by Lord Byron
B .
187 — to John Murray
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811.
Dear Sir, — I return the proof, which I should wish to be shown to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical arrangements much better than I can pretend to do. The printer may place the notes in his own way, or any way, so that they are out of my way; I care nothing about types or margins.
If you have any communication to make, I shall be here at least a week or ten days longer. I am, Sir, etc., etc.,
Byron.
188 — To R. C. Dallas
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811.
Dear Sir, — I send you a motto:
“L’univers est une espèce de livre, dont on n’a lu que la première page quand on n’a vu que son pays. J’en ai feuilleté un assez grand nombre, que j’ai trouvé également mauvaises. Cet examen ne m’a point été infructueux. Je haïssais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j’ai vécu, m’ont réconcilié avec elle. Quand je n’aurais tiré d’autre bénéfice de mes voyages que celui-là, je n’en regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues.”
“Le Cosmopolite.” If not too long, I think it will suit the book. The passage is from a little French volume, a great favourite with me, which I picked up in the Archipelago. I don’t think it is well known in England; Monbron is the author; but it is a work sixty years old.
Good morning! I won’t take up your time.
Yours ever,
Byron.
Byron’s quotation is the opening paragraph of the book. The author, who had travelled in England, returns to France a complete “Jacques Rôt-de-Bif.” He then visits Holland, the Low Countries, Constantinople, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and England a second time. He finds that the charm has vanished, and that the English are no better than their neighbours. It is a cynical little book, abounding in such sayings as. “Make acquaintances, not friends; intimacy breeds disgust;” “The best fruit of travelling is the justification of instinctive dislikes.” Monbron, like Byron, ridicules the traveller’s passion for collecting broken statues and antiques.
189 — to R. C. Dallas
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811.
I can easily excuse your not writing, as you have, I hope, something better to do, and you must pardon my frequent invasions on your attention, because I have at this moment nothing to interpose between you and my epistles.
I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, with the exception of bodily exercise to some extent, with uniform indolence, and idle insipidity. I have been expecting, and still expect, my agent, when I shall have enough to occupy my reflections in business of no very pleasant aspect. Before my journey to Rochdale, you shall have due notice where to address me — I believe at the post-office of that township. From Murray I received a second proof of the same pages, which I requested him to show you, that any thing which may have escaped my observation may be detected before the printer lays the corner-stone of an errata column.
I am now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance and school-fellow with me, so old, indeed, that we have nothing new to say on any subject, and yawn at each other in a sort of quiet inquietude. I hear nothing from Cawthorn, or Captain Hobhouse; and their quarto — Lord have mercy on mankind! We come on like Cerberus with our triple publications. As for myself, by myself, I must be satisfied with a comparison to Janus.
I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing the MS.; and I am certain Gifford must see it in the same light that I do. His praise is nothing to the purpose: what could he say? He could not spit in the face of one who had praised him in every possible way. I must own that I wish to have the impression removed from his mind, that I had any concern in such a paltry transaction. The more I think, the more it disquiets me; so I will say no more about it. It is bad enough to be a scribbler, without having recourse to such shifts to extort praise, or deprecate censure. It is anticipating, it is begging, kneeling, adulating, — the devil! the devil! the devil! and all without my wish, and contrary to my express desire. I wish Murray had been tied to Payne’s neck when he jumped into the Paddington Canal, and so tell him, — that is the proper receptacle for publishers. You have thought of settling in the country, why not try Notts.? I think there are places which would suit you in all points, and then you are nearer the metropolis. But of this anon.
I am, yours, etc.,
Byron.
“A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, was alarmed by the cry of ‘one in jeopardy:’ he rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), procured three rakes, one eel spear and a landing-net, and at last (horresco referens) pulled out — his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey’s last work. Its ‘alacrity of sinking’ was so great, that it has never since been heard of; though some maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch’s pastry-premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner’s inquest brought in a verdict of ‘Felo de Bibliopolâ’ against a quarto unknown,’ and circumstantial evidence being since strong against the Curse of Kehama (of which the above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers next session, in Grub Street — Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodiad, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bell-man of St. Sepulchre’s.”
190 — to R.C. Dallas
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811.
Dear Sir, — I have just discovered some pages of observations on the modern Greeks, written at Athens by me, under the title of Noctes Atticæ. They will do to cut up into notes, and to be cut up afterwards, which is all that notes are generally good for. They were written at Athens, as you will see by the date.
Yours ever,
B.
191 — to R. C. Dallas
Newstead Abbey, Sept, 21, 1811.
I have shown my respect for your suggestions by adopting them; but I have made many alterations in the first proof, over and above; as, for example:
Oh Thou, in Hellas deem’d of heavenly birth,
etc., etc.
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine, etc.
Yet there I’ve wandered by the vaunted rill;
and so on. So I have got rid of Dr. Lowth and “drunk” to boot, and very glad I am to say so. I have also sullenised the line as heretofore, and in short have been quite conformable.
Pray write; you shall hear when I remove to Lancashire. I have brought you and my friend Juvenal Hodgson upon my back, on the score of revelation. You are fervent, but he is quite glowing; and if he take half the pains to save his own soul, which he volunteers to redeem mine, great will be his reward hereafter. I honour and thank you both, but am convinced by neither. Now for notes. Besides those I have sent, I shall send the observations on the Edinburgh Reviewer’s remarks on the modern Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian (not Greek) language, specimens of modern Greek from their New Testament, a comedy of Goldoni’s translated, one scene, a prospectus of a friend’s book, and perhaps a song or two, all in Romaic, besides their Pater Noster; so there will be enough, if not too much, with what I have already sent. Have you received the Noctes Atticæ?
I sent also an annotation on Portugal. Hobhouse is also forthcoming.
192 — to R. C. Dallas.
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811.
Lisboa is the Portuguese word, consequently the very best. Ulissipont is pedantic; and as I have Hellas and Eros not long before, there would be something like an affectation of Greek terms, which I wish to avoid, since I shall have a perilous quantity of modern Greek in my notes, as specimens of the tongue; therefore Lisboa may keep its place. You are right ab
out the Hints; they must not precede the Romaunt; but Cawthorn will be savage if they don’t; however, keep them back, and him in good humour, if we can, but do not let him publish.
I have adopted, I believe, most of your suggestions, but “Lisboa” will be an exception to prove the rule. I have sent a quantity of notes, and shall continue; but pray let them be copied; no devil can read my hand. By the by, I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse of the “Good Night.” I have no reason to suppose my dog better than his brother brutes, mankind; and Argus we know to be a fable. The Cosmopolite was an acquisition abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in England. It is an amusing little volume, and full of French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak the language.
I will be angry with Murray. It was a bookselling, back-shop, Paternoster-row, paltry proceeding; and if the experiment had turned out as it deserved, I would have raised all Fleet Street, and borrowed the giant’s staff from St. Dunstan’s church, to immolate the betrayer of trust. I have written to him as he never was written to before by an author, I’ll be sworn, and I hope you will amplify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You tell me always you have much to write about. Write it, but let us drop metaphysics; — on that point we shall never agree. I am dull and drowsy, as usual. I do nothing, and even that nothing fatigues me.
Adieu.
“And now I’m in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He’d tear me where he stands.”
193 — to Francis Hodgson
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 25, 1811.
My Dear Hodgson, — I fear that before the latest of October or the first of November, I shall hardly be able to make Cambridge. My everlasting agent puts off his coming like the accomplishment of a prophecy. However, finding me growing serious he hath promised to be here on Thursday, and about Monday we shall remove to Rochdale. I have only to give discharges to the tenantry here (it seems the poor creatures must be raised, though I wish it was not necessary), and arrange the receipt of sums, and the liquidation of some debts, and I shall be ready to enter upon new subjects of vexation. I intend to visit you in Granta, and hope to prevail on you to accompany me here or there or anywhere.
I am plucking up my spirits, and have begun to gather my little sensual comforts together. Lucy is extracted from Warwickshire; some very bad faces have been warned off the premises, and more promising substituted in their stead; the partridges are plentiful, hares fairish, pheasants not quite so good, and the Girls on the Manor — — Just as I had formed a tolerable establishment my travels commenced, and on my return I find all to do over again; my former flock were all scattered; some married, not before it was needful. As I am a great disciplinarian, I have just issued an edict for the abolition of caps; no hair to be cut on any pretext; stays permitted, but not too low before; full uniform always in the evening; Lucinda to be commander — vice the present, about to be wedded (mem. she is 35 with a flat face and a squeaking voice), of all the makers and unmakers of beds in the household.
My tortoises (all Athenians), my hedgehog, my mastiff and the other live Greek, are all purely. The tortoises lay eggs, and I have hired a hen to hatch them. I am writing notes for my quarto (Murray would have it a quarto), and Hobhouse is writing text for his quarto; if you call on Murray or Cawthorn you will hear news of either. I have attacked De Pauw, Thornton, Lord Elgin, Spain, Portugal, the Edinburgh Review, travellers, Painters, Antiquarians, and others, so you see what a dish of Sour Crout Controversy I shall prepare for myself. It would not answer for me to give way, now; as I was forced into bitterness at the beginning, I will go through to the last. Væ Victis! If I fall, I shall fall gloriously, fighting against a host.
Felicissima Notte a Voss. Signoria,
B.
194 — to R. C. Dallas
Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 1811.
My Dear Sir,-In a stanza towards the end of canto 1st, there is in the concluding line,
Some bitter bubbles up, and e’en on roses stings.
I have altered it as follows:
Full from the heart of joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
If you will point out the stanzas on Cintra which you wish recast, I will send you mine answer. Be good enough to address your letters here, and they will either be forwarded or saved till my return. My agent comes tomorrow, and we shall set out immediately.
The press must not proceed of course without my seeing the proofs, as I have much to do. Pray, do you think any alterations should be made in the stanzas on Vathek?
I should be sorry to make any improper allusion, as I merely wish to adduce an example of wasted wealth, and the reflection which arose in surveying the most desolate mansion in the most beautiful spot I ever beheld.
Pray keep Cawthorn back; he was not to begin till November, and even that will be two months too soon. I am so sorry my hand is unintelligible; but I can neither deny your accusation, nor remove the cause of it. — It is a sad scrawl, certes. — A perilous quantity of annotation hath been sent; I think almost enough, with the specimens of Romaic I mean to annex.
I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics, and allegories of rocks and beaches; we shall all go to the bottom together, so “let us eat and drink, for tomorrow,” etc. I am as comfortable in my creed as others, inasmuch as it is better to sleep than to be awake.
I have heard nothing of Murray; I hope he is ashamed of himself. He sent me a vastly complimentary epistle, with a request to alter the two, and finish another canto. I sent him as civil an answer as if I had been engaged to translate by the sheet, declining altering anything in sentiment, but offered to tag rhymes, and mend them as long as he liked.
I will write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my affairs allow me; but I shall be so busy and savage all the time with the whole set, that my letters will, perhaps, be as pettish as myself. If so, lay the blame on coal and coal-heavers. Very probably I may proceed to town by way of Newstead on my return from Lancs. I mean to be at Cambridge in November, so that, at all events, we shall be nearer. I will not apologise for the trouble I have given and do give you, though I ought to do so; but I have worn out my politest periods, and can only say that I am much obliged to you.
Believe me, yours always,
Byron.
195 — to James Wedderburn Webster
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 10th, 1811.
Dear Webster, — I can hardly invite a gentleman to my house a second time who walked out of it the first in so singular a mood, but if you had thought proper to pay me a visit, you would have had a “Highland Welcome.”
I am only just returned to it out of Lancashire, where I have been on business to a Coal manor of mine near Rochdale, and shall leave it very shortly for Cambridge and London. My companions, or rather companion, (for Claridge alone has been with me) have not been very amusing, and, as to their “Sincerity,” they are doubtless sincere enough for a man who will never put them to the trial. Besides you talked so much of your conjugal happiness, that an invitation from home would have seemed like Sacrilege, and my rough Bachelor’s Hall would have appeared to little advantage after the “Bower of Armida” where you have been reposing.
I cannot boast of my social powers at any time, and just at present they are more stagnant than ever. Your Brother-in-law means to stand for Wexford, but I have reasons for thinking the Portsmouth interest will be against him; however I wish him success. Do you mean to stand for any place next election? What are your politics? I hope Valentia’s Lord is for the Catholics. You will find Hobhouse at Enniscorthy in the contested County.
Pray what has seized you? your last letter is the only one in which you do not rave upon matrimony
. Are there no symptoms of a young W.W.? and shall I never be a Godfather? I believe I must be married myself soon, but it shall be a secret and a Surprise. However, knowing your exceeding discretion I shall probably entrust the secret to your silence at a proper period. You have, it is true, invited me repeatedly to Dean’s Court and now, when it is probable I might adventure there, you wish to be off. Be it so.
If you address your letters to this place they will be forwarded wherever I sojourn. I am about to meet some friends at Cambridge and on to town in November.
The papers are full of Dalrymple’s Bigamy (I know the man). What the Devil will he do with his Spare-rib? He is no beauty, but as lame as myself. He has more ladies than legs, what comfort to a cripple! Sto sempre umilissimo servitore. .
Byron.
“But ne’er magician’s wand
Wrought change, with all Armida’s fairy art,
Like what this light touch left on Juan’s heart.”
In the Catalogue of Byron’s books, sold April 5, 1816, appear four editions of Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata, being those of 1776, 1785, 1813, and one undated.
196 — to R.C. Dallas
Newstead Abbey, October 10th, 1811.
Dear Sir, — Stanzas 24, 26, 29, though crossed must stand, with their alterations. The other three are cut out to meet your wishes. We must, however, have a repetition of the proof, which is the first. I will write soon.
Yours ever,
B.
P.S. — Yesterday I returned from Lancs.
Footnote 2: The following are the three deleted stanzas:
XXV
“In golden characters, right well designed,
First on the list appeareth one ‘Junot;’
Then certain other glorious names we find;
(Which rhyme compelleth me to place below — )
Dull victors! baffled by a vanquished foe,
Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due,
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row
Sirs Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew
Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of ‘tother tew.”