by Lord Byron
“Dublin, January 1, 1810.
“My Lord, — Having just seen the name of ‘Lord Byron’ prefixed to a work entitled English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers, in which, as it appears to me, the lie is given to a public statement of mine, respecting an affair with Mr. Jeffrey some years since, I beg you will have the goodness to inform me whether I may consider your Lordship as the author of this publication.
“I shall not, I fear, be able to return to London for a week or two; but, in the mean time, I trust your Lordship will not deny me the satisfaction of knowing whether you avow the insult contained in the passages alluded to.
“It is needless to suggest to your Lordship the propriety of keeping our correspondence secret.
“I have the honour to be,
“Your Lordship’s very humble servant,
“Thomas Moore.
“22, Molesworth Street.”
Owing to Byron’s absence abroad, the letter never reached him; it was, in fact, kept back by Hodgson. On his return to England, Moore, who in the interval had married, sent him a second letter, restating the nature of the insult he had received in English Bards.
“‘It is now useless,’ I continued (Life, p. 143), ‘to speak of the steps with which it was my intention to follow up that letter. The time which has elapsed since then, though it has done away neither the injury nor the feeling of it, has, in many respects, materially altered my situation; and the only object which I have now in writing to your Lordship is to preserve some consistency with that former letter, and to prove to you that the injured feeling still exists, however circumstances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates, at present. When I say “injured feeling,” let me assure your Lordship that there is not a single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. I mean but to express that uneasiness, under (what I consider to be) a charge of falsehood, which must haunt a man of any feeling to his grave, unless the insult be retracted or atoned for; and which, if I did not feel, I should, indeed, deserve far worse than your Lordship’s satire could inflict upon me.’ In conclusion I added, that so far from being influenced by any angry or resentful feeling towards him, it would give me sincere pleasure if, by any satisfactory explanation, he would enable me to seek the honour of being henceforward ranked among his acquaintance.”
Byron’s of October 27, 1811. was written in reply to this second letter from Moore.
203 — to R. C. Dallas
8, St. James’s Street, 29th October, 1811.
Dear Sir, — I arrived in town last night, and shall be very glad to see you when convenient.
Yours very truly,
Byron.
204 — to Thomas Moore
8, St. James’s Street, October 29, 1811.
Sir, — Soon after my return to England, my friend, Mr. Hodgson, apprised me that a letter for me was in his possession; but a domestic event hurrying me from London immediately after, the letter (which may most probably be your own) is still unopened in his keeping. If, on examination of the address, the similarity of the handwriting should lead to such a conclusion, it shall be opened in your presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. Mr. H. is at present out of town; — on Friday I shall see him, and request him to forward it to my address.
With regard to the latter part of both your letters, until the principal point was discussed between us, I felt myself at a loss in what manner to reply. Was I to anticipate friendship from one, who conceived me to have charged him with falsehood? Were not advances, under such circumstances, to be misconstrued, — not, perhaps, by the person to whom they were addressed, but by others? In my case such a step was impracticable. If you, who conceived yourself to be the offended person, are satisfied that you had no cause for offence, it will not be difficult to convince me of it. My situation, as I have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it commenced under other circumstances; but it must rest with you to determine how far it may proceed after so auspicious a beginning.
I have the honour to be, etc.
As your Lordship does not show any wish to proceed beyond the rigid formulary of explanation, it is not for me to make any further advances. We Irishmen, in businesses of this kind, seldom know any medium between decided hostility and decided friendship; but, as any approaches towards the latter alternative must now depend entirely on your Lordship, I have only to repeat that I am satisfied with your letter, and that I have the honour to be,” etc., etc.
205 — to Thomas Moore
8, St. James’s Street, October 30, 1811.
Sir, — You must excuse my troubling you once more upon this very unpleasant subject. It would be a satisfaction to me, and I should think to yourself, that the unopened letter in Mr. Hodgson’s possession (supposing it to prove your own) should be returned in statu quo to the writer; particularly as you expressed yourself “not quite easy under the manner in which I had dwelt on its miscarriage.”
A few words more, and I shall not trouble you further. I felt, and still feel, very much flattered by those parts of your correspondence, which held out the prospect of our becoming acquainted. If I did not meet them in the first instance as perhaps I ought, let the situation I was placed in be my defence. You have now declared yourself satisfied, and on that point we are no longer at issue. If, therefore, you still retain any wish to do me the honour you hinted at, I shall be most happy to meet you, when, where, and how you please, and I presume you will not attribute my saying thus much to any unworthy motive.
I have the honour to remain, etc.
“Piqued,” says Moore (Life, 144), “at the manner in which my efforts towards a more friendly understanding were received,”
he had briefly expressed his satisfaction at Byron’s explanation, and added that the correspondence might close.
206 — to R. C. Dallas
8, St. James’s Street, October 31, 1811.
Dear Sir, — I have already taken up so much of your time that there needs no excuse on your part, but a great many on mine, for the present interruption. I have altered the passages according to your wish. With this note I send a few stanzas on a subject which has lately occupied much of my thoughts. They refer to the death of one to whose name you are a stranger, and, consequently, cannot be interested. I mean them to complete the present volume. They relate to the same person whom I have mentioned in Canto 2nd, and at the conclusion of the poem.
I by no means intend to identify myself with Harold, but to deny all connection with him. If in parts I may be thought to have drawn from myself, believe me it is but in parts, and I shall not own even to that. As to the Monastic dome, etc., I thought those circumstances would suit him as well as any other, and I could describe what I had seen better than I could invent. I would not be such a fellow as I have made my hero for all the world.
Yours ever,
B.
207 — to Thomas Moore
8, St. James’s Street, November 1, 1811.
Sir, — As I should be very sorry to interrupt your Sunday’s engagement, if Monday, or any other day of the ensuing week, would be equally convenient to yourself and friend, I will then have the honour of accepting his invitation.
Of the professions of esteem with which Mr. Rogers has honoured me, I cannot but feel proud, though undeserving. I should be wanting to myself, if insensible to the praise of such a man; and, should my approaching interview with him and his friend lead to any degree of intimacy with both or either, I shall regard our past correspondence as one of the happiest events of my life. I have the honour to be,
Your very sincere and obedient servant,
Byron.
“Neither Moore nor myself had ever seen Byron when it was settled that he should dine at my house to meet Moore; nor was he known by sight to Campbell, who, happening to call upon me that morning, consented to join the party. I thought it best that I alone should be in the drawing-room when Byron entered it; and Moore and Campbell accordingl
y withdrew. Soon after his arrival, they returned; and I introduced them to him severally, naming them as Adam named the beasts. When we sat down to dinner, I asked Byron if he would take soup? ‘No; he never took soup.’ ‘Would he take some fish?’ ‘No; he never took fish.’ Presently I asked if he would eat some mutton? ‘No; he never ate mutton.’ I then asked if he would take a glass of wine? ‘No; he never tasted wine.’ It was now necessary to inquire what he did eat and drink; and the answer was, ‘Nothing but hard biscuits and soda-water.’ Unfortunately, neither hard biscuits nor soda-water were at hand; and he dined upon potatoes bruised down on his plate and drenched with vinegar. My guests stayed very late, discussing the merits of Walter Scott and Joanna Baillie. Some days after, meeting Hobhouse, I said to him, ‘How long will Lord Byron persevere in his present diet? ‘He replied, ‘Just as long as you continue to notice it.’ I did not then know, what I now know to be a fact, that Byron, after leaving my house, had gone to a Club in St. James’s Street and eaten a hearty meat-supper”
(Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers, pp. 231, 232). Moore’s (Life, p. 145) first impressions of Byron were
“the nobleness of his air, his beauty, the gentleness of his voice and manners, and — what was naturally not the least attraction — his marked kindness to myself. Being in mourning for his mother, the colour, as well of his dress, as of his glossy, curling, and picturesque hair, gave more effect to the pure, spiritual paleness of his features, in the expression of which, when he spoke, there was a perpetual play of lively thought, though melancholy was their habitual character when in repose.”
“the town mouse a sleek, well-fed, sly, white mouse, and the country mouse with its rough, weather-worn face and grey hairs; the town mouse displaying its delicate little rolls and pyramids of glistening strawberries, the country mouse exulting in its hollow tree, its crust of bread and liberty, and rallying its brother on his late hours and frequent dinners.”
One of his earliest recollections was the sight of a rebel’s head upon a pole at Temple Bar. He had talked with a Thames boatman who remembered Pope; had seen Garrick in The Suspicious Husband; had heard Sir Joshua Reynolds deliver his last lecture as President of the Royal Academy; had seen John Wesley “lying in state” in the City Road; had gone to call on Dr. Johnson, but, when his hand was on the knocker, found his courage fled. He lived to be offered the laureateship in 1850, on the death of Wordsworth, and to decline it in favour of Tennyson.
“Time was,” wrote Mathias (Pursuits of Literature, note, p. 360, ed. 1808), “when bankers were as stupid as their guineas could make them; they were neither orators, nor painters, nor poets. But now. .. Mr. Rogers dreams on Parnassus; and, if I am rightly informed, there is a great demand among his brethren for the Pleasures of Memory.”
Rogers began to write poetry at an early age, and continued to write it all his life. His Ode to Superstition was published in 1786; the Pleasures of Memory, in 1792; the Epistle to a Friend, in 1798; Columbus, in 1812; Jacqueline, in 1813; Human Life, in 1819; Italy, in 1822-34. His later years were occupied in revising, correcting, or amplifying his published poems, and in preparing the notes to Italy, which are admirable studies in compactness and precision of language. A disciple of Pope, an imitator of Goldsmith, Rogers was rather a skilful adapter than an original poet. His chief talent was his taste; if he could not originate, he could appreciate. The fastidious care which he lavished on his work has preserved it. In his commonplace-book he has entered the number of years which he spent in composing and revising his poems. His Pleasures of Memory occupied seven years, Columbus fourteen, and Italy fifteen. An excellent judge of art, he employed Flaxman, Stothard, and Turner at a time when their powers were little appreciated by his fellow-countrymen. Of his taste Byron speaks enthusiastically in his Journal (see p. 331). But the following passage (hitherto unpublished) from his Detached Thoughts (Ravenna, 1821) gives his later opinion of the man:
“When Sheridan was on his death-bed, Rogers aided him with purse and person. This was particularly kind of Rogers, who always spoke ill of Sheridan (to me, at least), but, indeed, he does that of everybody to anybody. Rogers is the reverse of the line:
‘The best good man with the worst natured Muse,’
being:
‘The worst good man with the best natured Muse.’
His Muse being all Sentiment and Sago and Sugar, while he himself is a venomous talker. I say ‘worst good man’ because he is (perhaps) a good man; at least he does good now and then, as well he may, to purchase himself a shilling’s worth of salvation for his slanders. They are so little, too — small talk — and old Womanny, and he is malignant too — and envious — and — he be damned!”
In a manuscript note to these passages Sir Walter Scott writes,
“I never heard Rogers say a single word against Byron, which is rather odd too. Byron wrote a bitter and undeserved satire on Rogers. This conduct must have been motived by something or other.”
Speaking of Rogers and Sheridan, he says,
“He certainly took pennyworths out of his friend’s character. I sat three hours for my picture to Sir Thomas Lawrence, during which the whole conversation was filled up by Rogers with stories of Sheridan, for the least of which, if true, he deserved the gallows. One respected his committing a rape on his sister-in-law on the day of her husband’s funeral. Others were worse.”
In politics Rogers was a Whig, in religion a Presbyterian. But he meddled little with either. In private life he was as kindly in action as he was caustic in speech. A sensitive man himself, he studied to be satirical to others. When Ward condemned Columbus in the Quarterly Review, Rogers repaid his critic in the stinging epigram:
“Ward has no heart, they say; but I deny it; —
He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.”
Byron warmly admired Rogers’s poetry. To him he dedicated The Giaour, in
“admiration for his genius, respect for his character, and gratitude for his friendship.”
The Quarterly Review, in an article on The Corsair and Lara, mentions
“the highly refined, but somewhat insipid, pastoral tale of Jacqueline.”
Byron, on reading the review, said to Lady Byron,
“The man’s a fool. Jacqueline is as superior to Lara as Rogers is to me”
(Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers, p. 154, note).
“The Pleasures of Memory,” he said (Lady Blessington’s Conversations, p. 153), “is a very beautiful poem, harmonious, finished, and chaste; it contains not a single meretricious ornament. If Rogers has not fixed himself in the higher fields of Parnassus, he has, at least, cultivated a very pretty flower-garden at its base.”
But he goes on to speak of the poem (p. 354) as
“a hortus siccus of pretty flowers,” and an illustration of “the difference between inspiration and versification.”
If Rogers ever saw Byron’s Question and Answer (1818), he was generous enough to forget the satire. In Italy he paid a noble tribute to the genius of the dead poet —
“He is now at rest;
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little; nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations; and, if in thy life
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire,
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious!
/> They in thy train — ah, little did they think,
As round we went, that they so soon should sit
Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourned,
Changing her festal for her funeral song;
That they so soon should hear the minute-gun,
As morning gleamed on what remained of thee,
Roll o’er the sea, the mountains, numbering
Thy years of joy and sorrow.
Thou art gone;
And he who would assail thee in thy grave,
Oh, let him pause! For who among us all,
Tried as thou wert — even from thy earliest years,
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a Highland boy —
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame;
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek,
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine,
Her charmed cup — ah, who among us all
Could say he had not erred as much, and more?”
208 — to Francis Hodgson
8, St. James’s Street, November 17, 1811.
Dear Hodgson, — I have been waiting for the letter which was to have been sent by you immediately, and must again jog your memory on the subject. I believe I wrote you a full and true account of poor — ’s proceedings. Since his reunion to — , I have heard nothing further from him. What a pity! a man of talent, past the heyday of life, and a clergyman, to fall into such imbecility. I have heard from Hobhouse, who has at last sent more copy to Cawthorn for his Travels. I franked an enormous cover for you yesterday, seemingly to convey at least twelve cantos on any given subject. I fear the I aspect of it was too epic for the post. From this and other coincidences I augur a publication on your part, but what, or when, or how much, you must disclose immediately.
I don’t know what to say about coming down to Cambridge at present, but live in hopes. I am so completely superannuated there, and besides feel it something brazen in me to wear my magisterial habit, after all my buffooneries, that I hardly think I shall venture again. And being now an disciple I won’t come within wine-shot of such determined topers as your collegiates. I have not yet subscribed to Bowen. I mean to cut Harrow “enim unquam” as somebody classically said for a farewell sentence. I am superannuated there too, and, in short, as old at twenty-three as many men at seventy.