by Lord Byron
[Footnote 2: “The hero of my Cornelian” was a Cambridge chorister named Edleston, whose life, as Harness has recorded in a MS. note, Byron saved from drowning. This began their acquaintance. (See Byron’s lines on “The Cornelian,” Poems, vol. i. 66-67.) Edleston died of consumption in May, 1811. Byron, writing to Mrs. Pigot, gives the following account of his death: —
“Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811.
Dear Madam, — I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to Miss Pigot, indeed gave to her, and now I am going to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me at No. 8, St. James’s Street, London, and I will replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him that formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver of that cornelian died in May last of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives that I have lost between May and the end of August.
“Believe me, dear Madam, yours very sincerely,
“BYRON.
“P.S. — I go to London to-morrow.”
The cornelian heart was, of course, returned, and Lord Byron, at the same time, reminded that he had left it with Miss Pigot as a deposit, not a gift (Moore).]
[Footnote 3: See page 182 [Letter 94], [Foot]note 1 .]
[Footnote 4: See “Thoughts suggested by a College Examination” (Poems, vol. i. pp. 28-31), also “Granta: a Medley” (Poems, vol. i. pp. 56-62).]
[Footnote 5: The Battle of Friedland, June 15, 1807. This is almost the first allusion that Byron makes to the war.]
75. — To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.
Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5, 1807.
Since my last letter I have determined to reside another year at Granta, as my rooms, etc., etc., are finished in great style, several old friends come up again, and many new acquaintances made; consequently my inclination leads me forward, and I shall return to college in October if still alive. My life here has been one continued routine of dissipation — out at different places every day, engaged to more dinners, etc., etc., than my stay would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in my head and tears in my eyes; for I have just parted with my “Cornelian” who spent the evening with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my engagement to devote the hours of the Sabbath to friendship: — Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for London: you will address your answer to “Gordon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street,” where I sojourn during my visit to the metropolis.
I rejoice to hear you are interested in my protégé; he has been my almost constant associate since October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. His voice first attracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his manners attached me to him for ever. He departs for a mercantile house in town in October, and we shall probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall leave to his decision either entering as a partner through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the latter, but he may alter his opinion previous to that period; — however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time nor distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. In short, we shall, put Lady E. Butler and Miss Ponsonby to the blush, Pylades and Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe like Nisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and David the “go by.” He certainly is perhaps more attached to me than even I am in return. During the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and winter, without passing one tiresome moment, and separated each time with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see us together. He is the only being I esteem, though I like many.
The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other day; I supped with him at his tutor’s — entirely a Whig party. The opposition muster strong here now, and Lord Hartington, the Duke of Leinster, etc., etc., are to join us in October, so every thing will be splendid. The music is all over at present. Met with another “accidency” — upset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady — look’d very blue — spectators grinned — ”curse ‘em!” Apropos, sorry to say, been drunk every day, and not quite sober yet — however, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegetables, consequently it does me no harm — sad dogs all the Cantabs. Mem. — we mean to reform next January. This place is a monotony of endless variety — like it — hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold well? or do the ancients demur? What ladies have bought?
Saw a girl at St. Mary’s the image of Anne — — , thought it was her — all in the wrong — the lady stared, so did I — I blushed, so did not the lady, — sad thing — wish women had more modesty. Talking of women, puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny — how is she? Got a headache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. My protégé breakfasts with me; parting spoils my appetite — excepting from Southwell. Mem. I hate Southwell.
Yours, etc.
[Footnote 1: Lady Eleanor Butler (c. 1745-1829), sister of the seventeenth Earl of Ormonde, and Sarah Ponsonby (circ. 1755-1831), cousin of the Earl of Bessborough, were the two “Ladies of the Vale,” or “Ladies of Llangollen.” About the year 1779 they settled in a cottage at Plasnewydd, in the Vale of Llangollen, where they lived, with their maidservant, Mary Caryll, for upwards of half a century. They are buried, with their servant, in the churchyard of Plasnewydd, under a triangular pyramid. Though they had withdrawn from the world, they watched its proceedings with the keenest interest.
“If,” writes Mrs. Piozzi, from Brynbella, July 9, 1796, “Mr. Bunbury’s ‘Little Gray Man’ is printed, do send it hither; the ladies at Llangollen are dying for it. They like those old Scandinavian tales and the imitations of them exceedingly; and tell me about the prince and princess of ‘this’ loyal country, one province of which alone had disgraced itself”
(‘Life and Writings of Mrs. Piozzi’, vol. ii. p. 234). Nor did they despise the theatre. Charles Mathews (‘Memoirs’, vol. iii. pp. 150, 151), writing from Oswestry, September 4, 1820, says,
“The dear inseparable inimitables, Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby, were in the boxes here on Friday. They came twelve miles from Llangollen, and returned, as they never sleep from home. Oh, such curiosities! I was nearly convulsed…. As they are seated, there is not one point to distinguish them from men; the dressing and powdering of the hair; their well-starched neckcloths; the upper part of their habits, which they always wear, even at a dinner-party, made precisely like men’s coats; and regular black beaver men’s hats. They looked exactly like two respectable superannuated old clergymen…. I was highly flattered, as they never were in the theatre before.”
Among the many people who visited them in their retreat, and have left descriptions of them, are Madame de Genlis, De Quincey, Prince Pückler-Muskau. Their friendships were sung by Sotheby and Anne Seward, and their cottage was depicted by Pennant.
”It is very singular,” writes John Murray, August 24, 1829, to his son
(‘Memoir of John Murray’, vol. ii. p. 304),
“that the ladies, intending to ‘retire’ from the world, absolutely brought all the world to visit them, for after a few years of seclusion their strange story was the universal subject of conversation, and there has been no person of rank, talent, and importance in any way who did not procure introductions to them.”
[Footnote 2: Lord Tavistock’s experience at Cambridge res
embled that of
Byron. He had received only a “pretended education,” and the Duke of
Bedford had come to the conclusion that “nothing was learned at English
Universities.” “Tavistock left Cambridge in May,” Lord J. Russell notes
in his Diary for 1808, “having been there in supposition two years”
(Walpole’s ‘Life of Lord John Russell’, vol. i. pp. 44 and 35).]
[Footnote 3: Probably Miss Anne Houson, daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell. She married the Rev. Luke Jackson, died December 25, 1821, and is buried at Hucknall Torkard. (For verses addressed to her, see ‘Poems’, vol. i. pp. 70-2, 244-45, 246-47, 251-52, 253.)]
76. — To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.
Gordon’s Hotel, July 13, 1807.
You write most excellent epistles — a fig for other correspondents, with their nonsensical apologies for “knowing nought about it” — you send me a delightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of dissipation (very pleasant for all that), and, strange to tell, I get thinner, being now below eleven stone considerably. Stay in town a month, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a favour, irradiate Southwell for three days with the light of my countenance; but nothing shall ever make me reside there again. I positively return to Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, or in truth I should cut the University. An extraordinary circumstance occurred to me at Cambridge; a girl so very like — — made her appearance, that nothing but the most minute inspection could have undeceived me. I wish I had asked if she had ever been at H — —
What the devil would Ridge have? is not fifty in a fortnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient sale? I hear many of the London booksellers have them, and Crosby has sent copies to the principal watering places. Are they liked or not in Southwell? … I wish Boatswain had swallowed Damon! How is Bran? by the immortal gods, Bran ought to be a Count of the Holy Roman Empire.
The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to you, who have rusticated all your life — the annals of routs riots, balls and boxing-matches, cards and crim. cons., parliamentary discussion, political details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle Street Institution and aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brookes’s and Buonaparte, opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax-work, and weathercocks, can’t accord with your insulated ideas of decorum and other silly expressions not inserted in our vocabulary.
Oh! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left thee, and how I curse the heavy hours I dragged along, for so many months, among the Mohawks who inhabit your kraals! — However, one thing I do not regret, which is having pared off a sufficient quantity of flesh to enable me to slip into “an eel-skin,” and vie with the slim beaux of modern times; though I am sorry to say, it seems to be the mode amongst gentlemen to grow fat, and I am told I am at least fourteen pound below the fashion. However, I decrease instead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, as violent exercise in London is impracticable; but I attribute the phenomenon to our evening squeezes at public and private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning (the 14th, my letter was begun yesterday): he says the poems go on as well as can be wished; the seventy-five sent to town are circulated, and a demand for fifty more complied with, the day he dated his epistle, though the advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu.
P.S. — Lord Carlisle, on receiving my poems, sent, before he opened the book, a tolerably handsome letter: — I have not heard from him since. His opinions I neither know nor care about: if he is the least insolent, I shall enrol him with Butler and the other worthies. He is in Yorkshire, poor man! and very ill! He said he had not had time to read the contents, but thought it necessary to acknowledge the receipt of the volume immediately. Perhaps the Earl “bears no brother near the throne” — if so, I will make his sceptre totter in his hands. — Adieu!
[Footnote 1: This is probably the third collection of early verse, ‘Hours of Idleness’, the first collection published with Byron’s name (see page 104 [Letter 53], [Foot]note 1).]
[Footnote 2: B. Crosby & Co., of Stationers’ Court, were the London agents of Ridge, the Newark bookseller. Crosby was also the publisher of a magazine called ‘Monthly Literary Recreations’, in which (July, 1807) appeared a highly laudatory notice of ‘Hours of Idleness’, and Byron’s review of Wordsworth’s ‘Poems’ (2 vols. 1807. See Appendix I.), and his “Stanzas to Jessy” (see ‘Poems’, vol. i. pp. 234-236). These lines were enclosed with the following letter, addressed to “Mr. Crosby, Stationers’ Court:” —
“July 21, 1807.
Sir, — I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas for ‘Literary Recreations’. The insertion I leave to the option of the Editors. They have never appeared before. I should wish to know whether they are admitted or not, and when the work will appear, as I am desirous of a copy.
Etc., etc.,
BYRON.
P.S. — Send your answer when convenient.”]
[Footnote 3:
“My Dear Lord, — Your letter of yesterday found me an invalid, and unable to do justice to your poems by a dilligent [‘sic’] perusal of them. In the meantime I take the first occasion to thank you for sending them to me, and to express a sincere satisfaction in finding you employ your leisure in such occupations. Be not disconcerted if the reception of your works should not be that you may have a right to look for from the public. Persevere, whatever that reception may be, and tho’ the Public maybe found very fastidious, … you will stand better with the world than others who only pursue their studies in Bond St. or at Tatershall’s.
Believe me to be, yours most sincerely,
CARLISLE.
July 8th, 1807.”]
77. — To John Hanson.
July 20th, 1807.
Sir, — Your proposal to make Mrs. Byron my Treasurer is very kind, but does not meet with my approbation. Mrs. Byron has already made more free with my funds than suits my convenience & I do not chuse to expose her to the Danger of Temptation.
Things will therefore stand as they are; the remedy would be worse than the Disease.
I wish you would order your Drafts payable to me and not Mrs. B. This is worse than Hannibal Higgins; who the Devil could suppose that any Body would have mistaken him for a real personage? & what earthly consequence could it be whether the Blank in the Draft was filled up with Wilkins, Tomkyns, Simkins, Wiggins, Spriggins, Jiggins, or Higgins? If I had put in James Johnson you would not have demurred, & why object to Hannibal Higgins? particularly after his respectable Endorsements. As to Business, I make no pretensions to a Knowledge of any thing but a Greek Grammer or a Racing Calendar; but if the Quintessence of information on that head consists in unnecessary & unpleasant delays, explanations, rebuffs, retorts, repartees, & recriminations, the House of H.& B. stands pre-eminent in the profession, as from the Bottom of his Soul testifies
Yours, etc., etc.,
BYRON.
P.S — Will you dine with me on Sunday Tête a Tête at six o’clock? I should be happy to see you before, but my Engagements will not permit me, as on Wednesday I go to the House. I shall have Hargreaves & his Brother on some day after you; I don’t like to annoy Children with the formal Faces of legal papas.
[Footnote 1: The point of the allusion is that Byron had endorsed one of Hanson’s drafts with the name of “Hannibal Higgins,” and had been solemnly warned of the consequences of so tampering with the dignity of the law.]
78. — To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.
August 2, 1807.
London begins to disgorge its contents — town is empty — consequently I can scribble at leisure, as occupations are less numerous. In a fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but expect two epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does not proceed rapidly in Notts — very possible. In town things wear a more promising aspect, and a man whose works are praised by reviewers, admired by duchesses, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not dedic
ate much consideration to rustic readers. I have now a review before me, entitled Literary Recreations where my hardship is applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but think him a very discerning gentleman, and myself a devilish clever fellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just to give an agreeable relish to the praise. You know I hate insipid, unqualified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the 13th Number of Literary Recreations for the last month. I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the article — it is printed in a periodical publication — and though I have written a paper (a review of Wordsworth), which appears in the same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it — even the editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he would introduce my Poetical Lordship to her Highness, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly, in common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim her relationship with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an excursion for some days afterwards; and, as the Duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction till the winter, when I shall favour the lady, whose taste I shall not dispute, with my most sublime and edifying conversation. She is now in the Highlands, and Alexander took his departure, a few days ago, for the same blessed seat of “dark rolling winds.”
Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a third — at least so he says. In every bookseller’s window I see my own name, and say nothing, but enjoy my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more: and “A Friend to the Cause of Literature” begs I will gratify the public with some new work “at no very distant period.” Who would not be a bard? — that is to say, if all critics would be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I doubt not, for this gentle encouragement. If so, have at ‘em? By the by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after two in the morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily got Hutton’s account. I shall extend the poem to eight or ten books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be published or not must depend on circumstances. So much for egotism! My laurels have turned my brain, but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticism will probably restore me to modesty.