary Rajah, that any Turk- 
 
 ^' ish woman convicted of incontinence with a 
 
 '' Christian should be stoned to death I Love is 
 
 '' slow at calculating dangers, and defies tyrants 
 
 ^* and their edicts ; and many were the victims to 
 
 *^ the savage barbarity of this of Ali's. Among 
 
 *' others a girl of sixteen, of a beauty such as that 
 
 '' country only produces, fell under the vigilant 
 
 '' eye of the police. She was suspected, and not 
 
 " without reason, of carrying on a secret intrigue 
 
 '' with a Neapolitan of some rank, whose long 
 
 '' stay in the city could be attributed to no other 
 
 /' cause than this attachment. Her crime (if 
 
 " crime it be to love as they loved) was too fully 
 
 " proved ; they were torn from each other's arms, 
 
 " never to meet again : and yet both might have 
 
 " escaped, — she by abjuringher religion, or he by 
 
 " adopting hers. They resolutely refused to be- 
 
LORD BYRON. 85 
 
 *^ come apostates to their faith. Ali Pacha was 
 *' never known to pardon. She was stoned by 
 '^ those demons, although in the fourth month 
 " of her pregnancy ! He was sent to a town where 
 *' the plague was raging, and died, happy in not 
 '* having long outlived the object of his afFec- 
 '* tions ! 
 
 ** One of the principal incidents in *The Giaour' 
 *' is derived from a real occurrence, and one too 
 *' in which I myself was nearly and deeply in- 
 '' terested ; but an unwillingness to have it con- 
 '' sidered a traveller's tale made me suppress the 
 '* fact of its genuineness. The Marquis of Sligo, 
 *' who knew the particulars of the story, re- 
 " minded me of them in England, and wondered 
 *' I had not authenticated them in the Preface : — 
 
 ** When I was at Athens, there was an edict in 
 *' force similar to that of Ali's, except that the 
 " mode of punishment was different. It was ne- 
 '* cessary, therefore, that all love-affairs should be 
 *' carried on with the greatest privacy. I was very 
 '* fond at that time of a Turkish girl, — ay, fond of 
 
86 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '^ her as I have been of few women. All went 
 '' on very well till the Ramazan for forty days, 
 '' which is rather a long fast for lovers : all inter- 
 '' course between the sexes is forbidden by law, 
 ^' as well as by religion. During this Lent of the 
 '' Musselmans, the women are not allowed to quit 
 ^' their apartments. I was in despair, and could 
 '^ hardly contrive to get a cinder, or a token- 
 " flower sent to express it. We had not met for 
 '' several days, and all my thoughts were occu- 
 '' pied in planning an assignation, when, as ill 
 '' fate would have it, the means I took to effect it 
 '' led to the discovery of our secret. The penalty 
 " was death, — death without reprieve, — a hor- 
 " rible death, at which one cannot think without 
 " shuddering ! An order was issued for the law 
 '^ being put into immediate effect. In the mean 
 " time I knew nothing of what had happened, 
 " and it was determined that I should be kept in 
 '' ignorance of the whole affair till it was too late 
 " to interfere. A mere accident only enabled me 
 '' to prevent the completion of the sentence. I 
 " was taking one of my usual evening rides by the 
 '' sea-side, when I observed a crowd of people 
 
k 
 
 LORD B\RON. 87 
 
 moving down to the shore, and the arms of the 
 soldiers glittering among them. They were not 
 so far off, but that I thought I could now and 
 then distinguish a faint and stifled shriek. My 
 curiosity was forcibly excited, and I dispatched 
 one of my followers to inquire the cause of the 
 procession. What was my horror to learn that 
 they were carrying an unfortunate girl, sewn up 
 in a sack, to be thrown into the sea ! I did not 
 hesitate as to what was to be done. I knew I 
 could depend on my faithful Albanians, and 
 rode up to the officer commanding the party, 
 threatening, in case of his refusal to give up his 
 prisoner, that I would adopt means to compel 
 him. He did not like the business he was on, 
 or perhaps the determined look of my body- 
 guard, and consented to accompany me back 
 to the city with the girl, whom I soon disco- 
 vered to be my Turkish favourite. Suffice it to 
 say, that my interference with the chief magis- 
 trate, backed by a heavy bribe, saved her ; but 
 it was only on condition that I should break off 
 all intercourse with her, and that she should 
 immediately quit Athens, and be sent to her 
 
COKVEBSATIONS OF 
 
 '* friends in Thebes. There she died, a few days 
 '^ after her arrival, of a fever — perhaps of love." 
 
 " The severest fever I ever had was at Patras. 
 *' I had left Fletcher at Constantinople — conva- 
 *' lescent, but unable to move from weakness, 
 '' and had no attendants but my Albanians, to 
 *' whom I owe my life. 
 
 " They were devotedly attached to me, and 
 '' watched me day and night. I am more indebted 
 *' toagoodcojistitution for having got over this at- 
 " tack, than to the drugs of an ignorant Turk, who 
 '' called himself a physician. He would have been 
 '' glad to have disowned the name, and resigned 
 *' his profession too, if he could have escaped 
 *' from the responsibility of attending me; for my 
 '* Albanians came the Grand Signior over him, and 
 " threatened that if I were not entirely recovered 
 " at a certain hour on a certain day, they would 
 *^ take his life. They are not people to make idle 
 *' threats, and would have carried them into exe- 
 *' cution had any thing happened to me. You may 
 
LORD BYRON. 89 
 
 ^* imagine the fright the poor devil of a Doctor was 
 " in ; and I could not help smiling at the ludi- 
 '* crous way in which his fears shewed them- 
 *' selves. I believe he was more pleased at my reco- 
 '^ very than either my faithful nurses or myself. 
 " I had no intention of dying at that time ; but if 
 " I had died, the same story would have been told 
 *' of me as was related to have happened to Colo- 
 " nel Sherbrooke in America. On the very day my 
 " fever was at the highest, a friend of mine de- 
 '' clared that he saw me in St. James's Street; 
 " and somebody put my name down in the book 
 " at the palace, as having inquired after the 
 '' King's health. 
 
 " Every body would have said that my ghost 
 had appeared." 
 
 " But how were they to have reconciled a 
 ^' ghost's writing?" asked I. 
 
 " I should most likely have passed the re- 
 '' mainder of my life in Turkey, if I had not 
 *' been called home by my mother's death and 
 
 4- 
 
go CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^' my affairs," said lie. '* I mean to return to 
 '' Greece, and shall in all probability die there." 
 
 Little did I think, at the time he was pro 
 nouncing these words, that they were pro- 
 phetic! 
 
 " I became a member of Drury-lane Com- 
 " mittee, at the request of my friend Douglas 
 " Kinnaird, who made over to me a share of 
 '^ 5oo/. for the purpose of qualifying nie to 
 '' vote. One need have other qualifications be- 
 '^ sides money for that office. I found the em- 
 '' ployment not over pleasant, and not a little 
 '' dangerous, what with Irish authors and 
 ^' pretty poetesses. Five hundred plays were 
 '' offered to the Theatre during the year I was 
 " Literary Manager. You may conceive that it 
 *' was no small task to read all this trash, and 
 ^' to satisfy the bards that it was so. 
 
 " When I first entered upon theatrical af- 
 *' fairs, I had some idea of writing for the 
 
LORD BYRON. 91 
 
 * house myself, but soon became a convert to 
 ' Pope's opinion on that subject. Who would 
 ' condescend to the drudgery of the stage, and 
 ' enslave himself to the humours, the caprices, 
 ' the taste or tastelessness, of the age? Besides, 
 ' one must write for particular actors, have 
 ' them continually in one's eye, sacrifice cha- 
 ' racter to the personating of it, cringe to some 
 ' favourite of the public, neither give him too 
 ' many nor too few lines to spout, think how 
 ' he would mouth such and such a sentence, 
 ' look such and such a passion, strut such and 
 ' such a scene. Who, I say, would submit to 
 ' all this ? Shakspeare had many advantages : 
 ' he was an actor by profession, and knew all 
 ' the tricks of the trade. Yet he had but little 
 
 * fame in his day : see what Jonson and his con- 
 ' temporaries said of him. Besides, how few 
 ' of what are called Shakspeare's plays are exclu- 
 
 * sively so I — and how, at this distance of time, 
 
 * and lost as so many works of that period 
 ' are, can we separate what really is from 
 ' what is not his own? 
 
9^ CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' The players retrenched, transposed, and even 
 
 '^ altered the text, to suit the audience or please 
 
 '' themselves. Who knows how much rust they 
 
 '' rubbed off? I am sure there is rust and 
 
 ^' base metal to spare left in the old plays^. 
 
 " When Leigh Hunt comes we shall have bat- 
 
 ^' ties enough about those old ruffiani, the old 
 
 *' dramatists, with their tiresome conceits, their 
 
 ^' jingling rhymes, and endless play upon words. 
 
 ^' It is but lately that people have been satis- 
 
 '' fied that Shakspeare was not a god, nor stood 
 
 " alone in the age in which he lived ; and yet 
 
 '^ how few of the plays, even of that boasted time, 
 
 ''have survived, and fewer still are now acted! 
 
 " Let us count them. Only one of Massinger's 
 
 " (New Way to pay Old Debts), one of Ford's,'*' one of 
 
 " Ben Jonson's,"*'and half-a-dozen of Shakspeare's; 
 
 " and of these last, ' The Two Gentlemen of Ve- 
 
 " rona' and ' The Tempest' have been turned in- 
 
 *' to operas. You cannot call that having a theatre. 
 
 " Now that Kemble has left the stage, who will 
 
 Of whicli I have forgot the name he mentioned. 
 
LORD BYRON. qB 
 
 " endure Coriolanus ? Lady Macbeth died with 
 ** Mrs. Siddons, and Polonius will with Munden. 
 *** Shakspeare's Comedies are quite out of date ; 
 " many of them are insufferable to read, much 
 ^' more to see. They are gross food, only fit for 
 '' an English or German palate ; they are indi- 
 '' gestible to the French and Italians, the po- 
 " litest people in the world. One can hardly 
 ^^ find ten lines together without some gross vio- 
 ' ' lation of taste or decency. What do you think 
 *^ of Bottom in the ^Midsummer Night's Dream?' 
 '' or of ' Troilus and CressldaJ passim .^" 
 
 I Here I could not help interrupting him by 
 saying, " You have named the two plays that, 
 
 I with all their faults, contain, perhaps, some of 
 the finest poetry." 
 
 '^ Yes," said he, ''in ' Troilus and Cressida :' 
 
 * * •' Prophet may you be ! 
 
 ^' If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth. 
 *' When Time is old, and hath forgot itself, 
 '' When water- drops have worn the stones of Troy, 
 
94 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " And blind Oblivion swallow'd cities up, 
 
 " And mighty states characterless are grated 
 
 " To dusty nothing, — yet let memory 
 
 '-'• From false to false, among false maids in love, 
 
 ' ' Upbraid my falsehood ! when they've said, — As false 
 
 " As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, 
 
 " As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer's calf, 
 
 *' Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her sonj 
 
 *' Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood — 
 
 '' As false as Cressid ! ' " 
 
 These lines he pronounced with great emphasis 
 and effect, and continued : 
 
 ' ' But what has poetry to do with a play, or in 
 ^' a play? There is not one passage in Alfieri 
 *' strictly poetical; hardly one in Racine." 
 
 Here he handed me a prospectus of a new tran- 
 slation of Shakspeare into French prose, and read' 
 part of the first scene in ' The Tempest,' laughing 
 inwardly, as he was used to do ; and afterwards 
 produced a passage from Chateaubriand, contend- 
 ing that we have no theatre. 
 
LORD BYRON. gS 
 
 ^' The French very properly ridicule our bring- 
 ** ing in ' un enfant au premier acte, barbon an 
 '' dernier.' I was always a friend to the unities, 
 " and believe that subjects are not wanting which 
 " may be treated in strict conformity to their 
 '' rules. No one can be absurd enough to con- 
 " tend, that the preservation of the unities is a 
 ^^ defect, — at least a fault. Look at Alfieri's plays, 
 " and telt me what is wanting in them. Does he 
 '* ever deviate from the rules prescribed by the 
 '* ancients, from the classical simplicity of the 
 *^' old models ? It is very difficult, almost impos- 
 *' sible, to write any thing to please a modern 
 *' audience. I was instrumental in getting up 
 " ' Bertram,' and it was said that I wrote part of 
 '' it myself. That was not the case. I knew 
 "' Maturin to be a needy man, and interested 
 '-' myself in his success : but its life was very feeble 
 *' and rickety. I once thought of getting Joanna 
 '' Baillie's *• De Montfort' revived ; but the wind- 
 " ing-up was faulty. She was herself aware of 
 " this, and wrote the last act over again; and 
 ^' yet, after all, it failed. She must have been 
 ^^ dreadfully annoyed, even more than Lady 
 
g6 CONYERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' was. When it was bringing out, I was applied 
 ^' to, to write a prologue ; but as the request did 
 " not come from Kean, who was to speak it, I 
 '^ declined. There are fine things in all the Plays 
 '' on the Passions : an .idea in ' De Montfort' 
 '' struck me particularly; one of the characters 
 ^' said that he knew the footsteps of another.* 
 
 ^' There are four words in Alfieri that speak 
 '' volumes. They are in * Don Carlos.' The King 
 * ' and his Minister are secreted during an inter- 
 *' view of the Infant with the Queen Consort : the 
 " following dialogue passes, which ends the scene. 
 " ' redesti? Vedi, Udisti? UdC All the dra- 
 '' matic beauty would be lost in translation — 
 '' the nominative cases would kill it. Nothing 
 ^' provokes me so much as the squeamishness 
 '^ that excludes the exhibition of manv such sub- 
 
 ^ " De Montfort. — 'TisRezenvelt : Iheard his well-known foot! 
 
 "From the first staircase, mounting step by step. 
 
 *' Freberg. — How quick an ear thou hast for distant sound! 
 
 "I heard him not." 
 
 Act II, Scene 3. 
 
LORD BYRON. g^ 
 
 " jects from the stage ; — a squeamishness, the 
 ** produce, as I firmly believe, of a lower tone of 
 " the moral sense, and foreign to the majestic 
 " and confident virtue of the golden age of our 
 ** country. All is now cant — methodistical cant. 
 *' Shame flies from the heart, and takes refuge in 
 " the lips ; or, our senses and nerves are much 
 *^ more refined than those of our neighbours. 
 
 " We should not endure the OEdipus story, 
 " nor * Phedre.' ' Myrrha,' the best worked-up, 
 " perhaps, of all Alfieri's tragedies, and a fa- 
 '' vourite in Italy, would not be tolerated. ' The 
 *' Mysterious Mother' has never been acted, nor 
 '' Massinger's ' Brother and Sister.' Webster's 
 *' ' Duchess of Malfy' would be too harrowing : 
 " her madness, the dungeon-scene, and her grim 
 " talk with her keepers and coffin-bearers, could 
 '' not be borne : nor Lillo's ' Fatal Marriage.' 
 '' The ' Cenci' is equally horrible, though per- 
 ^ ' haps the best tragedy modern times have pro- 
 '* duced. It is a play, — not a poem, like ^ Re- 
 " morse' and 'Fazio ;' and the best proof of its 
 " merit is, that people are continually quoting it. 
 
 YOL. I. 5 
 
98 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' What may not be expected from such a be- 
 
 ginning ? 
 
 '^ The Germans are colder and more phlegmatic 
 '' than we are, and bear even to see ' Werner.' 
 
 '' To write any thing to please, at the present 
 " day, is the despair of authors." 
 
 It was easy to be perceived that during this ti- 
 rade upon the stage, and against Shakspeare, he 
 was smarting under the ill-reception ' Marino Fa- 
 liero' had met with, and indignant at the Critics, 
 who had denied him the dramatic faculty. This, 
 however, was not the only occasion of his abusing 
 the old dramatists. 
 
 Some days after I revived the subject of the dra- 
 ma, and led him into speaking of his own plays. 
 
 ' ' I have just got a letter," said he, ' ' from Murray. 
 " What do you think he has enclosed me ? A 
 '' long dull extract from that long dull Latin epic 
 " of Petrarch's, Africa, which he has the modes- 
 
LORD BYRON. 99 
 
 " ty to ask me to translate for Ugo Foscolo, who 
 I ** is writing some Memoirs of Petrarch, and has 
 " got Moore, Lady Dacre, etc. to contribute to. 
 " What am I to do with the death of Mago ? I wish 
 ^^ to God, Medwin, you would take it home with 
 *' you, and translate it ; and I will send it to 
 " Murray. We will say nothing about its being 
 " yours, or mine ; and it will be curious to hear 
 '* Foscolo's opinion upon it. Depend upon it, it 
 " will not be an unfavorable one." 
 
 I In the course of the day I turned it into couplets, 
 '" (and lame enough they were,) which he forwarded 
 by the next courier to England. 
 
 Almost by return of post arrived a furiously 
 complimentary epistle in acknowledgment, which 
 made us laugh very heartily. 
 
 " There are three goodlines,""^ said Lord Byron, 
 '^ inMago's speech, which may be thus translated: 
 
 Ugo Foscolo afterwards took them for his motto. 
 
lOO CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " *Yet, thing of dust! 
 " Man strives to climb the earth in his ambition, * 
 '^ Till death, the monitor that flatters not, 
 " Points to the grave where all his hopes are laid.' " 
 
 '' What do you think of Ada? " said he, look- 
 ing earnestly at his daughter's miniature, that 
 hung by the side of his writing-table. '^ They 
 * ^ tell me she is like me — but she has her mother's 
 ^' eyes. 
 
 " It is very odd that my mother was an only 
 '' child ; — I am an only child ; my wife is an only 
 '^ child ; and Ada is an only child. It is a singular 
 ^' coincidence ; that is the least that can be said of 
 ''it. I can't help thinking it was destined to be 
 " so ; and perhaps it is best. I was once anxious 
 " for a son; but, after our separation, was glad 
 ' ' to have had a daughter ; for it would have 
 ' ' distressed me too much to have taken him away 
 " from Lady Byron, and I could not have trusted 
 " her with a son's education. I have no idea of 
 '' boys being brought up by mothers. I suffered 
 " too much from that myself : and then, wander- 
 '' ing about the world as I do, I could not take 
 
LORD BYRON. lOl 
 
 ' proper care of a child ; otherwise I should not 
 ' have left AUegra, poor little thing !* at Ravenna. 
 ' She as been a great resource to me, though I 
 
 * am not so fond of her as of Ada ; and yet I mean 
 
 * to make their fortunes equal — there will be 
 ' enough for them both. I have desired in my 
 ' will that Allegra shall not marry an Englishman. 
 ' The Irish and Scotch make better hujsbands than 
 ' we do. You will think it was an odd fancy, but 
 ' I was not in the best of humours with my 
 
 * countrymen at that moment — you know the 
 ' reason. I am told that Ada is a little termagant ; 
 ' I hope not. I shall write to my sister to know 
 ' if this is the case : perhaps I am wrong in 
 ' letting Lady Byron have entirely her own way 
 ' in her education. I hear that my name i& not 
 ' mentioned in her presence ; that a green curtain 
 ' is always kept over my portrait, as over some- 
 ' thing forbidden ; and that she is not to know 
 
 ^ She appears to be the Leila of his Don Juan : 
 
 *' Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
 "And with that gentle, serious character " 
 
 Don Juan, Canto X. Stanza 52. 
 

 :02 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' that she has a father, till she comes of age. Of 
 '' course she will be taught to hate me ; she will 
 *' be brought up to it. Lady Byron is conscious 
 '^ of all this, and is afraid that I shall some day 
 " carry off her daughter by stealth or force. I 
 '^ might claim her of the Chancellor, without hav- 
 " ing recourse to either one or the other. But I 
 " had rather be unhappy myself, than make her 
 ' ' mother so ; probably I shall never see her 
 " again." 
 
 Here he opened his writing-desk, and shewed 
 me some hair, which he told me was his child's. 
 
 During our drive and ride this evening, he 
 declined our usual amusement of pistol-firing, 
 without assigning a cause. He hardly spoke a 
 word during the fust half-hour, and it was evi- 
 dent that something weighed heavily on his mind. 
 There was a sacredness in his melancholy that I 
 dared not interrupt. At length he said : 
 
 " This is Ada's birthday, and might have been 
 " the happiest day of my life : as it is 1" 
 
LORD BYRON. I03 
 
 He stopped, seemingly ashamed of having be- 
 trayed his feelings. He tried in vain to rally his 
 spirits by turning the conversation ; but he created 
 a laugh in which he could not join, and soon 
 relapsed into his former reverie. It lasted till 
 we came within a mile of the Argine gate. There 
 our silence was all at once interrupted by shrieks 
 that seemed to proceed from a cottage by the 
 side of the road. We pulled up our horses, to 
 inquire of a contadino standing at the little gar- 
 den-wicket. He told us that a widow had just 
 lost her only child, and that the sounds proceeded 
 from the wailings of some women over the corpse. 
 Lord Byron was much affected ; and his super- 
 stition, acted upon by a sadness that seemed to be 
 presentiment, led him to augur some disaster. 
 
 '' I shall not be happy," said he, '' till I hear 
 ' ' that my daughter is well. I have a great horror 
 " of anniversaries: people only laugh at, who 
 " have never kept a register of them. I always 
 <* write to my sister on Ada's birthday. I did so 
 '' last year ; and, what was very remarkable, my 
 '^ letter reached her on my wedding-day, and her 
 
Io4 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ' ' answer reached me at Ravenna on my birthday I 
 " Several extraordinary things have happened to 
 " me on my birthday ; so they did to Napoleon j 
 ' ' and a more wonderful circumstance still occur- 
 " red to Marie Antoinette." 
 
 The next morning's courier brought him a 
 letter from England. He gave it me as I entered, 
 and said : 
 
 ^' I was convinced something very unpleasant 
 *' hung over me last night : I expected to hear 
 " that somebody I knew was dead ; — so it turns 
 ^' out! Poor Polidori is gone I When he was 
 '' my physician, he was always talking of Prussic 
 '' acid, oil of amber, blowing into veins, suffocate 
 '' ing by charcoal, and compounding poisons ; 
 " but for a different purpose to what the Pontic 
 " Monarch did, for he has prescribed a dose for 
 " himself that would have killed fifty Miltiades, 
 *' — a dose whose effect, Murray says, was so 
 ' ' instantaneous that he went off without a spasm 
 " or struggle. It seems that disappointment was 
 '* the cause of this rash act. He had entertained 
 
LORD BYRaN. Io5 
 
 * too sanguine hopes of literary fame, owing to 
 ' the success of his * Vampyre,' which, in conse- 
 
 * quence of its being attributed to me, was got 
 
 * up as a melo-drame at Paris. The foundation 
 ' of the story was mine ; but I was forced to 
 ' disown the publication, lest the world should 
 ' suppose that I had vanity enough, or was egotist 
 ' enough, to write in that ridiculous manner 
 ' about myself.* Notwithstanding which, the 
 
 * French editions still persevere in including it 
 ' with my works. My real ' Vampyre' I gave at 
 ' the end of ' Mazeppa,' something in the same 
 ' way that I told it one night at Diodati, when 
 
 * Monk Lewis, and Shelley and his wife, were 
 
 * present. The latter sketched on that occasion 
 ' the outline of her Pygmalion story, ' The Mo- 
 ' dern Prometheus,' the making of a man (which 
 ' a lady who had read it afterwards asked Sir 
 
 * Humphrey Davy, to his great astonishment, if 
 
 * he could do, Lewis told a story something like 
 ' Alonzo and Imogene) ; and Shelley himself, or 
 
 ^ He alluded to the Preface and the Postscript, containing 
 accounts of his residence at Geneva and in the Isle of Mitylene. 
 
I06 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " ' The Snake/ (as he used sometimes to call him,) 
 '' conjured up some frightful woman of an ac- 
 '' quaintance of his at home, a kind of Me- 
 *' dusa, who was suspected of having eyes in her 
 '' breasts. 
 
 " Perhaps Polidori had strictly no right to ap- 
 '' propriate my story to himself ; but it was hardly 
 ' ' worth it : and when my letter, disclaiming the 
 '' narrative part, was written, I dismissed the mat- 
 " ter from my memory. It was Polidori's own 
 '' fault that we did not agree. I was sorry when 
 *' we parted, for I soon get attached to people ; 
 '' and was more sorry still for the scrape he after- 
 ^^ wards got into at Milan. He quarrelled with 
 " one of the guards at the Scala, and was ordered 
 '' to leave the Lombard States twenty-four hours 
 " after ; which put an end to all his Continental 
 '' schemes, that I had forwarded by recommend- 
 
 " ing him to Lord ; and it is difficult for a 
 
 '' young physician to get into practice at home, 
 '' however clever, particularly a foreigner, or one 
 " with a foreigner's name. From that time, 
 " instead of making out prescriptions, he took to 
 
LORD BYRON. IO7 
 
 *^ writing romances; a very unprofitable and fatal 
 " exchange, as it turned out. 
 
 " I told you I was not oppressed in spirits last 
 *' night without a reason. Who can help being 
 *' superstitious ? Scott believes in second-sight. 
 " Rousseau tried whether he was to be d — d or 
 " not, by aiming at a tree with a stone : I forget 
 '' whether he hit or missed. Goethe trusted to 
 '' the chance of a knife's striking the water, to de- 
 " termine whether he was to prosper in some un- 
 " dertaking. The Italians think the dropping of 
 ' ' oil very unlucky. Pietro (Count Gamba) dropped 
 " some the night before his exile, and that of his 
 " family, from Ravenna. Have you ever had 
 "your fortune told? Mrs. Williams told mine. 
 '^ She predicted that twenty-seven and thirty- 
 " seven were to be dangerous ages in my life."^ 
 " One has come true. " 
 
 * He was married in his twenty-seventh, and died in his 
 thirty-seventh year. 
 
I08 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ''Yes," added I, ''and did she not prophecy 
 " that you were to die a monk and a miser? I 
 " have been told so." 
 
 " I don't think these two last very likely; but 
 " it was part of her prediction. But there are 
 " lucky and unlucky days, as well as years and 
 
 " numbers too. Lord was dining at a party, 
 
 "where- observed that they were thirteen. 
 
 " 'Why don't you make us twelve ?' was the reply; 
 " and an impudent one it was — ^but he could say 
 " those things. You would not visit on a Fri- 
 " day, would you? You know you are to intro- 
 
 "duce me to Mrs. . It must not be to- 
 
 " morrow, for it is a Friday." 
 
 "A fine day," said I, as I entered; "a day 
 " worth living for." 
 
 "^An old hag of a world!" replied he, shaking 
 me by the hand. "You should have been here 
 
 " earlier. T has been here with a most por- 
 
 " tentous and obstetrical countenance, and it 
 
LORD BYRON. IO9 
 
 ^* seems he has been bringing forth an ode — a 
 ^' birthday ode — not on Ada, but on a lady. An 
 *' orf/(?w^ production it must have been ! He threa- 
 ^^ tened to inflict, as Shelley calls it; but I fought 
 '* off. As I told him, Stellas are out of date now : 
 " it is a bad compliment to remind women of 
 ^* their age. 
 
 '' Talking of days, this is the most wretched 
 ^' day of my existence ; and I say and do all sorts 
 " of foolish things* to drive away the memory of 
 "it, and make me forget. 
 
 " T will give you a specimen of some epigrams I 
 
 * " So that it wean me from the weary dream 
 " Of selfish grief, or gladness! — so it fling 
 " Forgetfulncss around me!" 
 
 Childe Harold, Canto III. Stanza 4- 
 
 ** And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
 *' 'Tis that I may not weep; — and if I weep, 
 " 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
 *' Itself to apathy " etc. 
 
 Don Juan, Canto IV. Stanza 4- 
 
no CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' am in the habit of sending Hobhouse, to whom | 
 " I wrote on my first wedding-day, and continue 
 '' to write still : 
 
 ^ ' This day of ours has surely done 
 
 " Its worst for me and you ! 
 " Tis noYt five years since we were one^ 
 
 " KnAfour since we were two, 
 
 '' And another on his sending me the congratula- 
 " tions of the season, which ended in some fool- 
 '* ish way like this: 
 
 *' You may wish me returns of the season : 
 ** Let us, prithee, have none of the day ! 
 
 I think I can give no stronger proof of the socia- 
 bility of Lord Byron's disposition, than the festi- 
 vity that presided over his dinners. 
 
 Wednesday being one of his fixed days : *^ You 
 '' will dine with me," said he, "though it is the 
 '* adof January." 
 
LORD BYRON. Ill 
 
 His own table, when alone, was frugal, not to 
 say abstemious ;'*' but on the occasion of these meet- 
 ings every sort of wine, every luxury of the sea- 
 son, and English delicacy, were displayed. I ne- 
 ver knew any man do the honours of his house 
 with greater kindness and hospitality. On this 
 eventful anniversary, he was not, however, in his 
 usual spirits, and evidently tried to drown the re- 
 membrance of the day by a levity that was forced 
 and unnatural; — for it was clear, in spite of all 
 his efforts, that something oppressed him, and ht 
 could not help continually recurring to the subject. 
 
 One of the party proposed Lady Byron's health, 
 which he gave with evident pleasure, and we al. 
 
 ^ His dinner, when alone, cost five Pauls ; and thinking he 
 was overcharged, he gave his bills to a lady of my acquaint- 
 ance to examine. ■{■ At a Christmas-day dinner he had ordered 
 a plum-pudding a CAnglaise. Somebody afterwards told 
 him it was not good. "Not good!" said he: "why, it 
 ought to be good ; it cost fifteen Pauls." 
 
 -J- He ordered the remnants to be given away, lest his ser- 
 vants (as he said) should envy him every mouthful he ate. 
 
112 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 drank in bumpers. The conversation turning on 
 his separation, the probability of their being re- 
 conciled was canvassed. 
 
 '^ What !" said he, '' after having lost the five 
 '^ best years of our lives? — Never! But," added 
 he, ^^ it was no fault of mine that we quarrelled. 
 " I have made advances enough, I had once an 
 '' idea that people are happiest in the marriage 
 " state, after the impetuosity of the passions has 
 " subsided, — but that hope is all over with me I" 
 
 Writing to a friend the day after our party, I 
 finished my letter with the following remark : 
 
 '^ Notwithstanding the tone of raillery with 
 which he sometimes speaks in ' Don Juan ' of his 
 separation from Lady Byron, and his saying, as he 
 did to-day, that the only thing he^thanks Lady By- 
 ron for is, that he cannot marry, etc., it is evi- 
 dent that it is the thorn in his side — the poison in 
 his cup of life ! The veil is easily seen through . 
 He endeavours to mask his griefs, and to fill up 
 the void of hi« heart, by assuming a gaiety that 
 
LORD BYRON. Il3 
 
 does not belong to it. All the tender and endear- 
 ing ties of social and domestic life rudely torn 
 asunder, he has been wandering on from place to 
 place, without finding any to rest in. Switzer- 
 land, Venice, Ravenna, (and I might even have 
 added Tuscany,) were doomed to be no asylum for 
 him," etc. 
 
 I observed himself and all his servants in deep 
 mourning. He did not wait for me to inquire 
 the cause. 
 
 " I have just heard," said he, '' of Lady NoeFs 
 " death. I am distressed for poor Lady Byron I 
 ^^ She must be in great affliction, for she adored 
 ^^ her mother I The world will think I am 
 '^ pleased at this event, but they are much mis- 
 '' taken. I never wished for an accession of 
 '' fortune ; I have enough without the Wentworth 
 ^' property. I have written a letter of condolence 
 '' to Lady Byron, — you may suppose in the kindest 
 *' terms, — beginning, * My dear Lady Byron, 
 
 *' * If we are not reconciled, it is not my fault !' " 
 
 5. 
 
Il4 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' I shall be delighted," I said, '' to see you re- 
 stored to her and-to your country; which, not- 
 withstanding all you say and write against it, I 
 am sure you like. Do you remember a senti- 
 ment in the ' Two Foscari T " 
 
 * He who loves nothis country, can love nothing.' 
 
 " I am becoming more weaned from it every 
 '' day," said he after a pause, '' and have had 
 '' enough to wean me from it! — No! Lady Byron 
 '^ will not make it up with me now, lest the world 
 ^ ^ should say that her mother only was to blame I 
 '^ Lady Noel certainly identifies herself very 
 '^ strongly in the quarrel, even by the account 
 " of her last injunctions; for she directs in her 
 " will that my portrait, shut up in a case by her 
 '' orders, shall not be opened till her grand-daugh- 
 '* ter be of age, and then not given to her if Lady 
 ^' Byron should be alive. 
 
 " I might have claimed all the fortune for my 
 '•' life, if I had chosen to have done so ; but have 
 " agreed to leave the division of it to Lord Dacre 
 
LORD BYRON. Il5 
 
 " and Sir Francis Burdett. The whole manage- 
 *' ment of the affair is confided to them ; and I 
 *' shall not interfere, or make any suggestion, or 
 " objection, if they award Lady Byron the whole.'' 
 
 I asked him how he became entitled? 
 
 '^ The late Lord Wentworth," said he, '' be- 
 *' queathed a life interest in his Lancashire es- 
 '* tates to Lady Byron's mother, and afterwards 
 *' to her daughter : that is the way I claim." 
 
 Some time after, when the equal partition had 
 been settled, he said : 
 
 " I have offered Lady Byron the family mansion 
 ^' in addition to the award, but she has declined 
 *' it : this is not kind." 
 
 The conversation turned after dinner on the 
 lyrical poetry of the day, and a question arose as 
 to which was the most perfect ode that had been 
 produced. Shelley contended for Coleridge's on 
 
Il6 COJSVERSATIONS OF 
 
 Switzerland, beginning, '' Ye clouds," etc. ; others 
 named some of Moore's Irish Melodies, and Camp- 
 bell's Hohenlinden; and, had Lord Byron not 
 been present, his own Invocation to Manfred, or 
 Ode to Napoleon, or on Prometheus, might have 
 been cited. 
 
 '' Like Gray," said he, '' Campbell smells too 
 '' much of the oil : he is never satisfied with 
 '* what he does; his finest things have been 
 " spoiled by over-polish — the sharpness of the 
 *' outline is worn off. Like paintings, poems may 
 '' be too highly finished. The great art is effect, 
 '^ no matter how produced. 
 
 ** I will shew you an ode you have never seen, 
 *' that I consider little inferior to the best which 
 *' the present prolific age has brought forth." 
 With this he left the table, almost before the 
 cloth was removed, and returned with a magazine, 
 from which he read the following lines on Sir 
 John Moore's burial, which perhaps require no 
 apology for finding a place here : 
 
LORB BYRON. II7 
 
 " Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
 '* As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; 
 *' Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 '' O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 *' We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 ' ' The sods with our bayonets turning, — 
 " By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 '' And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 " No useless coffin confined his breast, 
 * ' Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, 
 * ' But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 *' With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 '* Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 "And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 "• But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
 " And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 ' ' We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed, 
 
 *' And smoothM down his lonely pillow, 
 
 ' * That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head 
 
 *' And we far away on the billow •' 
 
Il8 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' Lightly they 11 talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 " And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him 5 
 '^ But nothing he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on 
 *' In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 '' Bui half of our heavy task was done, 
 " When the clock told the hour for retiring j 
 * ' And we heard by the distant and random gun^ 
 '' That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 ' ' Slowly and sadly we laid him down^ 
 *' From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 
 -' We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
 ' ' But we left him alone with his glory." 
 
 The feeling with which lie recited these ad- 
 mirable stanzas, I shall never forget. After he 
 had come to an end, he repeated the third, and 
 said it was perfect, particularly the lines 
 
 " But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 " With his martial cloak around him." 
 
 " I should have taken," said Shelley, '' the 
 whole for a rough sketch of Campbell's." 
 
LORD BYRON. I I9 
 
 '^ No/' replied Lord Byron : '' Campbell would 
 '' have claimed it, if it had been his." 
 
 I afterwards had reason to think that the ode 
 was Lord Byron's ; ^ that h^ was piqued at none 
 of his own being mentioned ; and, after he had 
 praised the verses so highly, could not own them. 
 No other reason can be assigned for his not ac- 
 knowledging himself the author, particularly as 
 he was a great admirer of General Moore. 
 
 Talking after dinner of swimming, he said : — 
 
 '' Murray published a letter I wrote to him from 
 " Venice, which might have seemed an idle display 
 *' of vanity; but the object of my writing it was 
 '' to contradict what Turner had asserted about 
 " the impossibility of crossing the Hellespont 
 
 mr* I ani corroborated in this opinion lately by a lady, whose 
 brother received them many years ago from Lord Byron , in 
 his Lordship's own hand-writing. 
 
lao CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ** from the Abydos to the Sestos side, in conse- 
 '' quence of the tide. 
 
 *' One is as easy as the other; we did both." 
 Here he turned round to Fletcher, to whom he 
 occasionally referred, and said, '' Fletcher, how 
 ' ' far was it Mr. Ekenhead and I swam ?" Fletcher 
 replied, '* Three miles and a half, my Lord*" j 
 (Of course he did not diminish the distance.) 1 
 '' The real width of the Hellespont," resumed 
 ^' Lord Byron, is not much above a mile ; but the 1 
 *^ current is prodigiously strong, and we were 
 '' carried down notwithstanding all our efforts. 
 '' I don't know how Leander contrived to stem 
 ^' the stream, and steer straight across ; but 
 " nothing is impossible in love or religion. If I 
 " had had a Hero on the other side, perhaps I 
 '' should have worked harder. We were to have 
 " undertaken this feat some time before, but put 
 "it off in consequence of the coldness of the 
 ^ ' water ; and it was chilly enough when we per- 
 '' formed it. I know I should have made a bad 
 " Leander, for it gave me an ague that I did not 
 '^ so easily get rid of. There were some sailors 
 
LORD BYRON. 121 
 
 '* in the fleet who swam further than I did — I do 
 ^' not say than I could have done, for it is the 
 '' only exercise I pride myself upon, being almost 
 ^' amphibious. 
 
 " I remember being at Brighton many years 
 '^ ago, and having great difficulty in making the 
 *' land, — the wind blowing off the shore, and the 
 " tide setting out. Crowds of people were col- 
 *' lected on the beach to see us. Mr. — — (I think 
 '' he said Hobhouse) was with me ; and," he 
 added, '' I had great difficulty in saving him — he 
 *' nearly drowned me. 
 
 " When I was at Venice, there was an Italian 
 '^ who knew no more of swimming than a camel, 
 '' but he had heard of my prowess in the Darda- 
 '^ nelles , and challenged me. Not wishing that 
 '' any foreigner at least should beat me at my own 
 '' arms, I consented to engage in the contest. 
 " Alexander Scott proposed to be of the party, and 
 " we started from Lido. Our land-lubber was 
 a very soon in the rear, and Scott saw him make 
 *' for a Gondola. He rested himself first against 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
122 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '* one, and then against another, and gave in 
 '^ before we got halfway to St. Mark's Place. We 
 '' saw no more of him, but continued our course 
 '' through the Grand Canal, landing at my palace- 
 '' stairs. The water of the Lagunes is dull, and 
 " iiot very clear or agreeable to bathe in. I can 
 " keep myself up for hours in the sea : I delight 
 '' in it, and come out with a buoyancy of spirits I 
 " never feel on any other occasion. 
 
 " If I believed in the transmigration of your 
 " Hindoos, I should think I had been a Merman 
 " in some former state of existence, or was going 
 '/ to be turned into one in the next." 
 
 ' ' When I published ' Marino Faliero' I had not 
 " the most distant view to the stage. My object 
 '' in choosing that historical subject was to record 
 " one of the most remarkable incidents in the an- 
 " nals of the Venetian Republic, embodying it in 
 '' what I considered the most interesting form — 
 ^' dialogue, and giving my work the accompani- 
 ^' ments of scenerv and manners studied on the 
 
LORD BYRON. 123 
 
 " Spot. That Faliero should, for a slight to a 
 *' woman, become a traitor to his country, and 
 " conspire to massacre all his fellow-nobles, and 
 ''that the young Foscari should have a sickly 
 '' affection for his native city, were no inventions 
 ^' of mine. I painted the men as I found them, 
 " as they were, — not as the critics would have 
 '' them. I took the stories as they were handed 
 " down ; and if human nature is not the same 
 " in one country as it is in others, am I to blame? 
 " — can I help it? But no painting, however 
 " highly coloured, can give an idea of the intensity 
 '* of a Venetian's affection for his native city. 
 " Shelley, I remember, draws a very beautiful 
 *' picture of the tranquil pleasures of Venice in a 
 " poem* which he has not published, and in 
 
 The lines to which Lord Byron referred are these : 
 
 " If 1 had been an unconnected man, 
 
 " 1 from this moment should have form'd the plan 
 
 '* Never to leave fair Venice— for to me 
 
 " It was delight to ride by the lone sea j 
 
 "And then the town is silent — one may write 
 
 ** Or read in gondolas by day or night, 
 
1^4 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' which he does not make me cut a good figure. 
 " It describes an evening we passed together. 
 
 *' There was one mistake I committed : I should 
 '' have called 'Marino Faliero' and 'The Two 
 '' Foscari' dramas, historic poems, or any thing, 
 '' in short, but tragedies or plays. In the first 
 '' place, I was ill-used in the extreme by the Doge 
 " being brought on the stage at all, after my Pre- 
 '' face. Then it consists of 35oo lines : ^ a good 
 '' acting play should not exceed i5oo or 1800; 
 " and, conformably with my plan, the materials 
 '* could not have been compressed into so con- 
 " fined a space. 
 
 " Having the little brazen lamp alight, 
 
 ** Unseen, uninterrupted : books are there, 
 
 " Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair 
 
 " Which were twin-born with poetry, — and all 
 
 " We seek in towns, with little to recall 
 
 " Regrets for the green country. I might ah 
 
 " In Maddalo's great palace," etc. 
 
 Julian and Maddalo . 
 
 ■^ He gave me the copy, with the number of lines marked 
 with his own pencil. I have left it in England. 
 
LORD BYPxON. 120 
 
 '' I remember Hogg the Ettrick Shepherd telling 
 me, many years ago, that I should never be able 
 to condense my powers of writing sufficiently for 
 the stage, and that the fault of all my plays 
 would be their being too long for acting. The 
 remark occurred to me when I was about 
 ' Marino Faliero ;' but I thought it unnecessary 
 to try and contradict his prediction, as I did not 
 study stage-effect, and meant it solely for the 
 closet. So much was I averse from its being 
 acted, that, the moment I heard of the intention 
 of the Managers, I applied for an injunction ; 
 but the Chancellor refused to interfere, or issue 
 an order for suspending the representation. It 
 was a question of great importance in the lite- 
 rary world of property. He would neither pro- 
 tect me nor Murray. But the manner in which 
 it was got up was shameful I ^ All the decla- 
 matory parts were left, all the dramatic ones 
 struck out ; and Cooper, the new actor, was the 
 murderer of the whole. Lioni's soliloquy, which 
 
 Acted at Drury Lane, April 25, 1821. 
 
1^6 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' I wrote one moonlight night after coming from 
 ^* the Benzon's, ought to have been omitted al- 
 " together, or at all events much curtailed. What 
 ' ' audience v^ill listen with any patience to a mere 
 '' tirade of poetry, which stops the march of the 
 ^' actor? No wonder, then, that the unhappy 
 ^ ' Doge should have been damned I But it was 
 ' ' no very pleasant news for me ; and the letter 
 '^ containing it was accompanied by another, to 
 '' inform me that an old lady, from whom I had 
 " great expectations, was likely to live to an 
 ^' hundred. There is an autumnal shoot in some 
 ^' old people, as in trees ; and I fancy her consti— 
 ^^ tution has got some of the new sap. Well, on 
 '^ these two pleasant pieces of intelligence I wrote 
 '' the following epigram, or elegy it may be 
 '^ termed, from the melancholy nature of the 
 '' subject : — 
 
 " Behold the blessings of a happy lot ! 
 
 " My play is damn'd, and Lady not ! 
 
 '' I understand that Louis Dix-huit, or Jiuitres, 
 '' as Moore spells it, has made a traduction of 
 ^' poor ' Faliero j' but I should hope it will not 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 27 
 
 *' be attempted on the Thedtre Francais. It is 
 *•' quite enough for a man to be damned once. 
 " I was satisfied with Jeffrey's critique* on the 
 '* play, for it abounded in extracts. He was wel- 
 ^' come to his own opinion, — which was fairly 
 '' stated. His summing up in favour of my friend 
 ^' Sir Walter amused me : it reminded me of a 
 " schoolmaster, who, after flogging a bad boy, 
 *' calls out the head of the class, and, patting 
 '' him on the head, gives him all the sugar-plums. 
 
 '* The common trick of reviewers is, when they 
 ^' want to depreciate a work, to give no quota- 
 '^ tions from it. This is what ' The Quarterly' 
 '^ shines in ; — the way Milman put down Shelley, 
 " when he compared him to Pharaoh, and his 
 ^' works to his chariot- wheels, by what contor- 
 '' tion of images I forget; — but it reminds me 
 
 " However, I forgive himj and I trust 
 " He will forgive himself: if not, 1 must. 
 *' Old enemies who have become new friends, 
 " Should so continue j — 'tis a point of honour." 
 
 Don Juariy Canto X. Stanzas 11 and 12, 
 
1^8 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^* of another person's comparing me in a poem 
 '' to Jesus Christ, and telling me, when I ob- 
 " jected to its profanity, that he alluded to me 
 '' in situation, not in person I ' WhatT said I 
 '• ' in reply, ' would you have me crucified ? We are 
 *' not in Jerusalem, are we?' But this is a long 
 " parenthesis. The Reviewers are like a counsel- 
 *' lor, after an abusive speech, calling no wit- 
 '' nesses to prove his assertions. 
 
 ' ' There are people who read nothing but these 
 " trimestn'als, and swear by the ipse dixit of 
 '' these autocrats — these Actseon hunters of lite- 
 '^ rature. They are fond of raising up and throw- 
 '^ ing down idols. 'The Edinburgh' did so with 
 
 '^ Walter Scott^s poetry, and, perhaps there 
 
 " is no merit in my plays? It may be so; and 
 '* Milman may be a great poet, if Heber is right 
 '' and I am wrong. He has the dramatic fa- 
 " culty, and I have not. So they pretended to 
 ^' say of Milton. I am too happy in being coupled 
 " in any way with Milton, and shall be glad if 
 '* they find any points of comparison between him 
 *' and me. 
 
LORD BYRON. IO19 
 
 ^' But the praise or blame of Reviewers does 
 ** not last long now-a-days. It is like straw 
 ** thrown up in the air.* 
 
 *' I hope, notwithstanding all that has been 
 ** said, to write eight more plays this year, and 
 ** to live long enough to rival Lope de Vega, or 
 *' Calderon. I have two subjects that I think of 
 *' writing on, — Miss Lee's German tale ' Kruitz- 
 '' ner,' and Pausanias. 
 
 ' ' What do you think of Pausanias? The unities 
 *^ can be strictly preserved, almost without de- 
 '^ viating from history. The temple where he 
 *' took refuge, and from whose sanctuary he was 
 ^* forced without profaning it, will furnish com- 
 *' plete unities of time and place. 
 
 '^ No event in ancient times ever struck me 
 
 * He seemed to think somewhat differently afterwards, 
 when, after the review in ' The Quarterly' of his plays, he 
 wrote to me, saying, "I am the most unpopular writer 
 going r 
 
l3o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " as more noble and dramatic than the death 
 ^' of Demosthenes. You remember his last words 
 '^ to Archias? — But subjects are not wanting." 
 
 I told Lord Byron, that I had had a letter from 
 Procter,'*' and that he had been jeered on ' The 
 Duke of Mirandola' not having been included 
 in his (Lord B.'s) enumeration of the dramatic 
 pieces of the day; and that he added, he had 
 been at Harrow with him. 
 
 ^' Ay," said Lord Byron, '' I remember the 
 ^^ name : he was in the lower school, in such a 
 *' class. They stood Farrer, Procter, Jocelyn." 
 
 I have no doubt Lord Byron could have gone 
 through all the names, such was his memory. 
 He immediately sat down, and very good-natu- 
 redly gave me the following note to send to Barry 
 Cornwall, which shews that the arguments of the 
 Reviewers had not changed his Unitarian opi- 
 nions (as he called them): 
 
 ^ Barry Cornwall. 
 
LORD BYRON. l3l 
 
 *' Had I been aware of your tragedy when I 
 "*' wrote my note to ' Marino Faliero, ' al- 
 *' though it is a matter of no consequence to you, 
 *^ I should certainly not have omitted to insert 
 " your name with those of the other writers who 
 " still do honour to the drama. 
 
 '^ My own notions on the subject altogether 
 ^' are so different from the popular ideas of the 
 ^* day, that we differ essentially, as indeed I do 
 " from our whole English literati, upon that topic. 
 " But I do not contend that I am right — I merely 
 *' say that such is my opinion; and as it is a so- 
 *' litary one, it can do no great harm. But it 
 '' does not prevent me from doing justice to the 
 ^' powers of those who adopt a different system." 
 
 I introduced the Subject of Cain : — 
 
 ^' When I was a boy," said he, ''I studied 
 ** German, which I have now entirely forgotten. 
 *' It was very little I ever knew of it. Abel was 
 •^' one of the first books my German master read 
 
I 32 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " to me; and whilst he was crying his eyes 
 '^ out over its pages, I thought that any other 
 *' than Cain had hardly committed a crime in 
 '' ridding the world of so dull a fellow as Gessner 
 '' made brother Abel. 
 
 *' I always thought Cain a tine subject, and 
 *' when I took it up I determined to treat it 
 *' strictly after the Mosaic account. I therefore 
 " made the snake a snake, and took a Bishop for 
 '' my interpreter. 
 
 *' I had once an idea of following the Arminian 
 ** Scriptures, and making Cain's crime proceed from 
 ''jealousy, and love of his uterine sister; but, 
 '' though a more probable cause of dispute, I 
 '' abandoned it as unorthodox. 
 
 " One mistake crept in, — Abel's should have 
 '' been made the first sacrifice : and it is singular 
 '' that the first form of religious worship should 
 " have induced the first murder. 
 
 " Hobhouse has denounced ' Cain' as irreli- 
 
LORD BYRON. l33 
 
 " gious, and has penned me a most furious epistle, 
 ** urging me not to publish it, as I value my re- 
 ** putation or his friendship. He contends that 
 '* it is a work I should not have ventured to have 
 >* put my name to in the days of Pope, Churchill, 
 *' and Johnson (a curious trio !). Hobhouse used 
 '' to write good verses once himself, but he seems 
 ^' to have forgotten what poetry is in others, when 
 '' he says my ' Cain' reminds him of the worst 
 *' bombast of Dryden's. Shelley, who is no bad 
 " judge of the compositions of others, however 
 " he may fail in procuring success for his own, 
 " is most sensitive and indignant at this critique, 
 ' ' and says (what is not the case) that ' Cain' is the 
 *' finest thing I ever wrote, calls it worthy of 
 *' Milton, and backs it against Hobhouse's poe- 
 " tical Trinity. 
 
 '' The Snake's rage has prevented my crest from 
 '' rising. I shall write Hobhouse a very iinim- 
 ^' passioned letter, but a firm one. The publi- 
 " cation shall go on, whether Murray refuses to 
 *' print it or not. 
 
1 34 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " I have just got a letter, and an admirable one 
 " it is, from Sir Walter Scott, to whom I dedi- 
 " cated ' Cain.' The sight of one of his letters 
 '' always does me good. I hardly know what to 
 " make of all the contradictory opinions that 
 '' have been sent me this week. Moore says, 
 ^' that more people are shocked with the blas- 
 '' pliemy of the sentiments, than delighted with 
 ' ' the beauty of the lines . Another person thinks 
 '' the Devil's arguments irresistible, or irrefu- 
 
 '* table. says that the Liberals like it, but 
 
 ' ' that the Ultraists are making a terrible outcry ; 
 " and that the he and him not being in capitals, 
 *^ in full dress uniform, shocks the High-church 
 "' and Court party. Some call me an Atheist, 
 " others a Manichaean, — a very bad and a hard- 
 " sounding name, that shocks the illiterati the 
 '' more because they don't know what it means. 
 '* I am taxed with having made my drama a peg to 
 '' hang on it a long, and some say tiresopie, dis- 
 ^' sertation on the principle of Evil; and, what is 
 '* worse, with having given Lucifer the best of 
 " the argument; all of which I am accused of 
 '' taking from Voltaire. 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 35 
 
 ' ' I could not make Lucifer expound the Thirty- 
 nine Articles, nor talk as the Divines do : that 
 would never have suited his purpose, — nor, 
 one would think, theirs. They ought to be 
 ?^rateful to him for giving them a subject to 
 • write about. What would they do without 
 ' ^ evil in the Prince of Evil ? Othello's occupation 
 would be gone. I have made Lucifer say no 
 more in his defence than was absolutely ne- 
 ' cessary, — not half so much as Milton makes 
 " his Satan do. I was forced to keep up his 
 '* dramatic character. Au reste, I have adhered 
 ^" closely to the Old Testament, and I defy any 
 ^' one to question my moral. 
 
 " Johnson, who would have been glad of an 
 '' opportunity of throwing another stone at Milton, 
 '' redeems him from any censure for putting im- 
 *' piety and even blasphemy into the mouths of 
 '' his infernal spirits. By what rule, then, am 
 " I to have all the blame? What would the 
 '' Methodists at home say to Goethe's ' Faust ?' 
 " His devil not only talks very familiarly of 
 " Heaven, but very familiarly in Heaven. What 
 
1 36 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " would they think of the colloquies of Mephisto- 
 ** pheles and his pupil, or the more daring lan- 
 *' guage of the prologue, which no one will ever 
 '' venture to translate? And yet this play is not 
 " only tolerated and admired, as every thing he 
 " wrote must be, but acted, in Germany. And 
 '^ are the Germans a less moral people than we 
 " are? I doubt it much. Faust itself is not so 
 '* fine a subject as Cain. It is a grand mystery. 
 '' The mark that was put upon Cain is a sublime 
 " and shadowy act : Goethe would have made 
 '' more of it than I have done."'*' 
 
 ■^ On Mr. Murray being threatened with a prosecution, Lord 
 Byron begged me to copy the following letter for him : — 
 
 *' Attacks upon me were to be expected, but I perceive 
 ** one upon you in the papers which, I confess, I did not 
 *^ expect. 
 
 *' How and in what manner you can be considered re- 
 ** sponsible for what I publish, I am at a loss to conceive. 
 " If 'Cain' be blasphemous, 'Paradise Lost' is blasphe- 
 *' mous; and the words of the Oxford gentleman, ' Evil, be 
 *' thou my good,' are from that very poem, from the mouth 
 " of Satan, — and is there any thing more in that of Lucifer, 
 *' in the Mystery ? ' Cain ' is nothing more than a drama, 
 
LORD BYRON. 187 
 
 I cannot resist presenting the public with a drink- 
 ing-song composed one morning, or perhaps even- 
 ing, after one of our dinners. 
 
 '* not a piece of argument. If Lucifer attd Cain speak as 
 " the first rebel and the first murderer may be supposed 
 " to speak, nearly all the rest of the personages talk also 
 " according to their characters; and the stronger passions 
 " have ever been permitted to the drama. I have avoided 
 ** introducing the Deity, as in Scripture, though Milton 
 *^ does, and not very wisely either; but have adopted his 
 " angel as serit to Cain instead, on purpose to avoid shock - 
 " ing any feelings on the subject, by falling short of what 
 " all uninspired men must fall short in, — viz. giving an 
 " adequate notion of the effect of the presence of Jehovah. 
 " The old Mysteries introduced Him liberally enough, and 
 " all this I avoided in the new one. 
 
 '' The attempt to bully you because they think it will not 
 " succeed with me, seems as atrocious an attempt as ever 
 "disgraced the times. What! when Gibbon's, Hume's, 
 " Priestley's, and Drummond's publishers have been allowed 
 '* to rest in peace for seventy years, are you to be singled out 
 " for a work of fiction, not of history or argument? 
 
 "There must be something at the bottom of this— some 
 
 6. 
 
1 38 COl^VERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' Fill tLe goblet again, for I never before 
 
 '* Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core : 
 
 " Let us drink — who would not? since, thro' life's varied 
 
 ' ' round , 
 *' In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 '' I have tried in its tdrn all that life can supply 5 
 ' ^ I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; 
 ' * I have lov'd — ^who has not ? but what tongue will declare 
 * ' That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 
 
 *' private enemy of your own: it is otherwise incredible. 
 " I can only say, ' Me, me, adsum qui feci \'' that any pro- 
 ** ceedings against you may, I beg, be transferred to me, who 
 ^* am willing and ought to endure them all j that if you have 
 " lost money by the publication, I will refund any or all of 
 '* the copyright : that I desire you will say, that both you 
 " and Mr. GifFord remonstrated against the publication, and 
 ** also Mr. Hobhouse \ th'at I alone occasioned it, and I alone 
 *' am the person who, either legally or otherwise, should bear 
 ** the burthen. 
 
 " If they prosecute, I will come to England j that is, if by 
 " meeting in my own person I can save yours. Let me know. 
 " You shan't suffer for me, if I can help it. Make any use of 
 " this letter you please." 
 
LOKD BYRON. 1 Sg 
 
 ■ ' In the days of our 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? 
 
 " The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange ; 
 ^ ' * Friendship shifts with the sun-beam, — thou never canst 
 
 " change. 
 *' Thou grow'st old — ^who does not? but on earth what 
 
 '' appears, 
 " Whose virtues, like thine, but increase with our years? 
 
 *' Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 I' 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 they enjoy. 
 
 ^ *' When, the season of youth and its jolHties past, 
 '^ For refuge we fly to the goblet at last, 
 ** Then we find — who does not ? in the flow of the soui, 
 '^ That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl. 
 
 *' When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, 
 " And Memory's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
 *' Hope was left — was she not ? but the goblet we kiss, 
 '* And care not forhope^ who are certain of bliss. 
 
l4o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown, 
 " The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. 
 ' ' We must die — who does not ? may our sins be forgiven! 
 " And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven." 
 
 Dining with him another day, the subject of 
 private theatricals was introduced. 
 
 *' I am very fond of a private theatre," said 
 he. '^ I remember myself and some friends at 
 " Cambridge getting up a play ; and that reminds 
 '^ me of a thing which happened, that was very 
 ' ' provoking in itself, but very humorous in its 
 '' consequences. 
 
 '^ On the day of representation, one of the per- 
 '' formers took it into his head to make an ex- 
 ' ' cuse, and his part was obliged to be read. Hob- 
 '' house came forward to apologize to the audience, 
 
 '^ and told them that a Mr. had declined to 
 
 ^* perform his part, etc. The gentleman was 
 '' highly indignant at the ' a,' and had a great in- 
 
LORD BYRON. I 4' 
 
 ** clination to pick a quarrel with Scroope Davies, 
 
 '' who rephed, that he supposed Mr. wanted 
 
 ^^ to be called the Mr. so and so. He ever after 
 '* went by the name of the ' Definite Article.' 
 
 " After this preface, to be less indefinite, sup- 
 '^ pose we were to get up a play. My hall, which 
 ' ' is the largest in Tuscany, would make a capital 
 *^ theatre; and we may send to Florence for an 
 ** audience, if we cannot fill it here. And as to 
 ^* decorations, nothing is easier in any part of 
 *' Italy than to get them : besides that, Williams 
 *' will assist us." 
 
 It was accordingly agreed that we should com- 
 mence with '^ Othello." Lord Byron was to be 
 lago. Orders were to be given for the fitting up 
 of the stage, preparing the dresses, etc., and re- 
 hearsals of a few scenes took place. Perhaps Lord 
 Byron would have made the finest actor in the 
 world. His voice had a flexibility, a variety in its 
 tones, a power and pathos beyond any I ever heard; 
 and his countenance was capable of expressing the 
 tenderest, as well as the strongest emotions. I 
 
l42 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 shall never forget his reading Tago's part in the 
 handkerchief scene. 
 
 '' Shakspeare was right," said he, after he had 
 finished, " in making Othello's jealousy turn upon 
 ^^that circumstance.* The handkerchief is the 
 "■ strongest proof of love, not only among the 
 " Moors, but all Eastern nations : and yet they 
 "■ say that the plot of 'Marino Faliero' hangs 
 '' upon too slight a cause." 
 
 All at once a difficulty arose about a Desdemona, 
 and the Guiccioli put her Veto on our theatricals. 
 
 The influence of the Countess over Lord Byron 
 reminded me of a remark of Fletcher's that Shel- 
 ley once repeated to me as having overheard : — 
 
 ^ Calderon says, in the Cisma de l' Inglaterra, (I have not 
 the original,) 
 
 *' She gave me, too, a handkerchief, — a spell — 
 
 "A flattering pledge, my hopes to animate — 
 
 " An astrologic favour — fatal prize 
 
 ** That told too true what tears must weep these eyes!" 
 
I 
 
 LOUD BYRON. l43 
 
 That it was strange every woman should be able 
 to manage his Lordship, but her Ladyship I" 
 
 Discussing the different actors of the day, he 
 said : 
 
 ^^Dowton, who hated Kean, used to say that 
 *' his Othello reminded him of Obi, or Three-fin- 
 '' gered Jack, —not Othello. But, whatever his 
 " Othello might have been, Garrick himself ne- 
 '* ver surpassed him in lago. I am told that Kean 
 *' is not so great a favorite with the public since 
 *' his return from America, and that party streng- 
 " thened against him in his absence. I guess he 
 I ** could not have staid long enough to be spoiled ; 
 " though I calculate no actor is improved by their 
 ^' stage. How do you reckon ? 
 
 '' Kean began by actingRichard the Third when 
 ^' quite a boy, and gave all the promise of what 
 '* he afterwards became. His Sir Giles Overreach 
 '^ was a wonderful performance. The actresses 
 ^* were afraid of him; and he was afterwards 
 
 I 
 
1 44 CON VERS ATIOTsS OF 
 
 '' SO much exhausted himself, that he fell into 
 " fits. This, I am told, was the case with Miss 
 ^^O'Neil.* 
 
 " Kemble did much towards the reform of our 
 ^' stage. Classical costume w<xs almost unknown 
 " before he undertook to revise the dresses. Gar- 
 ' ' rick used to act Othello in a red coat and epau- 
 '' lettes, and other characters had prescriptive ha- 
 '' bits equally ridiculous. I can conceive nothing 
 ''equal to Kemble's Coriolanus; and he looked 
 '' the Roman so well, that even Cato, 'cold and 
 " stiltish as it is, had a run. That shews what 
 " an actor can do for a play! If he had acte 
 " ' Marino Faliero, ' its fate would have been very 
 "different. 
 
 " Kemble pronounced several words affectedly, 
 " which should be cautiously avoided on the stage. 
 " It is nothing that Campbell writes it Sepulcrh in 
 " ' Hohenlinden. ' The Greek derivation is much 
 " against his pronunciation of ache.'^ 
 
 * And he might have added Pasta. 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 45 
 
 He now began to mimic Kemble's voice and 
 manner of spouting, and imitated him inimitably 
 in Prospero's lines : 
 
 " ^Yea, the great globe itself, it shall dissolve, 
 '' 'And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 " 'Leave not a rack behind !' 
 
 '' When half-seas over, Kemble used to speak 
 ' ^ in blank-verse : and with practice, I don't think 
 " it would be difficult. Good prose resolves itself 
 '' into blank-verse. Why should we not be able 
 
 to improvise in hexameters, as well as the 
 '' Italians? Theodore Hook is an improvisatore." 
 
 '^ The greatest genius in that way that perhaps 
 Jtaly ever produced," said Shelley, " is Sgricci." 
 
 '-'- There is a great deal of knack in these gen- 
 try," replied Lord Byron; '' their poetry is 
 '■ ' more mechanical than you suppose . More verses 
 '' are written yearly in Italy, than millions of 
 '•'• money are circulated. It is usual for every 
 *' Italian gentleman to make sonnets to his mis- 
 '-' tress's eyebrow before he is married, — or the 
 ^' lady must be very uninspiring indeed. 
 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
1 46 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' ButSgricci! To extemporize a whole tragedy 
 seems a miraculous gift. I heard him improvise 
 a five-act play at Lucca," said Shelley, " on the 
 subject of the ' Jphigenia in Taurisj^ and never 
 was more interested. He put one of the finest 
 speeches into the mouth of Jphigenia I ever heard. 
 She compared her brother Orestes to the sole 
 remaining pillar on which a temple hung totter- 
 ing, in the act of ruin. The idea, it is true, is 
 from Euripides, but he made it his own." 
 
 " I have never read his play since I was at 
 '' school" replied Lord Byron. ''I don't know how 
 " Sgricci's tragedies may appear in print, but his 
 ' ' printed poetry is tame stuff. The inspiration 
 ' ' of the improviser is quite a separate talent :— 
 '' a consciousness of his own powers, his own 
 " elocution — the wondering and applauding au- 
 ^' dience, — all conspire to give him confidence; 
 " but the deity forsakes him when he coldly 
 '^ sits down to think. Sgricci is not only a fine 
 ^' poet, but a fine actor. Mrs. Siddons," con- 
 '' tinned Lord Byron, ''was the beau ideal oi 
 '' acting; Miss O'Neill I would not go to see, for 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 47 
 
 '' fear of weakening the impression made by the 
 '' queen of tragedians. When I read Lady Mac- 
 '' Leth's part, I have Mrs. Siddons be fore me, 
 " and imagination even supplies her voice, whose 
 '' tones were superhuman, and power over the 
 " heart supernatural. 
 
 *Mt is pleasant enough sometimes to take a 
 " peep behind, as well as to look before the scenes. 
 
 " I remember one leg of an elephant saying 
 ''to another, 'D — n your eyes, move a little 
 '' quicker;' and overhearing at the Opera two 
 " people in love, who were so distraits that they 
 " made the responses between the intervals of 
 '' the recitative, instead of during the recitation 
 '' itself. One said to the other, 'Do you love 
 "me?' then came the flourish of music, and 
 " the reply sweeter than the music, ' Can you 
 '' doubt it?' " 
 
 " I have just been reading Lamb's Specimens," 
 said he, " and am surprised to find in the extracts 
 
1 48 CONVERSATIOIS'S OF 
 
 ^' from the old dramatists so many ideas that I 
 " thought exclusively my own. Here is a pas- 
 '' sage, for instance, from ' The Duchess of Malfy,' 
 '' astonishingly like one in 'Don Juan.' 
 
 " ' The leprosy of his t^ I discover, too, is not 
 ''mine. ^ Thou trembles t,' — *'Tis with age 
 " then,' wrhich I am accused of borrowing from 
 " Otway, was taken from the Old Bailey proceed- 
 " ings. Some judge observed to the witness, 
 " ' Thou tremblest ;' — ' ' Tis with cold then,' was 
 " the reply. 
 
 " These Specimens of Lamb's I never saw till 
 " to-day. I am taxed with being a plagiarist, 
 " when I am least conscious of being one; but I 
 " am not very scrupulous, I own, when I have a 
 " good idea, how I came into possession of it. 
 " How can we tell to what extent Shakspeare is 
 " indebted to his contemporaries, whose works 
 ^' are now lost? Besides which. Gibber adapted 
 " his plays to the stage. 
 
 " The invocation of the witches was, we know, 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 4|) 
 
 " a servile plagiarism from Middleton. Authors 
 *^ were not so squeamish about borrowing froni 
 ** one another in those days. If it be a fault, I do 
 " not pretend to be immaculate. I will lend you 
 " some volumes of Shipwrecks, from which my 
 ** storm in ' Don Juan' came." 
 
 '' Lend me also ' Casti's Novelle,' " said I. " Did 
 you never see in Italian, — 
 
 ^' Round her she makes an atmosphere of light : 
 •* The very air seemed hghter from her eyes ?" 
 
 '' The Germans," said he, '' and I believe 
 *^ Goethe himself, consider that I have taken 
 " great liberties with ' Faust.' All I know of that 
 " drama is from a sorry French translation, from 
 '' an occasional reading or two into English of 
 " parts of it by Monk Lewis when at Diodati, and 
 '' from the Hartz mountain-scene, that Shelley 
 " versified from the other day. Nothing I envy 
 '' him so much as to be able to read that astonish- 
 *' ing production in the original. As to origina- 
 '* lity, Goethe has too much sense to pretend that 
 
100 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *^ lie is not under obligations to authors, ancient 
 '' and modern;— who is not? You tell me the 
 '* plot is almost entirely Calderon's. The fete, 
 '* the scholar, the argument about the Logos ^ the 
 '' selling himself to the fiend, and afterwards 
 '' denying his power ; his disguise of the plumed 
 ' ' cavalier ; the enchanted mirror, — are all from 
 '' Cyprian. Th^t magicoprodigiosoToiVLst'hQviorXh 
 '' reading, and nobody seems to know any thing 
 *^ about it but you and Shelley. Then the vision 
 '^ is not unlike that of Marlow's, in his ' Faustus.* 
 '^ The bed-scene is from ' Cymbeline ;' the song 
 *' or serenade, a translation of Ophelia's, in *Ham- 
 " let ;' and, more than all, the prologue is from 
 '> Job, which is the first drama in the world, and 
 *' perhaps the oldest poem. I had an idea of 
 " writing a ' Job,' but I found it too sublime. 
 '^ There is no poetry to be compared with it." 
 
 I told him that Japhet's soliloquy in ' Heaven 
 and Earth,' and address to the mountains of Cau- 
 casus, strongly resembled Faust's. 
 
 '' I shall have commentators enough by and 
 
LORD BYRON. l5l 
 
 ^« by," said he, '' to dissect my thoughts, and 
 '' find owners for them." 
 
 '' When I first saw the review of my 'Hours of 
 " Idleness,'*^ I was furious; in such a rage as I 
 '^ never have been in since. 
 
 *' I dined that day with Scroope Davies, and 
 '* drank three bottles of claret to drown it ; but it 
 '' only boiled the more. That critique was a 
 *' masterpiece of low wit, a tissue of scurrilous 
 '^ abuse. I remember there was a great deal of 
 '' vulgar trash in it which was meant for humour, 
 '' ' about people being thankful for what they 
 " could get,' — ' not looking a gift horse in the 
 *' mouth,' and such stable expressions. The se- 
 '' verity of ' The Quarterly' killed poor Keats, and 
 " neglect, Kirke White ; but I was made of dif- 
 *' ferent stuff, of tougher materials. So far from 
 '' their bullying me, or deterring me from writ- 
 
 ^ Written in 1808. 
 
iSa 
 
 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ' ' ing, I was Lent on falsifying their raven predic- 
 '' tions, and determined to shew them, croak as 
 " they would, that it was not the last time they 
 ^' should hear from me. I set to work immedi- 
 -' ately, and in good earnest, and produced in a 
 '' year ' The English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' 
 ^' JFor the first four days after it was announced, 
 " I was very nervous about its fate. Generally 
 '^ speaking, the first fortnight decides the public 
 "" opinion of a new book. This made a prodi- 
 ' * gious impression, more perhaps than any of my 
 '^ works, except ' The Corsair.' 
 
 '' In less than a year and a half it passed through 
 " four editions, and rather large ones. To some 
 '' of them, contrary to the advice of my friends, I 
 " affixed my name. The thing was known to be 
 '' mine, and I could not have escaped any enemies 
 " in not owning it; besides, it was more manly 
 '' not to deny it. There were many things in that 
 " satire which I was afterwards sorry for, and I 
 '' wished to cancel it. If Galignani chose to.re- 
 " print it, it was no fault of mine. I did my 
 '' utmost to suppress the publication, not only in 
 
LORD BYRON. I 53 
 
 *^ England, but in Ireland. I will tell you my 
 *' principal reason for doing so : I had good 
 " grounds to believe that Jeffrey (though perhaps 
 '' really responsible for whatever appears in 'The 
 " Edinburgh/ as Gifford is for ' The Quarterly,' 
 ** as its editor) was not the author of that article, 
 " — was not guilty of it. He disowned it ; and 
 " though he would not give up the aggressor, he 
 '* said he would convince me, if I ever came to 
 " Scotland, who the person was. I have every 
 ^' reason to believe it was a certain lawyer, who 
 
 ^' hated me for something I once said of Mrs. . 
 
 '^ The technical language about ' minority pleas,' 
 '' ^plaintiffs,' * grounds of action,' etc. a jargon 
 ':'• only intelligible to a lawyer, leaves no doubt in 
 " my mind on the subject. I bear no animosity to 
 ^' him now, though, independently of this lam- 
 '' poon, which does him no credit, he gave me 
 " cause enougli of offence. 
 
 *' The occasion was this : — In my separation- 
 *' cause, that went before the Chancellor as a 
 *' matter of form, when the proceedings came on, 
 ** he took upon himself to apply some expressions. 
 
1 54 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' or make some allusions to me, which must have 
 *' been of a most unwarrantable nature, as my 
 *' friends consulted whether they should acquaint 
 '' me with the purport of them. What they pre- 
 '' cisely were I never knew, or should certainly 
 *' have made him retract them. I met him after- 
 '^ wards at Coppet, but was not at that time ac- 
 *' quainted with this circumstance. He took on 
 *' himself the advocate also, in writing to Madame 
 *' de Stael, and advising her not to meddle in the 
 '' quarrel between Lady Byron and myself. This 
 * ' was not kind ; it was a gratuitous and unfeed 
 ^' act of hostility. But there was another reason 
 *' that influenced me even more than my cooled 
 *' resentment against Jeffrey, to suppress ' English 
 *' Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' In the duel-scene 
 ** I had unconsciously made part of the ridicule 
 '' fall on Moore. The fact was, that there was no 
 * ' imputation on the courage of either of the prin- 
 *' cipals. One of the balls fell out in the carriage, 
 ^' and was lost; and the seconds, not having a 
 ^' further supply, drew the remaining one. 
 
 " Shortly after this publication I went abroad : 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 55 
 
 ''' and Moore was so ofFendecl by the mention of 
 *' the leadless pistols, that he addressed a letter 
 '' to me in the nature of a challenge, delivering 
 ** it to the care of Mr. Hanson, but without ac- 
 " quainting him with the contents. This letter 
 ^' was mislaid, — at least never forwarded to me. 
 
 . *' But, on my return to England in 1812, an 
 *" inquiry was made by Moore, if I had received 
 ** such a letter? adding, that particular circum- 
 ||^ stances (meaning his marriage, or perhaps the 
 *' suppression of the satire) had now altered his 
 *' situation, and that he wished to recall the letter, 
 ** and to be known to me through Rogers. I was 
 *' shy of this mode of arranging matters, one hand 
 '^ presenting a pistol, and another held out to 
 ^' shake ; and felt awkward at the loss of a letter 
 " of such a nature, and the imputation it might 
 " have given rise to. But when, after a consi- 
 " derable search, it was at length found, I re- 
 '' turned it to Moore with the seal unbroken ; and 
 '' we have since been the best friends in the world. 
 *' I correspond with no one so regularly as with 
 Moore. 
 
l56 CONYERSATIO:JfS OF J 
 
 *' It is remarkable that I should at this moment I 
 '^ number among my most intimate friends and' 
 '' correspondents those whom I most made the 
 " subjects of satire in ' English Bards.' I never 
 " retracted my opinions of their works, — I never 
 ' ' sought their acquaintance ; but there are men 
 " who can forgive and forget. The Laureate is 
 '' not one of that disposition, and exults over 
 '^ the anticipated death-bed repentance of the 
 " objects of his hatred. Finding that his denun- 
 *' ciations or panegyrics are of little or no avail 
 '' here, he indulges himself in a pleasant vision 
 "as to what will be their fate hereafter. The 
 •' third Heaven is hardly good enough for a king, 
 " and Dante's worst berth in the ' Inferno' hardly 
 ' ' bad enough for me . My kindness to his brother- 
 '' in-law might have taught him to be more cha- 
 '' ritable. I said in a Note to ' The Two Foscari,' 
 " in answer to his vain boasting, that I had done 
 " more real good in one year than Mr. Southey in 
 '' the whole course of his shifting and turn-coat 
 " existence, on which he seems to reflect with 
 '' so much complacency. I did not mean to pride 
 *' myself on the act to which T have just referred > 
 
LORD BYRON. 1X7 
 
 *' and should not mention it to you, but that his 
 self-sufficiency calls for the explanation. When 
 
 Coleridge was in great distress, I borrowed 100/. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 *' to give him." 
 
 Some days after this discussion appeared 
 Mr. Southey's reply to the Note in question. I 
 happened to see * The Literary Gazette' at Mr. 
 Edgeworth's, and mentioned the general purport 
 of the letter to Lord Byron during our evening 
 ride. His anxiety to get a sight of it was so 
 great, that he wrote me two notes in the course 
 of the evening, entreating me to procure the 
 ])aper. I at length succeeded, and took it to the 
 La nf ran chi palace at eleven o'clock, (after coming 
 from the Opera,) an hour at which I was fre- 
 quently in the habit of calling on him. 
 
 He had left the Guiccioli earlier than usual, and 
 I found him waiting with some impatience. I never 
 shall forget his countenance as he glanced rapidly 
 over the contents. He looked perfectly awful : 
 his colour changed almost prismatically ; his lips 
 were as pale as death. He said not a word. He 
 
1 58 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 read it a second time, and with more attention 
 than his rage at first permitted, commenting on 
 some of the passages as he went on. When he had 
 finished, he threw down the paper, and asked me 
 if I thought there was any thing of a personal 
 nature in the reply that demanded satisfaction ; 
 as, if there was, he would instantly set off for 
 England and call Southey to an account, — mut- 
 tering something about whips, and branding- 
 irons, and gibbets, and wounding the heart of 
 a woman, — words of Mr. Southey's. I said that, 
 as to personality, his own expressions of '' cow- 
 ardly ferocity," " pitiful renegado," " hireling," 
 were much stronger than any in the letter before 
 me. He paused a moment, and said : 
 
 '' Perhaps you are right ; but I will consider of 
 '' it. You have not seen mj ' Vision of Judg- 
 '' ment.' I wish I had a cop^ to shew you; but 
 '' the only one I have is in London. I had almost 
 ** decided not to publish it, but it shall now go 
 ^' forth to the world. I will write to Douglas 
 *' Kinnaird by to-morrow's post, not to delay 
 *' its appearance. The question is, whom to 
 
LORD BYRON. i5q 
 
 '^ get to print it. Murray will have nothing to 
 " say to it just now, while the prosecution of 
 *' 'Cain' hangs over his head. It was offered 
 *' to Longman; but he declined it on the plea of 
 *' its injuring the sale of Southey's Hexameters, 
 ** of which he is the publisher. Hunt shall 
 '' have it." 
 
 Another time he said : 
 
 ^' I am glad Mr. Southey owns that article on 
 *' ' Foliage,' which excited my choler so much. 
 *' But who else could have been the author? 
 '' Who but Southey would have had the base- 
 '' ness, under the pretext of reviewing the 
 *' work of one man, insidiously to make it a nest 
 " egg for hatching malicious calumnies against 
 '' others? 
 
 '' It was bad taste, to say the least of it, in 
 '' Shelley to write A&tc^ after his name at Mont 
 " Anvert. I knew little of him at that time, but 
 *' it happened to meet my eye, andl put my pen 
 '' through the word, and Mtvpo^ too^ that had 
 
l6o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 *' been added by some one else by way of com- 
 ^' ment — and a very proper comment too, and the 
 " only one that should have been made on it. 
 *' There it should have stopped. It would have 
 *' been more creditable to Mr. Southey's heart 
 ^' and feelings if he had been of this opinion; 
 ' ' he would then never have made the use of his 
 '^ travels he did, nor have raked out of an album 
 '^ the silly joke of a boy, in order to make it 
 *' matter of serious accusation against him at 
 '' home. I might well say he had impudence 
 '^ enough, if he could confess such infamy. I say 
 "• nothing of the critique itself on ' Foliage ;' 
 " with the exception of a few sonnets, it was un- 
 " worthy of Hunt. But what was the object of 
 " that article ? I repeat, to vilify and scatter his 
 " dark and devilish insinuations against me and 
 " others. Shame on the man who could wound 
 * ' an already bleeding heart, — be barbarous enough 
 *' to revive the memory of a fatal event that Shel- 
 "■ ley was perfectly innocent of — and found scandal 
 ' ' on falsehood I Shelley taxed him with writing 
 '' that article some years ago; and he had the 
 " audacity to admit that he had treasured up 
 
LORD BYRON. l6l 
 
 ** some opinions of Shelley's, ten years before, 
 '' when he was on a visit at Keswick, and had made 
 *' a note of them at the time. But his bag of venom 
 *' was not full; it is the nature of the reptile. 
 ^' Why does a viper have a poison-tooth, or the 
 ** scorpion claws ?" 
 
 Some days after these remarks, on calling on 
 him one morning, he produced ' The Deformed 
 Transformed/ Handing it to Shelley, as he was 
 in the habit of doing his daily compositions, he 
 said, 
 
 '' Shelley, I have been writing a Faustish kind 
 '* of drama : tell me what you think of it." 
 
 After reading it attentively^ Shelley returned it. 
 
 '' Well," said Lord Byron, *^ how do you like 
 " it?" 
 
 *' Least," replied he, ** of any thing I ever saw 
 of yours. It is a bad imilation of ' Faust ;' and be- 
 sides, there are two entire lines of Southey's in it."" 
 
 7. 
 
t62 conversations of 
 
 Lord Byron changed colour immediately, and 
 asked hastily what lines ? Shelley repeated, 
 
 " 'And water shall see thee, 
 *'• 'And fear thee, and flee thee.' 
 
 '' They are in ' The Curse of Kehama.' " 
 
 His Lordship, without making a single obser- 
 vation, instantly threw the poem into the fire. 
 He seemed to feel no chagrin at seeing it con- 
 sume — at least his countenance betrayed none, 
 and his conversation became more gay and lively 
 than usual. Whether it was hatred of Southey, 
 or respect for Shelley's opinion, which made him 
 commit an act that I considered a sort of suicide, 
 was always doubtful to me. I was never more 
 surprised than to see, two years afterwards, ' The 
 Deformed Transformed' announced ; (supposing 
 it to have perished at Pisa;) but it seems that he 
 must have had another copy of the manuscript, 
 or had re-written it 'perhaps, without changing a 
 word, except omitting the ' Kehama' lines. His 
 memory was remarkably retentive of his own 
 
LORD BYRO^'. 1 63 
 
 writings. I believe he could have quoted ahnost 
 every line he ever wrote. 
 
 One day a correspondent of Lord Byron's sent 
 him from Paris the following lines — a sort of 
 epitaph for Southey — which he gave me leave to 
 copy. 
 
 " Beneath these poppies buried deep, 
 The bones of Bob the Bard lie hid ^ 
 
 Peace to his manes ! and may he sleep 
 As soundly as his readers did ! 
 
 Through every sort of verse meandering, 
 
 Bob went without a hitch or fall. 
 Through Epic^ Sapphic, Alexandrine, 
 
 To verse that was no verse at all ; 
 
 Till Fiction having done enough. 
 
 To make a bard at least absurd, 
 And give his readers quantum suff^ 
 
 He took to praising George the Third : 
 
 And now in virtue of his crown. 
 
 Dooms us, poor Whigs, at once to slaughter ; 
 Like Donellan of bad renown. 
 Poisoning us all with laurel water. 
 
1^4 CO:yVERSATiaNS OF 
 
 And yet at times some awkward qualms he 
 Felt about leaving honour's track ; 
 
 And though he has got a butt of Malmsey, 
 It may not save him from a sack. 
 
 Death, weary of so dull a writer, 
 Put to his works d. finis thus. 
 
 01 may the earth on, him lie lighter 
 Than did his quartos upon us ! " 
 
 *' ' Heaven and Earth' was commenced," said 
 *' he, '^at Ravenna, on the gtli October last. It 
 *' occupied about fourteen days. Douglas Kin- 
 '^ naird tells me that he can get no bookseller 
 *^ to publish it. It was offered to Murray, but 
 " he is the most timid of God's booksellers, and 
 " starts at the title. He has taken a dislike to 
 '' that three-syllabled word Mjsterj^ and says, 
 '' I know not why, that it is another 'Cain/ I 
 '^ suppose he does not like my making one of 
 '^ Cain's daughters talk the same language as her 
 '' father's father, and has a prejudice against the 
 '^ family. I could not make her so unnatural as 
 " to speak ill of her grandfather. I was forced 
 
LORD BYROJN, 1 65 
 
 ** to make her aristocratical, proud of her descent 
 '^ from the eldest born. Murray says, that who- 
 *' ever prints it will have it pirated, as ' Cain' has 
 *•' been, — that a Court of justice will not sanction 
 *' it as literary property. On what plea? There 
 " is nothing objectionable in it, that I am aware 
 '' of. You have read it; what do you think ? If 
 '* ' Cain' be immoral (whicli I deny), will not the 
 '' Chancellor's refusal to protect, and the cheap— 
 '* ness of a piratical edition, give it a wider 
 "• circulation among the lower classes? Will they 
 '^ not buy and read it for the very reason that 
 "it is considered improper^ and try to discover 
 " an evil tendency where it was least meant? 
 '' May not impiety be extracted by garbling the 
 " Bible? I defy the common people to under- 
 " stand such mysteries as the loves of the Angels, 
 " at least they are mysteries to me. Moore, too, 
 *' is writing on the same text. Any thing that 
 " he writes must succeed." 
 
 I told him that the laughter of the fiends in 
 the Cave of Caucasus reminded me of the row 
 of the Furies in the ' Eumenides' of iEschylus. 
 
1 66 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' I have never read any of his plays since I left 
 *' Harrow," said Lord Byron. " Shelley, when I 
 ^' was in Switzerland, translated the 'Prometheus' 
 " to me before I wrote my ode ; but I never 
 '' open a Greek book. Shelley tells me that the 
 '' choruses in 'Heaven and Earth' are deficient. 
 '' He thinks that lyrical poetry should be me- 
 " trically regular. Surely this is not the case 
 '' with the Greek choruses that he makes such 
 '' a fuss about. However, Hunt will be glad of 
 '' it for his new periodical work. I talked of writ- 
 *' ing a second part to it; but it was only as 
 " Coleridge promised a second part to ' Christa- 
 ' ' bel. ' I will tell you how I had an idea of finishing it: 
 
 ''Let me see — where did I leave off? Oh, with 
 " Azazael and Samiasa refusing to obey the sum- 
 " mons of Michael, and throwing off their alle- 
 " giance to Heaven. They rise into the air with 
 " the two sisters, and leave this globe to a fate 
 " which, according to Cuvier, it has often un- 
 " dergone, and will undergo again. The appear- 
 " ance of the land strangled by the ocean will 
 " serve by way of scenery and decorations. The 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 67 
 
 '^ affectionate tenderness of Adali for those from 
 '' whom she is parted, and for ever, and her fears 
 " contrasting with the loftier spirit of Ahohba- 
 " mah trimnphing in the hopes of a new and 
 " greater destiny, will make the dialogue. They 
 '' in the meantime continue their aerial voyage, 
 " every where denied admittance in those float- 
 '' ing islands on the sea of space, and driven 
 " back by guardian-spirits of the different pla- 
 '' nets, till they are at length forced to alight 
 '' on the only peak of the earth uncovered by 
 '' water. Here a parting takes place between 
 '' the lovers, which I shall make affecting enough. 
 " The fallen Angels are suddenly called, and 
 '' condemned, — their destination and punish- 
 '' ment unknown. The sisters still cling to the 
 ' ' rock, the waters mounting higher and higher. 
 " Now enter Ark. The scene draws up, and 
 ^* discovers Japliet endeavouring to persuade the 
 ^' Patriarch, with very strong arguments of love 
 '' and pity, to receive the sisters, or at least 
 '' Adah, on board. Adah joins in his entreaties, 
 ** and endeavours to cling to the sides of the 
 
1 68 COI^VERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' vessel. The proud and haughty Aholibamah 
 '^ scorns to pray either to God or man, and an- 
 " ticipates the grave by plunging into the waters. 
 *' Noah is still inexorable. The surviving daughter 
 " of Cain is momentarily in danger of perish- 
 " ing before the eyes of the Arkites. Japhet is 
 *' in despair. The last wave sweeps her from 
 " the rock, and her lifeless corpse floats past in 
 '' all its beauty, whilst a sea-bird screams over 
 *' it, and seems to be the spirit of her angel 
 ^' lord. I once thought of conveying the lovers 
 ** to the moon, or one of the planets ; but it 
 " is not easy for the imagination to make any 
 '' unknown world more beautiful than this ; 
 ^' besides, I did not think they would approve 
 *' of the moon as a residence. I remembered what 
 '' Fontenelle said of its having no atmosphere, 
 ^' and the dark spots being caverns where the in- 
 "• habitants reside. There was another objec- 
 " tion : all the human interest would have been 
 ^^ destroyed, which I have even endeavoured to 
 '^ give my Angels. It was a very Irish kind of 
 '^ compliment Jeffrey paid to Moore's 'Lalla 
 
 I 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 69 
 
 *^ Rookh/ when he said the loves were those of 
 " Angels ; meaning that they were like nothing 
 " on earth. What will he say of 'The Loves 
 **' of the Angels ?' — that they are like (for he has 
 " nothing left ) nothing in Heaven ? 
 
 " I wrote 'The Prophecy of Dante' at the sug- 
 '' gestion of the Countess. I was at that time 
 '' paying my court to the Guiccioli, and address-^ 
 " edthe dedicatory sonnet to her. She had heard 
 " of my having written something about Tasso, 
 " and thought Dante's exile and death would fur- 
 >' nish as fine a subject. I can never write but on 
 " the spot. Before I began 'The Lament/ I went 
 " to Ferrara, to visit the Dungeon. Hoppner was 
 " with me, and part of it, the greater part, was 
 " composed (as 'The Prisoner of Chillon') in the 
 "prison. The place of Dante's fifteen years' 
 "exile, where he so pathetically prayed for his 
 :, " country, and deprecated the thought of being 
 "buried out of it ; and the sight of his tomb, 
 " which I passed in my almost daily rides, — in- 
 " spired me. Besides, there was somewhat of 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
I^O CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " resemblance* in our destinies — he had a wife, 
 " and I have the same feelings about leaving my 
 '' bones in a strange land. 
 
 '^ I had, however, a much more extensive view 
 '' in writing that poem than to describe either his 
 '' banishment or his grave. Poets are sometimes 
 '' shrewd in their conjectures. You quoted to me 
 '' the other day aline in ^ Childe Harold,' in which 
 " I made a prediction about the Greeks :f in this 
 '' instance I was not so fortunate as to be prophe- 
 '^ tic. This poem was intended for the Italians and 
 
 "The day may come she would be proi^d to have 
 ** The dust she doom'd to strangers, and transfer 
 " Of him whom she denied a home — the grave.'* 
 
 Prophecy of Dante. 
 
 " Where now my boys are, and that fatal she" — 
 
 , Ibid, 
 
 " They made an exile, not a slave of me." 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 f ^* Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No." 
 
 Childe Harold, Canto II. Stanza 75. 
 
LORD BYRON. I7I 
 
 ^< the Guiccioli, and therefore I wished to have it 
 '* translated. I had objected to the Versi sciolti 
 *' having been used in my Fourth Canto of * Childe 
 * ' Harold ;' but this was the very metre they adopt- 
 *' ed in defiance of my remonstrance, and in the 
 " very teeth of it ; and yet I believe the Italians 
 *^ liked the work. It was looked at in a political 
 ** light, and they indulged in my dream of liberty, 
 '* and the resurrection of Italy. Alas I it was 
 ^^ only a dream ! 
 
 '* Terza Rima does not seem to suit the genius 
 *' of English poetry — it is certainly uncalculated 
 '^ for a work of any length. In our language, 
 " however, it may do for a short ode. The pub- 
 *' lie at least thought my attempt a failure, and 
 *^ the public is in the main right. I never perse- 
 " cute the public. I always bow to its verdict, 
 " which is generally just. Eut if I had wanted 
 1 '* a sufficient reason for my giving up the Pro- 
 *' phecy — the Prophecy failed me. 
 
 " It was the turn political affairs took thatniade 
 *' me relinquish the work. At one time the flame 
 
l']^ CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " was expected to break out over all Italy, but it 
 *' only ended in smoke, and my poem went out 
 *' with it. I don't wonder at the enthusiasm of 
 >' the Italians about Dante. He is the poet of 
 '' liberty. Persecution, exile, the dread of a 
 *^ foreign grave, could not shake his principles. 
 '' There is no Italian gentleman, scarcely any 
 ^' well-educated girl, that has not all the finer pas- 
 '* sages of Dante at the fingers' ends, — parti- 
 " cularly the Ravennese. The Guiccioli, for in- 
 " stance, could almost repeat any part of the 
 " 'Divine Comedy ;' and, I dare say, is well read 
 " in the ' f^ita Nuo^a,^ that prayer-book of 
 " love. 
 
 *• ' Shelley always says that reading Dante is un- 
 '' favourable to writing, from its superiority to 
 '' all possible compositions. Whether he be the 
 >' first or not, he is certainly the most untran- 
 " slatable of all poets. You may give the mean- 
 " ing; but the charm, the simplicity — the classical 
 '^ simplicity — is lost. You might as well clothe 
 '' a statue as attempt to translate Dante. He is 
 *' better, as an Italian said, ' nudo che vestito.^ 
 
LORD BYROIS. 17^ 
 
 " There's Taafe is not satisfied with what Carey 
 *' has done, but he must be traducing him too. 
 " What think you of that fine line in the 'Inferno' 
 *' being rendered, as Taafe has done it? 
 
 '* ' I Mantuan, capering, squalid, squaUing/ 
 
 ^' There's aUiteration and inversion enough, 
 " surely I I have advised him to frontispiece his 
 "book with his own head, '- Capo di Traditore\, 
 <' ' the head of a traitor f then will come the title- 
 * '^ page comment — Hell !" 
 
 I asked Lord Byron the meaning of a passage in 
 * The Prophecy of Dante.' He laughed, and said : 
 
 " I suppose I had some meaning when I wrote 
 *' it : I believe I understood it then." ^ 
 
 ^ " \iyou insist oa grammar, though 
 " I never think about it in a heat — " 
 
 Don Juan, Canto VII. Stanza ^1. 
 
 '^ I don't pretend that I quite understand 
 
 "^ My own meaning when I would be very fine." 
 
 Don Juan, Canto IV. Stanza 5, 
 
174 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' That," said I, ''is what the disciples of Swe- 
 denberg say. There are many people who do not 
 understand passages in your writings, among our 
 own countrymen : I wonder how foreigners con- 
 trive to translate tjbem." 
 
 ''And yet," said he, "they have been tran- 
 " slated into all the civilized, and many Uncivilized 
 " tongues. Several of them have appeared in 
 "Danish, Polish, and even Russian dresses. 
 " These last, being translations of translations 
 " from the French, must be very diluted. The 
 " greatest compliment ever paid me has been 
 " shewn in Germany, where a translation of the 
 " Fourth Canto of ' Childe Harold' has been made 
 "the subject of a University prize. But as to 
 " obscurity, is not Milton obscure ? How do you 
 " explain 
 
 -" 'Smoothing 
 
 " * The raven down of darkness till it smiled ! ' 
 
 " Is it not a simile taken from the electricity of a 
 " cat's back ? I'll leave you to be my commen- 
 " tator, and hope you will make better work with 
 
LORD BYRON. 176 
 
 ** me than Taafe is doing with Dante, who per- 
 " haps could not himself explain, half that vo- 
 " Imnes are written about, if his ghost were to 
 " rise again from the dead. I am sure I wonder 
 "he and Shakspeare have not been raised by their 
 " commentators long ago !" 
 
 " People are always advising me," said he, 'Ho 
 " write an epic. You tell me that I shall leave no 
 " great poem behind me ; — that is, I suppose you 
 " mean by great, a heavy poem, or a weighty 
 '* poem ; I believe they are synonymous. You say 
 *' that 'Childe Haiold' is unequal; that the last 
 '' two Cantos are far superior to the first two. I 
 '' know it is a thing without form or substance, — 
 *' a iwj-age pittoresque. But who reads Milton ? 
 '' My opinion as to the inequality of my poems is 
 " this, — that one is not better or worse than ano- 
 '^ ther. And as to epics, — have you not got enough 
 " of Southey's ? There's ' Joan d'Arc,' ' The Curse 
 '' of Kehama,' and God knows how many more 
 '* curses, down to ' The Last of the Goths V If you 
 *' must have an epic, there's ' Don Juan' for you. 
 
176 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' I call that an epic :^ it is an epic as much in the 
 " spirit of our. day as the Iliad was in Homer's. 
 " Love, religion, and politics form the argument, 
 " and are as much the cause of quarrels now as 
 ^' they were then. There is no want of Parises 
 '' and Menelauses, and of Crim.-cons, into the 
 " bargain. In the very first Canto you have a 
 '' Helen. Then, I shall make my hero a perfect 
 '' Achilles for fighting, — a man who can snuff a 
 '' candle three successive times with a pistol-ball : 
 ^' and, depend upon it, my moral will be a good 
 " one ; not even Dr. Johnson should be able to 
 ^' find a flaw in it I 
 
 " Some one has possessed the Guiccioli with a 
 ^'notion that my 'Don Juan' and the Don Gio- 
 ' ' vanni of the Opera are the same person ; and to 
 '^ please her I have discontinued his history and 
 *' adventures ; but if I should resume them, I will 
 '' tell you how I mean him to go on. I left him in 
 
 ^ Only five Cantos of ' Don Juan' were written when I 
 held this conversation with him, which was committed to 
 paper half an hour after it occurred. 
 
LORD BYRON. I 77 
 
 '' the seraglio there. I shall make one of the 
 " favourites, a Sultana, (no less a personage,) fall 
 '* in love with him, and carry him off from Con- 
 '' stantinople. Such elopements are not uncom- 
 '' mon, nor unnatural either, though it v\^ould 
 ^' shock the ladies to say they are ever to blame. 
 ** Well, they make good their escape to Russia ; 
 " where, if Juan's passion cools, and I don't know 
 *' what to do with the lady, I shall make her die 
 " of the plague. There are accounts enough of 
 '' the plague to be met with, from Boccaccio to De 
 " Foe ; — but I have seen it myself, and that is 
 " worth all their descriptions. As our hero can't 
 " do without a mistress, he shall next become 
 '' man-mistress to Catherine the Great. Queens 
 '* have had strange fancies for more ignoble 
 '' people before and since. I shall, therefore, 
 *' make him cut out the ancestor of jthe young 
 " Russian, and shall send him, when he is hors 
 '' de combaty to England as her ambassador. In 
 *' his suite he. shall have a girl whom he shall have 
 '•' rescued during one of his northern campaigns, 
 *' who shall be in love with him, and he not with 
 "her. 
 
178 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " You see I am true to Nature in making the 
 '* advances come from the females. I shall next 
 '^ draw a town and country life at home, which 
 '' will give me room for life, manners, scenery, etc. 
 '^ I will make him neither a dandy in town nor a 
 " fox-hunter in the country. He shall get into 
 *^ all sorts of scrapes, and at length end his career 
 *' in France. Poor Juan shall be guillotined in 
 " the French Revolution I What do you think of 
 " my plot? It shall have twenty-four books too, 
 *' the legitimate number. Episodes it has, and 
 '' will have, out of number; and my spirits, 
 *' good or bad, must serve for the machinery. 
 '' If that be not an epic, if it be not strictly 
 '' according to Aristotle, I don't know what an 
 '* epic poem means." 
 
 *' Murray," said he, *' pretends to have lost 
 '' money by my writings, and pleads poverty ; but 
 " if he is poor, which is somewhat problematical 
 " to me, pray who is to blame? The fault is 
 " in his having purchased, at the instance of 
 *' his great friends, during the last year, so many 
 
LORD BYRON. I 79 
 
 '* expensive Voyages and Travels,* which all his 
 *' influence with 'The Quarterly' cannot per- 
 '* suade people to buy, cannot puff into popu- 
 *' larity. The Cookery-book (which he has got 
 " a lawsuit about) has been for a long time his 
 "sheet-anchor; but they isay he will have to 
 '' re-fund— the worst o£ funds. Mr. Murray is 
 '* tender of my fame I How kind in him ! He 
 *' is afraid of my writing too fast. Why? because 
 " he has a tenderer regard for his own pocket, 
 " and does not like the look of any new acquain- 
 " tance, in the shape* of a book of mine, till 
 " he has seen his old friends' in a variety of new 
 " faces; id est, disposed of a vast many editions 
 ' ' of the former works. I don't know what would 
 '^ become of me without Douglas Kinnaird, who 
 " has always been my best and kindest friend. 
 " It is not easy to deal with Mr. Murray. 
 
 '' Murray offered me, of his own accord, 1000/. 
 
 * ^' Death to his puhlisher— to him 'tis sport." 
 
 Z?o/i «7aa/z, Canto V. Stanza 53. 
 
l8o CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' a Canto for ' Don Juan,' and afterwkrds reduced 
 ^' it to 5oo/. on the plea of piracy, and complained 
 '' of my dividing one Canto into two, because 
 ^' I happened to say something at the end of the 
 '' Third about having done so. It is true enough 
 " that 'Don Juan' has been pirated; but whom 
 " has he to thank but himself? In the first place, 
 '' he put too high a price on the copies of the 
 " first two Cantos that came out, only printing 
 " a quarto edition, at, 1 think, a guinea and 
 " a half. There was a great demand for it, and 
 " this induced the knavish booksellers to hue- 
 " caneer. If he had put John Murray on the 
 " title-page, like a man, instead of smuggling the 
 '' brat into the world, and getting Davison, who is 
 " a printer and not a publisher, to father it, who 
 " would have ventured to question his paternal 
 '' rights? or who would have attempted to de- 
 ** prive him of them? • 
 
 " The thing was plainly this : he disowned and 
 " refused to acknowledge the bantling; the na- 
 " tural consequence was, that others should come 
 *' forward to adopt it. Mr. John Murray is the 
 
, LORD BYRON. l8l 
 
 most nervous of God's booksellers. When 
 ' Don Juan ' first came out, lie was so frightened 
 that he made a precipitate retreat into the 
 country, shut himself up, and would not open 
 his letters. The fact is, he prints for too many 
 Bishops. He is always boring me with piratical 
 edition after edition, to prove the amount of 
 his own losses, and furnish proof of the extent 
 of his own folly. Here is one at two-and-six- 
 pence that came only yesterday. I do not pity 
 him. Because I gave him one of my poems, he 
 wanted to make me believe that I had made 
 him a present of two others, and hinted at some 
 lines in 'English Bards' that were certainly 
 to the point. But I have altered my mind con- 
 siderably upon that subject : as I once hinted 
 to him, I see no reason why a man should not 
 profit by the sweat of his brain, as well as 
 that of his brow, etc.; besides, I was poor 
 at that time, and have no idea of aggrandizing 
 booksellers. I was in Switzerland when he 
 made this modest request, — and he always en- 
 tertained a spite against Shelley for making the 
 agreement, and fixing the price, which I believe 
 
1 82 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '^ was not dear, for the Third Canto of 'Childe 
 '' Harold,' ^Manfred,' and^ The Prisoner of Chil- 
 '' Ion,' etc. — I got 2400/. Depend on it, he 
 *' did not lose money — he was not ruined by that 
 ^' speculation. 
 
 ''Murray has long prevented 'The Quarterly' 
 " from abusing me. Some of its bullies have had 
 " their fingers itching to be at me; but they 
 " would get the worst of it in a set-to." (Here 
 he put himself in a boxing attitude.) " I perceive, 
 " however, that we shall have some sparring ere 
 " long. I don't wish to quarrel with Murray, 
 '^ but it seems inevitable. I had no reason to be 
 " pleased with him the other day. Galignani 
 '' wrote to me, offering to purchase the copyright 
 " of my works, in order to obtain an exclusive 
 " privilege of printing them in France. I might 
 " have made my own terms, and put the money 
 " in my own pocket ; instead of which, I enclosed 
 " Galignani's letter to Murray, in order that he 
 '^ might conclude the matter as he pleased. He 
 '' did so, very advantageously for his own in- 
 '' terest; but never had the complaisance, the 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 83 
 
 ^* common politeness, to thank me, or acknow- 
 '' ledge my letter. My differences with Murray 
 '' are not over. When he purchased ^ Cain/ 
 *' * The Two Foscari/ and ' Sardanapalus,' he sent 
 '' me a deed, which you may remember witness- 
 '/ ing. Well : after its return to England, it 
 " was discovered that ^ ^ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ M ^ ^ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ ¥ 
 
 ^' But I shall take no notice of it." 
 
 Some time afterwards he said : 
 
 '' Murray and I have made up our quarrel ; at 
 ^' least, it is not my fault if it should be renewed. 
 '' The Parsons have been at him about ' Cain.' 
 " An Oxonian has addressed a bullying letter to 
 " him, asking him how so moral a bookseller can 
 " stain his press with so profane a book? He is 
 '' threatened with a prosecution by the Anti-- 
 '' constitutional Society. I don't believe they will 
 '^ venture to attack him : if they do, I shall go 
 ** home and make my own defence." 
 
1 84 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 Lord Byron wrote the same day the letter con- 
 tained in the notes on ' Cain.' Some months 
 afterwards he said in a letter :. 
 
 '^ Murray and I have dissolved all connection. 
 '' He had the choice of giving up me or the ' Navy 
 '^ Lists.' There was no hesitation which way he 
 " should decide : the Admiralty carried the day. 
 " Now for ' The Quarterly : ' their batteries will _ 
 " be opened; but I can fire broadsides too. They 
 " have been letting off lots of squibs and crackers 
 '' against me, but they only make a noise and***" 
 
 In a letter dated from Genoa, the 5th of 
 May, 1823, he says : 
 
 ic i Werner' was the last book Murray pub- 
 " lished for me, and three months after came 
 " Qut the Quarterly's article on my plays, when 
 " ' Marino Faliero' was noticed for the first 
 " time," etc. 
 
 " I need not say that I shall be delighted by 
 " your inscribing your ' Wanderer' to me ; but 
 
I 
 
 LORD BYRON. t85 
 
 *' I would recommend you to think twice before 
 ^^ you inscribe a work to me^ as you must be 
 '^ aware that at present I am the most unpopular 
 '' writer going,* and the odium onthe dedicatee 
 '' may recur on the dedicator. If you do not 
 '* think this a valid objection, of course there 
 " can be none on my part," etc. 
 
 On my speaking to him with great praise one 
 day of Coleridge's ' Ancient Mariner,' Lord Byron 
 said : 
 
 '* I have been much taken to task for calling 
 " ' Christabel' a wild and singularly original and 
 " beautiful poem ; and the Reviewers very sagely 
 " come to a conclusion therefrom, that I am no 
 '' judge of the compositions of others. ' Chris- 
 '* tabel' was the origin of all Scott's metrical 
 " tales, and that is no small merit. It was 
 
 ^ ** But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 " My Leipsic, and my Mont St. Jean- seems Cain." 
 
 Don Juan, Canto X. Stanza 56. 
 
 8. 
 
l86 CONVERSiTIONS OF 
 
 " written in 1795, and had a pretty general cir- 
 '' culation in the literary world, though it was 
 ^' not published till 18 16, and then probably in 
 '' consequence of my advice. One day, when 
 '* I was with Walter Scott (now many years ago), 
 *' he repeated the whole of ' Christabel,' and I 
 '' then agreed with him in thinking this poem 
 '^ what I afterwards called it. Sir Walter Scott 
 '' recites admirably. I was rather disappointed 
 " when I saw it in print ; but still there are 
 '^ finer things in it than in any tale of its length ; 
 '' the proof of which is, that people retain them 
 '' without effort. 
 
 " What do you think of the picture of an 
 " English October day ? 
 
 '' * There is not wind enough to twirl 
 
 " The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 
 ^' That dances as long as dance it can, 
 
 *' Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
 
 " On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.' 
 
 '^ Some eight or ten lines of ' Christa- 
 
LORD BYRON. I 87 
 
 * ^ ber* found themselves in ' The Siege of Corinth,' 
 *' I hardly know how ; but I adopted another pa$- 
 ^^ sage, of greater beauty, as a motto to a little 
 ' ' work I need not name,f and paraphrased without 
 '^ scruple the same idea in ' Childe Harold.' I 
 " thought it good because I felt it deeply — the 
 '* best test of poetry. His psychological poem 
 '' was always a great favourite of mine, and but 
 ' ' for me would not have appeared. What perfect 
 >* harmony of versification !" 
 
 And he began spouting ' Kubla Khan :' 
 
 *' 'It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 *' And on her dulcimer she playM, 
 ** Singing of Mount-Abora' — 
 
 *' Madame de Stael was fond of reciting poetry 
 
 ^ " Was it the wind through some hollow stone, 
 
 ** Sent that soft and tender moan ? 
 
 " He lifted his head—" etc. 
 
 Siege of Corinth. 
 
 f The stanzas beginning " Fare thee well !" 
 
1 88 CONVEBSATIONS OF 
 
 " that had hardly any thing but its music to re- 
 ' ' commend it." 
 
 ''And pray," asked I, ''what has ' Kubla 
 Khan?'" 
 
 " I can't tell you," said he ; " but it delights 
 " me." 
 
 And he went on till he had finished the Vision. 
 
 " I was very much amused with Coleridge's 
 ' ' ' Memoirs.' There is a great deal of Bonhommie 
 " in that book, and he does not spare himself. 
 " Nothing, to me at least, is so entertaining as a 
 " work of this kind — as private biography : ' Ha- 
 " milton's Memoirs,' for instance, that were the 
 " origin of the style of Voltaire. Madame de 
 ^' Stael used to say, that 'De Grammont' was a 
 " book containing, with less matter, more interest 
 *' than any she knew. Alfieri's ' Life' is delight- 
 ^' ful. You will see my Confessions in good time, 
 " and you will wonder at two things — that I 
 " should have had so much to confess, and that I 
 
LORD BYRON. I 89 
 
 '^ should have confessed so much. Coleridge, 
 ^' too, seems sensible enough of his own errors. 
 '•' His sonnet to the Moon is an admirable bur- 
 " lesque on the Lakists, and his own style. Some 
 " of his stories are told with a vast deal of 
 *' humour, and display a fund of good temper 
 " that all his disappointments could not sour. 
 ' ' Many parts of his ' Memoirs' are quite unin- 
 " telligible, and were, I apprehend, meant for 
 " Kant; on the proper pronunciation of. whose 
 " name I heard a long argument the other 
 '^ evening. 
 
 '^ Coleridge is like Sosia in ' Amphytrion ;' — he 
 ^ *;' does not know whether he is himself, or not. 
 ** If he had never gone to Germany, nor spoilt 
 ^' his fine genius by the transcendental philo- 
 " sophy and German metaphysics, nor taken to 
 '^ write lay sermons, he would have made the 
 *' greatest poet of the day. What poets had we 
 " in 1795 ? Hayley had got a monopoly, such as 
 '' it was, Coleridge might have been any thing : 
 '' as it is, he is a thing ' that dreams are made of.' " 
 
I go CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 Being one day at Moloni's, the bookseller at 
 Pisa, a report was in circulation that a subject 
 belonging to the Lucchese States had been taken 
 up for sacrilege, and sentenced to be burnt alive. 
 A priest who entered the library at that moment 
 confirmed the news, and expressed himself thus : 
 — '^ Scelerato r said he, '' he took thei conse- 
 crated wafers off the altar, and threw them con- 
 temptuously about the church ! What punish- 
 ment can be great enough for such a monstrous 
 crime ? Burning is too easy a death I I shall go 
 to Lucca, — I would almost go to Spain, — to see 
 the wretch expire at the stake !" Such were the 
 humane and Christian sentiments of a minister of 
 the Gospel I I quitted him with disgust, and 
 immediately hastened to Lord Byron's. 
 
 '' Is it possible ?" said he, after he had heard 
 my story. " Can we believe that we live in the 
 *' nineteenth century? However, I can believe 
 *' any thing of the Duchess of Lucca. She is an 
 '' Infanta of Spain, a bigot in religion, and of 
 '' course advocates the laws of the Inquisition T 
 *' But it is scarcely credible that she will venture 
 
LORD BYRON. 191 
 
 '' to put them into effect here. We must endea- 
 '' vour to prevent this auto dafe. Lord Guilford 
 " is arrived : — we will get him to use his influence. 
 ^' Surely the Grand Duke of Tuscany will inter- 
 ^' fere, for he has himself never signed a death- 
 '' warrant since he came upon the throne." 
 
 Shelley entered at this moment horror-struck : 
 he had just heard that the criminal was to suffer 
 the next day. He proposed that we should mount 
 and arm ourselves as well as we could, set off im- 
 mediately for Lucca, and endeavour to rescue the 
 prisoner when brought out for execution, making 
 at full speed for the) Tuscan frontiers, where he 
 would be safe. Mad and hopeless as the scheme 
 was. Lord Byron consented, carried away by his 
 feelings, to join in it, if other means should fail. 
 We agreed to meet again in the evening, and in 
 the mean time to get a petition signed by all the 
 English residents at Pisa, to be presented to the 
 Grand Duke. 
 
 *' I will myself," said he, "write immediately 
 ''to Lord Guilford." 
 
192 CONVERSATIOINS OF 
 
 He did so, and received an answer a few hours 
 after, telling him that the same report had reach- 
 ed Lord Guilford; but that he had learned, on 
 investigation, that it was unfounded. 
 
 It appeared that the Duchess had issued a pro- 
 clamation which made the peasant amenable, 
 when apprehended, to the ancient laws of Spain; 
 but that he had escaped to Florence and given 
 himself up to the police, who had stipulated not 
 to make him over to the authorities at Lucca, 
 but on condition of his being tried by the Tuscan 
 laws. 
 
 Speaking of Coppet and Madame de Stael, he 
 said: 
 
 '' I knew Madame de Stael in England. When 
 *'she came over she created a great sensation, 
 *' and was much courted in the literary as well as 
 *'the political world. On the supposition of her 
 " being a liberal, she was invited to a party, 
 '' where were present Whitbread, Sheridan, and 
 *' several of the Opposition leaders. 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 98 
 
 ' ' To the great horror of the former, she soon 
 '^ sported her JJllraisms. No one possessed so 
 '^ little tact as Madame de Stael, — which is asto- 
 '^ nishing in one who had seen so much of the 
 '-'• world and of society. She used to assemble at 
 " her routs politicians of both sides of the House, 
 '^ and was fond of setting two party-men by the 
 *^ ears in argument. I once witnessed a curious 
 '^ scene of this kind. She was battling it very 
 '' warmly, as she used to do, with Canning, and 
 '-'- all at once turned round to (I think he said) Lord 
 ^^ Grey, who was at his elbow, for his opinion. It 
 '^ was on some point upon which he could not but 
 '^most cordially disagree. She did not under- 
 '^ stand London society, and was always sighing 
 '* for her coterie at Paris. The dandies took an 
 " invincible dislike to the De Staels, mother and 
 *' daughter. Brummel was her aversion; — she, 
 *^ his. There was a double marriage talked of 
 '' in town that season :•:— Auguste (the present Ba- 
 " ron) was to have married Miss Millbank ; I the 
 ''-present Duchess of Broglio. I could not have 
 " been worse embroiled. 
 
 VOL. !. 9 
 
194 CO-SVERSATIONS OF 
 
 "Madame de Stael had great talent in conver- 
 " sation, and an overpowering flow of words. It 
 " was once said of a large party that were al 
 " trying to shine, 'There is not one who can go 
 " home and think.' This was not the case with 
 " her. She was often troublesome, some thought 
 " rude, in her questions ; but she never offended 
 '^ me, because I knew that her inquisitiveness did 
 '' not proceed from idle curiosity, but from a wish 
 ' ' to sound people's characters . She was a continual 
 '^ interrogatory to me, in order to fathom mine, 
 '* which requires a Ibng plumb line. She once asked 
 " me if my real character was well drawn in a fa- 
 " vourite novel of the day (' Glenarvon'). She 
 ^' was only singular in putting the question in the 
 " dry way she did. There are many who pin their 
 '' faith on that insincere production. 
 
 '' No woman had so much bonne foi3iS Madame de 
 " Stael : hers was a real kindness of heart. She 
 ' ' took the greatest possible interest in my quarrel 
 " with Lady Byron, or rather Lady Byron's with 
 " me, and had some influence over my wife, — as 
 ' ' much as any person but her mother, which is 
 
LORD BYRON. ig5 
 
 '^ not saying much. I believe Madame de Stael did 
 " her utmost to bring about a reconciliation 
 " between us. She was the best creature in the 
 '^ world. 
 
 " Women never see consequences — never look 
 ' ' at things straight forward, or as they ought. Like 
 *' figurantes at the Opera, they make a hundred 
 ^^ pirouettes and return to where they set out. 
 ' ' With Madame de Stael this was sometimes the 
 '' case. She was very indefinite and vague in her 
 *' manner of expression. In endeavouring to be 
 '' new she became often obscure, and sometimes 
 " unintelligible. What did she mean by saying 
 *' that ' Napoleon was a system, and not a man?' 
 
 ' ' I cannot believe that Napoleon was acquainted 
 " with all the petty persecutions that she used to 
 "be so garrulous about, or that he deemed her 
 " of sufficient importance to be dangerous : besides 
 " she admired him so much, that he might have 
 '' gained her over by a word. But, like me, he 
 " had perhaps too great a contempt for women ; 
 " he treated them as puppets, and thought he 
 
Iq6 CONVERSATIOISS OF 
 
 '' could make them dance at any time by pulling 
 '' the wires. That story of ' Gardez vos enf ails' 
 " did not tell much in her favour, and proves 
 '-^ what I say. I shall be curious to see Las Cases' 
 '' book, to hear what Napoleon's real conduct to 
 '' her was." 
 
 I told him I could never reconcile the contra- 
 dictory opinions he had expressed of Napokon in 
 his poems. 
 
 ' ' How could it be otherwise T said he . ' ' Some 
 '' of them were called translations, and I spoke in 
 '* the character of a Frenchman and a soldier. But 
 ''Napoleon was his own antithesis (if I may say 
 '^ so). He was a gloiious tyrant, after all. Look 
 " at his public works ; compare his face, even on 
 '' his coins, with those of the other sovereigns of 
 '' Europe. I blame the manner of his death : he 
 *' shewed that he possessed much of the Italian 
 '' character in consenting to live. There he lost 
 '* himself in his dramatic character, in my esti- 
 '' mation. He was master of his own destiny ; of 
 '^ that^ at least, his enemies could not deprive 
 
LORD BYRON. I 97 
 
 '* him. He should have gone off the stage like a 
 '^ hero : it was expected of him. 
 
 ' ' Madame de Stael, as an historian, should have 
 '' named him in her ' Allemagne ;' she was wrong 
 " in suppressing his name, and he had a right to 
 ^' he offended. Not that I mean to justify his per- 
 '' secutions. These,! cannot help thinking, must 
 " have arisen indirectly from some private enemy. 
 " But we shall see, 
 
 " She was always aiming to be brilliant — to pro- 
 '' duce a sensation, no matter how, when, or 
 '^ where. She wanted to make all her ideas, like 
 '' figures in the modern French school of paint- 
 '' ing, prominent and showy, — standing out of the 
 '^ canvass, each in a light of its own. She was 
 " vain ; but who had an excuse for vanity if she 
 *' had not? I can easily conceive her not wishing 
 " to change her name, or acknowledge that of 
 '' Rocca. I liked Rocca; he was a gentleman and 
 ^' a clever man ; no one said better things, or with 
 ^ ' a better grace. The remark about the Meillerie 
 *' road that I quoted in the Notes of 'Childe Ha- 
 
igS CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^' rold/ '•La route vaut mieux que les souvenirs^ 
 ''was the observation of a thorough French- 
 
 man. 
 
 '' Here is a letter I have had to-day," said he. 
 '' The writer is a stranger to me, and pleads 
 " great distress. He says he has been an of- 
 " ficer in the East India service, and makes out 
 '' a long list of grievances against the Com- 
 
 '' pany and a Mr.S . He charges the govern- 
 
 '' ment with sending him home without a trial, 
 '' and breaking him without a Court-martial ; 
 "and complains that a travelling gentleman, 
 " after having engaged him as an interpreter to 
 '' accompany him to Persia, and put him to great 
 '' expense in preparations for the journey, has 
 " all at once changed his mind, and refused 
 '' to remunerate him for his lost time, or pay 
 '' him any of the annual stipend he had fixed 
 
 " to give him. His name seems to be . You 
 
 '' have been at Bombay, — do you know him?" 
 
 " No," answered I; " but I know his story. 
 
LORD BYRON. 1 99 
 
 He was thought to have been hardly used. As 
 to the other part of his complaint, I know 
 nothing." 
 
 " He asks me for 5o/. I shall send it him 
 *' by to-morrow's post : there is no courier to- 
 '' day." 
 
 '' Who would not wish to have been born 
 *' two or three centuries later?" said he, putting 
 into my hand an Italian letter. "Here is a sa- 
 " imnt of Bologna, who pretends to have dis- 
 " covered the manner of directing balloons by 
 " means of a rudder, and tells me that he is 
 " ready to explain the nature of his invention 
 " to our Government. I suppose we shall soon 
 " travel by air-vessels ; make air instead of sea- 
 '* voyages ; and at length find our way to the 
 '^ moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere."* 
 
 * " Steam-engines will convey him to the moon." 
 
 Don Juan, Canto X. Stanza 2, 
 
200 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '^ Caelum ipswn petimus stultitid,^'' said I. 
 
 '-'- There is not so much folly as you may sup- 
 ' pose, and a vast deal of poetry, in the idea," 
 eplied Lord Byron. '' Where shall we set bounds 
 ' to the power of steam? Who shall say, ' Thus 
 ' far thoushalt go, and no farther?' We are atpre- 
 ' sent in the infancy of science. Do you imagine 
 ' that, in former stages of this planet, wiser 
 ^ creatures than ourselves did not exist? All 
 
 * our boasted inventions are but the shadows of 
 ' what has been, — the dim images of the past — 
 ' the dream of other states of existence. Might 
 ' not the fable of Prometheus, and his steal- 
 ' ing the fire, and of Briareus and his earth- 
 ' born brothers, be but traditions of steam and 
 ' its machinery? Who knows whether, when 
 ' a comet shall approach this globe to destroy 
 ' it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, 
 ' men will not tear rocks from their founda- 
 
 * tions by means .of steam, and hurl moun- 
 ' tains, as the giants are said to have done, 
 ' against the flaming mass? — and then we shall 
 
LORD BYR05. 201 
 
 ^' have traditions of Titans again, and of wars 
 " with Heaven." 
 
 '' A mighty ingenious theory," said I laugh- 
 ing, — and was near adding, in the words of 
 ' Julian and Maddalo :' 
 
 " The sense that he was greater than his kind 
 Had made, methinks, his eagle spirit hhnd 
 With gazing on its own exceeding hght. " 
 
 Talking of romances, he said : 
 
 '' ' The Monk' is perhaps one of the best in 
 '' any language, not excepting the German. It 
 " only wanted one thing, as I told Lewis, to 
 '' have rendered it perfect. He should have made 
 '' the demon really in love with Ambrosio : this 
 '' would have given it a human interest. 'The 
 *' Monk' was written when Lewis was only 
 " twenty, and he seems to have exhausted all 
 '' his genius on it. Perhaps at that age he was 
 '' in earnest in his belief of magic wonders. 
 
202 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '' That is the secret of Walter Scott's inspira- 
 " tion : he retains and encourages all the su- 
 '' perstitions of his youth. Lewis caught ^/^ pas- 
 ^' sion for the marvellous, and it amounted to 
 *' a mania with him, in Germany ; but the 
 ' ' groundwork of ' The Monk' is neither origi- 
 " nal nor German : it is derived from the tale of 
 *' ' Santon Barsisa.' The episode of ' The Bleed- 
 '^ ing INun,' which was turned into a melo- 
 '' drama, is from the German. 
 
 " There were two stories which he almost 
 " believed by telling. One happened to himself 
 " whilst he was residing at Manheim. Every 
 '' night, at the same hour, he heard or thought 
 ^' he heard in liis room, when he was lying in 
 " bed, a crackling noise like that produced by 
 *' parchment, or thick paper. This circumstance 
 " caused inquiry, when it was told him that the 
 ' ' sounds were attributable to the following cause : 
 ' ' — The house in which he lived had belonged to 
 '' a widow, who had an only son. In order to 
 " prevent his marrying a poor but amiable girl, 
 '' to whom he was attached, he was sent to sea. 
 
LORD BYRON. 2o3 
 
 *' Years passed, and the mother heard no tidings 
 " of him, nor the ship in which he had sailed. 
 '' It was supposed that the vessel had been 
 '* wrecked, and that all on board had perished. 
 '* The reproaches of the girl, the upbraidings of 
 '' her own conscience, and the loss of her child, 
 ^' crazed the old lady's mind, and her only pursuit 
 " became to turn over the Gazettes for news. 
 '' Hope at length left her : she did not live long, 
 " — and continued her old occupation after death. 
 
 *^ The other story that I alluded to before, was 
 '' the original of his ' Alonzo and Imogene,' which 
 *' has had such a host of imitators. Two Flo- 
 '* rentine lovers, who had been attached to each 
 " other almost from childhood, made a vow of 
 " eternal fidelity. Mina was the name of the 
 '* lady — her husband's I forget, but it is not ma- 
 ^' terial. They parted. He had been for some 
 " time absent with his regiment, when, as his 
 ^' disconsolate lady was sitting alone in her 
 '^ chamber, she distinctly heard the well-known 
 *' sound of his footsteps, and starting up beheld, 
 '^ not her husband, but his spectre, with a deep 
 
204 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 ^' ghastly wound across his forehead, entering. 
 '' She swooned with horror : when she recovered, 
 " the ghost told her that in future his visits 
 '' should he announced hy a passing-hell, and 
 " these words, distinctly whispered, ' Mina, I am 
 " here V Their interviews now he came frequent, 
 '' till the woman fancied herself as much in love 
 '' with the ghost as she had heen with the man. 
 *' But it was soon to prove otherwise. One fatal 
 " night she went to a hall : — what business had 
 '' she there? She danced too; and, what was 
 " worse, her partner was a young Florentine, so 
 " much the counterpart of her lover, that she 
 " became estranged from his ghost. Whilst the 
 '' young gallant conducted her in the waltz, and 
 '^ her ear drank in the music of his voice and 
 " words, a passing-bell tolled I She had been 
 ' ' accustomed to the sound till it hardly excited 
 " her attention, and now lost in the attractions of 
 '' her fascinating partner, she heard but regarded 
 " it not. A second peal I — she listened not to 
 " its warnings. A third time the bell, with its 
 " deep and iron tongue, startled the assembled 
 '' company, and silenced the music ! Mina then 
 
LOUD BYRON. 2o5 
 
 " turned her eyes from her partner, and saw re- 
 ^' fleeted in the mirror, a form, a shadow, a 
 '' spectre : it was her husband I He was standing 
 '' between her and the young Florentine, and 
 '' whispered in a solemn and melancholy tone 
 *' the accustomed accents, ' Mina, I am here I' 
 *' — She instantly fell dead. 
 
 *' Lewis was not a very successful writer. His 
 ' * Monk' was abused furiovisly by Matthias, in 
 
 * his * Pursuits of Literature,' and he was forced 
 ' to suppress it. ^Abellino' he merely translated. 
 ' * Pizarro' was a sore subject with him, and no 
 ' wonder that he winced at the name. Sheridan, 
 ' who was not very scrupulous about applying to 
 
 * himself literary property at least, manufactured 
 ' his play without so much as an acknowledg- 
 ^ ment, pecuniary or otherwise, from Lewis's 
 
 * ideas ; and bad as ' Pizarro' is, I know (from 
 
 * having been on the Drury-Lane Committee, and 
 
 * knowing, consequently, the comparative profits 
 ' of plays,) that it brought in more money than 
 ' any other play has ever done, or perhaps ever 
 ' will do. 
 
2o6 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " But to return to Lewis. He was even worse 
 '' treated about '• The Castle Spectre,' which had 
 '' also an immense run, a prodigious success. 
 ' ' Sheridan never gave him any of its profits either. 
 " One day Lewis being in company with him, said, 
 '' — ' Sheridan, I will make you a large bet.' 
 " Sheridan, who was always ready to make a 
 " wager, (however he might find it inconvenient 
 '' to pay it if lost,) asked eagerly what bet ? ' All 
 '' the profits of my Castle Spectre,' replied Lewis. 
 *' ' I will tell you what,' said Sheridan, (who never 
 '^ found his match at repartee,) ' I will make you 
 " a very small one, — what it is worth.' " 
 
 I asked him if he had known Sheridan ? 
 
 " Yes," said he. " Sheridan was an extraor- 
 ^ dinary compound of contradictions, and Moore 
 " will be much puzzled in reconciling them for 
 " the Life he is writing. The upper part of She- 
 ' ' ridan's face was that of a God — a forehead most 
 " expansive, an eye of peculiar brilliancy and fire ; 
 '* but below he shewed the satyr. 
 
LORD BYRON. 20^ 
 
 ^' Lewis was a pleasant companion, and would 
 *' always have remained a boy in spirits and man- 
 " ners — (unlike me I) He was fond of the society 
 *' of younger men than himself. I myself never 
 ^' knew a man, except Shelley, who was compa- 
 *' nionable till thirty. I remember Mrs. Pope 
 ^' once asking who was Lewis's male-love this 
 ^ ' season I He possessed a very lively imagination , 
 *' and a great turn for narrative, and had a world 
 *' of ghost-stories, which he had better have con- 
 '^ fined himself to telling. His poetry is now al- 
 '' most forgotten : it will be the same with that of 
 *' all but two or three poets of the day. 
 
 " Lewis had been, or thought he had been, 
 *' unkind to a brother whom he lost young ; and 
 '' when any thing disagreeable was about to hap~ 
 '' pen to him, the vision of his brother appeared : 
 ^' became as a sort of monitor. 
 
 '' Lewis was with me for a considerable period 
 ^' at Geneva ; and we went to Coppet several 
 " times together; but Lewis was there oftener 
 " than L 
 
2o8 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " Madame de Stael and he used to have violent 
 '^ arguments about the Slave Trade, — which he 
 ^' advocated strongly, for most of his property 
 ^^ was in negroes and plantations. Not being 
 " satisfied with three thousand a-year, he wanted 
 " to make it five ; and would go to the West 
 '' Indies ; but he died on the passage of sea- 
 *^ sickness, and obstinacy in taking an emetic." 
 
 I said to him, '^ You are accused of owing a 
 great deal to W^ordsworth. Certainly there are 
 some stanzas in the Third Canto of ' Childe Ha- 
 rold' that smell strongly of the Lakes : for in- 
 stance — 
 
 " I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me ; — and to me 
 High mountains are a feeling !" 
 
 " Very possibly," replied lie. '^ Shelley, when 
 ** I was in Switzerland, used to dose me with 
 a Wordsworth physic even to nausea : and I do 
 *' remember then reading some things of his with 
 
LORD BYRO]^. r^.og 
 
 *' pleasure. He had once a feeling of Nature, 
 ** which he carried almost to a deification of it : — 
 " that's why Shelley liked his poetry. 
 
 '' It is satisfactory to reflect, that where a man 
 " becomes a hireling and loses his mental in- 
 '' dependence, he loses also the faculty of writing 
 " well. The Lyrical Ballads, Jacobinical and pul- 
 '' ing with affectation of simplicity as they were, 
 " had undoubtedly a certain merit :* and Words- 
 " worth, though occasionally a writer for the 
 *' nursery-masters and misses, 
 
 ' Who took their little porringer, 
 And ate their porridge there,' 
 
 '' now and then expressed ideas worth imitating; 
 ^' but, like brother Southey, he had his price ; 
 ^' and since he is turned tax-gatherer, is only fit 
 " to rhyme about lasses and waggoners. Shelley 
 
 ¥ (c Qj. Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
 *' Scasoii'd his pedlar poems with democracy." 
 
 Don Juan J Canto III. Stanza g3. 
 
 9- 
 
2IO CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 " repeated to me the other day a stanza from 
 " ' Peter Bell' that I thought inimitably good. 
 '' It is the rumination of Peter's ass, who gets into 
 " a brook, and sees reflected there a family-circle, 
 ** or tea-party. But you shall have it in his own 
 '^ words : 
 
 . ' Is it a party in a parlour, 
 
 Cramm'd just as you on earth are crammM ? 
 Some sipping punch, some supping tea. 
 And every one, as you may see, 
 All silent and all d d ! ' ^ 
 
 " There was a time when he would have 
 '^ written better ; but perhaps Peter thinks feel- 
 '' ingly. 
 
 ''The republican trio, when they began to 
 " publish in common, were to have had a com- 
 " munity of all things, like the ancient Britons ; 
 '' to have lived in a state of nature, like savages, 
 " and peopled some ' island of the blest' with 
 
 '' children in common, like . A very pretty 
 
 ' ' Arcadian notion ! It amuses me much to com- 
 '' pare the Botany Bay Eclogue, the Panegyric of 
 
I 
 
 LORD BYRON. ail 
 
 '* Martin the Regicide, and ' Wat Tyler,' with the 
 *' Laureate Odes, and Peter's Eulogium on the 
 '' Field of Waterloo. There is something more 
 *^ than rhyme in that noted stanza containing 
 
 ' Yea, slaughter 
 Is God's daughter ! ' * — 
 
 *^ I offended the par nobile mortally, — past all 
 ^' hope of forgiveness — many years ago. I met, 
 ^^ at the Cumberland Lakes, Hogg the Ettrick 
 ^^ Shepherd, who had just been writing ' The 
 '^ Poetic Mirror,' a work that contains imitations 
 '* of all the living poets' styles, after the manner 
 ^^ of ' Rejected Addresses.' The burlesque is well 
 ^' done, particularly that of me, but not equal to 
 ^* Horace Smith's. I was pleased with Hogg ; 
 '' and he wrote me a very witty letter, to which 
 '^ I sent him, I suspect, a very dull reply. Certain 
 '^ it is that I did not spare the Lakists in it ; and 
 ^' he told me he could not resist the temptation, 
 *^ and had shewn it to the fraternitv. It was too 
 
 ^ Wordsworth's Thanksgiving Ode. 
 
212 CONVERSATIONS OF 
 
 '^ tempting; and as I could never keep a secret 
 ^' of my own, as you know, much less that of 
 '' other people, I could not blame him. I re- 
 ^' member saying, among other things, that the 
 '' Lake poets were such fools as not to fish in 
 " their own waters; but this was the least of- 
 '' fensivepart of the epistle." 
 
 '^ Bowles is one of the same little order of 
 '' spirits, who has been fussily fishing on for fame, 
 '' and is equally waspish and jealous. What 
 '' could Coleridge mean by praising his poetry as 
 ^' he does? 
 
 '' ft was a mistake of mine, about his making 
 *' the woods of Madeira tremble, etc. ; but it 
 " seems that I might have told him that there 
 '' were no woods to make tremble with kisses, 
 '' which would have been quite as great a blunder. 
 
 ^' I met Bowles once at Rogers's, and thought 
 ^' him a pleasant, gentlemanly man — a good 
 " fellow, for a parson. When men meet to- 
 
LORD BYRON. 21 3 
 
 <* gether after dinner, the conversation takes a 
 '* certain turn. I remember he entertained us 
 " with some good stories. The reverend gentle- 
 " man pretended, however, to be much shocked 
 '^ at Pope's letters to Martha Blount. 
 
 " I set him and his invariable principles at rest. 
 " He did attempt an answer, which was no reply ; 
 '' at least, nobody read it. I believe he applied 
 *' to me some lines in Shakspeare.* A man is 
 '^ very unlucky who has a name that can be 
 " punned upon J and his own did not escape. 
 
 ^' I have been reading ' Johnson's Lives,' a 
 *' book I am very fond of. I look upon him as 
 " the profoundest of critics, and had occasion to 
 *' study him when I was writing to Bowles. 
 
 *^ Of all the disgraces that attach to England in 
 ^' the eye of foreigners, who admire Pope more 
 '* than any of our poets, (though it is the fashion 
 
 " I do remember thee, my Lord Byron," etc. 
 
2 1 4 CONVERSATIONS OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 ^ ' to under-rate him among ourselves,) the greatest 
 *' perhaps is, that there should be no place as- 
 ^' signed to him in Poets' Corner. I have often 
 " thought of erecting a monument to him at my 
 " own expense, in Westminster Abbey ; and hope 
 '' to do so yet. But he was a Catholic, and, what 
 " was worse, puzzled Tillotson and the Divines. 
 '' That accounts for his not having any national 
 '' monument. Milton, too, had very nearly been 
 " without a stone; and the mention of his name 
 " on the tomb of another was at one time con- 
 "■ sidered a profanation to a church. The French, 
 '' I am told, lock up Voltaire's tomb. Will there 
 ' ^ never be an end to this bigotry ? Will men 
 '' never learn that every great poet is necessarily 
 '' a religious man ? — so at least Coleridge says." 
 
 '' Yes," replied Shelley ; '' and he might main- 
 tain the converse, — that every truly religious 
 man is a poet ; meaning by poetry the power of 
 communicating intense and impassioned impres- 
 sions respecting man and Nature." 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
'V. 1