by Lord Byron
Southwell is a damned place — I have done with it — at least in all probability; excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts. You were my only rational companion; and in plain truth, I had more respect for you than the whole bevy, with whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousand dolls would have done.
Believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature in this circle of sin, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince my gratitude. Adieu.
Yours, etc.
P.S. — Remember me to Dr. P.
[Footnote 1: See page 137 [Letter 76], [Foot]note 2.]
[Footnote 2: The Duchess of Gordon (1748-1812), ‘née’ Jean Maxwell of Monreith, daughter of Sir W. Maxwell, Bart., married in 1767 the Duke of Gordon. The most successful matchmaker of the age, she married three of her daughters to three dukes — Manchester, Richmond, and Bedford. A fourth daughter was Lady Mandalina Sinclair, afterwards, by a second marriage, Lady Mandalina Palmer. A fifth was married to Lord Cornwallis (see the extraordinary story told in the ‘Recollections of Samuel Rogers’, pp. 145-146). According to Wraxall (‘Posthumous Memoirs’, vol. ii. p. 319), she schemed to secure Pitt for her daughter Lady Charlotte, and Eugène Beauharnais for Lady Georgiana, afterwards Duchess of Bedford. Cyrus Redding (‘Memoirs of William Beckford’, vol. ii. pp. 337-339) describes her attack upon the owner of Fonthill, where she stayed upwards of a week, magnificently entertained, without once seeing the wary master of the house.
She was also the social leader of the Tories, and her house in Pall Mall, rented from the Duke of Buckingham, was the meeting-place of the party. Malcontents accused her of using her power tyrannically: —
”Not Gordon’s broad and brawny Grace,
The last new Woman in the Place
With more contempt could blast.”
’Pandolfo Attonito’ (1800).
Lord Alexander Gordon died in 1808.]
[Footnote 3: William Hutton (1723-1815), a Birmingham bookseller, who took to literature and became a voluminous writer of poems, and of topographical works which still have their value. In his ‘Trip to Redcar and Coatham’ (Preface, p. vi.) he says,
“I took up my pen at the advanced age of fifty-six … I drove the quill thirty years, during which time I wrote and published thirty books.”
‘The Battle of Bosworth Field’ was published in 1788. A new edition, with additions by John Nichols, appeared in 1813. Byron’s poem was never published.]
79. — To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.
London, August 11, 1807.
On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands. A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tandem (a species of open carriage) though the western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase shelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular conveyances. On the coast we shall hire a vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides; and, if we have time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Iceland, only 300 miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla. This last intention you will keep a secret, as my nice mamma would imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raised the accustomed maternal warwhoop.
Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth through the two bridges, Westminster and Blackfriars, a distance, including the different turns and tracks made on the way, of three miles! You see I am in excellent training in case of a squall at sea. I mean to collect all the Erse traditions, poems, etc., etc., and translate, or expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring under the denomination of “The Highland “Harp” or some title equally picturesque. Of Bosworth Field, one book is finished, another just began. It will be a work of three or four years, and most probably never conclude. What would you say to some stanzas on Mount Hecla? they would be written at least with fire. How is the immortal Bran? and the Phoenix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain? I have lately purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the coadjutor of the aforesaid celestials — his name is Smut!
“Bear it, ye breezes, on your balmy wings.”
Write to me before I set off, I conjure you, by the fifth rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with the books — I thought that worthy had not done much in the country. In town they have been very successful; Carpenter (Moore’s publisher) told me a few days ago they sold all their’s immediately, and had several enquiries made since, which, from the books being gone, they could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness of Headfort, the Duchess of Gordon, etc., etc., were among the purchasers; and Crosby says the circulation will be still more extensive in the winter, the summer season being very bad for a sale, as most people are absent from London. However, they have gone off extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on my journey through Newark, but cannot approach. Don’t tell this to Mrs. B, who supposes I travel a different road. If you have a letter, order it to be left at Ridge’s shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, Newark, about six or eight in the evening. If your brother would ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him — he can return the same night, or sup with us and go home the next morning — the Kingston Arms is my inn. Adieu.
Yours ever,
BYRON.
[Footnote 1: This projected trip to the Highlands, mentioned in his letter to Augusta Byron of August 30, 1805, seems to have become a joke among Byron’s friends. Moore quotes (‘Life’, p. 56) a letter written by Miss Pigot to her brother:
“How can you ask if Lord B. is going to visit the Highlands in the summer? Why, don’t you know that he never knows his own mind for ten minutes together? I tell him he is as fickle as the winds, and as uncertain as the waves.”]
[Footnote 2:
“The first time I saw Lord Byron,” says Leigh Hunt (‘Lord Byron and his Contemporaries’, p. 1), “he was rehearsing the part of Leander, under the auspices of Mr. Jackson the prize-fighter. It was in the river Thames, before he went to Greece. I had been bathing, and was standing on the floating machine adjusting my clothes, when I noticed a respectable-looking manly person who was eyeing something at a distance. This was Mr. Jackson waiting for his pupil. The latter was swimming with somebody for a wager.”
On this occasion, however, Hunt only saw “his Lordship’s head bob up and down in the water, like a “buoy.”]
80. — To John Hanson.
Dorant’s Hotel, October 19th, 1807.
Dear Hanson, — I will thank you to disburse the quarter due as soon as possible, for I am at this moment contemplating with woeful visage, one solitary Guinea, two bad sixpences and a shilling, being all the cash at present in possession of
Yours very truly,
BYRON.
81. — To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.
Trinity College, Cambridge, October 26, 1807.
My Dear Elizabeth, — Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning for the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen to inquire how your highness and the rest of my female acquaintance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I know I deserve a scolding for my negligence in not writing more frequently; but racing up and down the country for these last three months, how was it possible to fulfil the duties of a correspondent? Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, as thin as ever (not having gained an ounce since my reduction), and rather in better humour; — but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence. Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it: I have been twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on myself to suffocate in its heavy atmosphere. This place is wretched enough — a villainous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothing but hazard and burgundy, hunting, mathematics, and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of Southwell. Oh! the misery of doing nothing but make love, enemies, and verses.
Next January (but this is entre nous only, and pray let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be
throwing her tomahawk at any of my curious projects,) I am going to sea for four or five months, with my cousin Captain Bettesworth, who commands the Tartar, the finest frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish to look at a naval life. We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or — to the devil; and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four and twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself.
I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a tame bear. When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, “he should sit for a fellowship.” Sherard will explain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This answer delighted them not. We have several parties here, and this evening a large assortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with me, — a precious mixture, but they go on well together; and for me, I am a spice of every thing except a jockey; by the bye, I was dismounted again the other day.
Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I have written 214 pages of a novel — one poem of 380 lines, to be published (without my name) in a few weeks, with notes, — 560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. Apropos, I have been praised to the skies in the Critical Review, and abused greatly in another publication. So much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book: it keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, nor do the humblest escape; — so I bear it like a philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse, my censor only quotes two lines from different poems, in support of his opinion. Now, the proper way to cut up, is to quote long passages, and make them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of praise, and more than my modesty will allow said on the subject. Adieu.
P.S. — Write, write, write!!!
[Footnote 1: George Edmund Byron Bettesworth (1780-1808), as lieutenant of the ‘Centaur’, was wounded (1804) in the capture of the ‘Curieux’. In command of the latter vessel he captured the ‘Dame Ernouf’ (1805), and was again wounded. He was made a post-captain in the latter year, when he brought home despatches from Nelson at Antigua, announcing Villeneuve’s return to Europe. He was killed off Bergen in 1808, while in command of the ‘Tartar’. Captain Bettesworth, whose father assumed the name of Bettesworth in addition to that of Trevanion, married, in 1807, Lady Alethea Grey, daughter of Earl Grey. Through his grandmother, Sophia Trevanion, Byron was Captain Bettesworth’s cousin.]
[Footnote 2: See ‘Poems’, vol. i. p. 406. ]
[Footnote 3: This poem, printed in book form, but not published, under the title of ‘British Bards’, is the foundation of ‘English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’. The MS. is in the possession of Mr. Murray.]
[Footnote 4: For September, 1807. In noticing the Elegy on Newstead Abbey, the writer says, “We could not but hail, with something of prophetic rapture, the hope conveyed in the closing stanza: —
”‘Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray.’“]
[Footnote 5: The first number of ‘The Satirist: A Monthly Meteor’
(October, 1807).]
82. — To J. Ridge.
Trinity College, Cambridge, November 20, 1807.
Sir, — I am happy to hear every thing goes on so well, and I presume you will soon commence, though I am still of opinion the first Edition had better be entirely sold, before you risk the printing of a second. As Curly recommends fine wove Foolscap, let it be used, and I will order a design in London for a plate, my own portrait would perhaps be best, but as that would take up so long a time in completing we will substitute probably a view of Harrow, or Newstead in its stead.
You will omit the poems mentioned below:
Stanzas on a view of Harrow.
To a Quaker.
The First Kiss of Love.
College Examinations.
Lines to the Rev. J. T. Becher.
To be inserted, not exactly in the place, but in different parts of the volume, I will send you five poems never yet published. Two of tolerable length, at least much longer than any of the above, which are ordered to be omitted.
Mention in your answer when you would like to receive the manuscripts that they may be sent. By the bye, I must have the proofs of the Manuscripts sent to Cambridge as they occur; the proofs from the printed copy you can manage with care, if Mr. Becher will assist you. Attend to the list of Errata, that we may not have a Second Edition of them also.
The Preface we have done with, perhaps I may send an Advertisement, a dedication shall be forthcoming in due Season.
You will send a proof of the first Sheet for Inspection, and soon too, for I am about to set out for London next week. If I remain there any time, I shall apprize you where to send the Manuscript Proofs.
Do you think the others will be sold before the next are ready, what says Curly? remember I have advised you not to risk it a second time, and it is not too late to retract. However, you must abide by your own discretion:
Etc., etc.,
BYRON.
P.S. — You will print from the Copy I sent you with the alterations, pray attend to these, and be careful of mistakes. In my last I gave you directions concerning the Title page and Mottoes.
[Footnote 1: A view of Harrow was given.]
83. — To John Hanson.
Trin. Coll., Cambridge, Dec. 2nd, 1807.
My Dear Sir, — I hope to take my New Years Day dinner with you en famille. Tell Hargreaves I will bring his Blackstones, and shall have no objection to see my Daniel’s Field Sports, if they have not escaped his recollection. — I certainly wish the expiration of my minority as much as you do, though for a reason more nearly affecting my magisterial person at this moment, namely, the want of twenty pounds, for no spendthrift peer, or unlucky poet, was ever less indebted to Cash than George Gordon is at present, or is more likely to continue in the same predicament. — My present quarter due on the 25th was drawn long ago, and I must be obliged to you for the loan of twenty on my next, to be deducted when the whole becomes tangible, that is, probably, some months after it is exhausted. Reserve Murray’s quarter, of course, and I shall have just 100 !. to receive at Easter, but if the risk of my demand is too great, inform me, that I may if possible convert my Title into cash, though I am afraid twenty pounds will be too much to ask as Times go, if I were an Earl … but a Barony must fetch ten, perhaps fifteen, and that is something when we have not as many pence. Your answer will oblige
Yours very truly,
BYRON.
P.S. — Remember me to Mrs. H. in particular, and the family in general.
[Footnote 1: Joe Murray. (See page 21 [Letter 7], [Foot]note 3 .)]
84. — To John Murray.
Ravenna, 9bre 19, 1820.
What you said of the late Charles Skinner Matthews has set me to my recollections; but I have not been able to turn up any thing which would do for the purposed Memoir of his brother, — even if he had previously done enough during his life to sanction the introduction of anecdotes so merely personal. He was, however, a very extraordinary man, and would have been a great one. No one ever succeeded in a more surpassing degree than he did as far as he went. He was indolent, too; but whenever he stripped, he overthrew all antagonists. His conquests will be found registered at Cambridge, particularly his Downing one, which was hotly and highly contested, and yet easily won. Hobhouse was his most intimate friend, and can tell you more of him than any man. William Bankes also a great deal. I myself recollect more of his oddities than of his academical qualities, for we lived most together at a very idle period of my life. When I went up t
o Trinity, in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had become attached during the two last years of my stay there; wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford (there were no rooms vacant at Christchurch); wretched from some private domestic circumstances of different kinds, and consequently about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop. So that, although I knew Matthews, and met him often then at Bankes’s, (who was my collegiate pastor, and master, and patron,) and at Rhode’s, Milnes’s, Price’s, Dick’s, Macnamara’s, Farrell’s, Gally Knight’s, and others of that set of contemporaries, yet I was neither intimate with him nor with any one else, except my old schoolfellow Edward Long (with whom I used to pass the day in riding and swimming), and William Bankes, who was good-naturedly tolerant of my ferocities.
It was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of a year away from Cambridge, to which I had returned again to reside for my degree, that I became one of Matthews’s familiars, by means of Hobhouse, who, after hating me for two years, because I wore a white hat, and a grey coat, and rode a grey horse (as he says himself), took me into his good graces because I had written some poetry. I had always lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, in their company — but now we became really friends in a morning. Matthews, however, was not at this period resident in College. I met him chiefly in London, and at uncertain periods at Cambridge. Hobhouse, in the mean time, did great things: he founded the Cambridge “Whig Club” (which he seems to have forgotten), and the “Amicable Society,” which was dissolved in consequence of the members constantly quarrelling, and made himself very popular with “us youth,” and no less formidable to all tutors, professors, and heads of Colleges. William Bankes was gone; while he stayed, he ruled the roast — or rather the roasting — and was father of all mischiefs.