Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

Ay, my dear Moore, “there was a time” — I have heard of your tricks, when “you was campaigning at the “King of Bohemy.”

  I am much mistaken if, some fine London spring, about the year 1815, that time does not come again. After all, we must end in marriage; and I can conceive nothing more delightful than such a state in the country, reading the county newspaper, etc., and kissing one’s wife’s maid. Seriously, I would incorporate with any woman of decent demeanour to-morrow — that is, I would a month ago, but, at present, — —

  Why don’t you “parody that Ode?” — Do you think I should be tetchy? or have you done it, and won’t tell me? — You are quite right about Giamschid, and I have reduced it to a dissyllable within this half hour.

  I am glad to hear you talk of Richardson, because it tells me what you won’t — that you are going to beat Lucien. At least tell me how far you have proceeded. Do you think me less interested about your works, or less sincere than our friend Ruggiero? I am not — and never was. In that thing of mine, the English Bards, at the time when I was angry with all the world, I never “disparaged your parts,” although I did not know you personally; — and have always regretted that you don’t give us an entire work, and not sprinkle yourself in detached pieces — beautiful, I allow, and quite alone in our language, but still giving us a right to expect a Shah Nameh (is that the name?) as well as gazelles. Stick to the East; — the oracle, Staël, told me it was the only poetical policy. The North, South, and West, have all been exhausted; but from the East, we have nothing but Southey’s unsaleables, — and these he has contrived to spoil, by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. His personages don’t interest us, and yours will. You will have no competitor; and, if you had, you ought to be glad of it. The little I have done in that way is merely a “voice in the wilderness” for you; and if it has had any success, that also will prove that the public are orientalising, and pave the path for you.

  I have been thinking of a story, grafted on the amours of a Peri and a mortal — something like, only more philanthropical than, Cazotte’s Diable Amoureux.

  It would require a good deal of poesy, and tenderness is not my forte. For that, and other reasons, I have given up the idea, and merely suggest it to you, because, in intervals of your greater work, I think it a subject you might make much of.

  If you want any more books, there is “Castellan’s Moeurs des Ottomans,” the best compendium of the kind I ever met with, in six small tomes.

  I am really taking a liberty by talking in this style to my “elders and my betters;” — pardon it, and don’t Rochefoucault my motives.

  “The Ode of Horace —

  ‘Natis in usum lætitiæ,’ etc.;

  some passages of which I told him might be parodied, in allusion to some of his late adventures:

  ‘Quanta laboras in Charybdi!

  Digne puer meliore flammâ!’“

  (Moore.)

  “In his first edition of The Giaour he had used this word as a trisyllable — ’Bright as the gem of Giamschid’ — but on my remarking to him, upon the authority of Richardson’s Persian Dictionary, that this was incorrect, he altered it to ‘Bright as the ruby of Giamschid.’ On seeing this, however, I wrote to him, ‘that, as the comparison of his heroine’s eye to a “ruby” might unluckily call up the idea of its being bloodshot, he had better change the line to “Bright as the jewel of Giamschid;”‘ which he accordingly did in the following edition”

  (Moore).

  In the Sháh Námeh, Giamschid is the fourth sovereign of the ancient Persians, and ruled seven hundred years. His jewel was a green chrysolite, the reflection of which gives to the sky its blue-green colour. Byron probably changed to “ruby” on the authority of Vathek (p. 58, ed. 1856), where Beckford writes,

  “Then all the riches this place contains, as well as the carbuncle of Giamschid, shall be hers.”

  “I had already, singularly enough, anticipated this suggestion, by making the daughter of a Peri the heroine of one of my stories, and detailing the love adventures of her aërial parent in an episode. In acquainting Lord Byron with this circumstance, in my answer to the above letter, I added, ‘All I ask of your friendship is — not that you will abstain from Peris on my account, for that is too much to ask of human (or, at least, author’s) nature — but that, whenever you mean to pay your addresses to any of these aërial ladies, you will, at once, tell me so, frankly and instantly, and let me, at least, have my choice whether I shall be desperate enough to go on, with such a rival, or at once surrender the whole race into your hands, and take, for the future, to Antediluvians with Mr. Montgomery’“

  (Moore).

  “Nous nous persuadons souvent d’aimer les gens plus puissans que nous, et néanmoins c’est l’interêt seul qui produit notre amitié; nous ne nous donnons pas à eux pour le bien que nous leur voulons faire, mais pour celui que nous en voulons recevoir.”

  325 — to Thomas Moore

  August — September, I mean — 1, 1813.

  I send you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, and three vols. on Turkish literature, not yet looked into. The last I will thank you to read, extract what you want, and return in a week, as they are lent to me by that brightest of Northern constellations, Mackintosh, — amongst many other kind things into which India has warmed him; for I am sure your home Scotsman is of a less genial description.

  Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable; I have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so flattering, that I begin to think myself a very fine fellow. But you are laughing at me — ”Stap my vitals, Tam! thou art a very impudent person;” and, if you are not laughing at me, you deserve to be laughed at. Seriously, what on earth can you, or have you, to dread from any poetical flesh breathing? It really puts me out of humour to hear you talk thus.

  The Giaour I have added to a good deal; but still in foolish fragments. It contains about 1200 lines, or rather more — now printing. You will allow me to send you a copy. You delight me much by telling me that I am in your good graces, and more particularly as to temper; for, unluckily, I have the reputation of a very bad one. But they say the devil is amusing when pleased, and I must have been more venomous than the old serpent, to have hissed or stung in your company. It may be, and would appear to a third person, an incredible thing, but I know you will believe me when I say, that I am as anxious for your success as one human being can be for another’s, — as much as if I had never scribbled a line. Surely the field of fame is wide enough for all; and if it were not, I would not willingly rob my neighbour of a rood of it. Now you have a pretty property of some thousand acres there, and when you have passed your present Inclosure Bill, your income will be doubled, (there’s a metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert and low,) while my wild common is too remote to incommode you, and quite incapable of such fertility. I send you (which return per post, as the printer would say) a curious letter from a friend of mine, which will let you into the origin of The Giaour. Write soon.

  Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, etc.

  P.S. — This letter was written to me on account of a different story circulated by some gentlewomen of our acquaintance, a little too close to the text. The part erased contained merely some Turkish names, and circumstantial evidence of the girl’s detection, not very important or decorous.

  “Yes, his manner was cold; his shake of the hand came under the genus ‘mortmain;’ but his heart was overflowing with benevolence”

  (Lady Holland’s Memoir of Sydney Smith, 4th edition, vol. i. p. 440).

  Albany, Monday, August 31, 1813.

  “My Dear Byron, — You have requested me to tell you all that I heard at Athens about the affair of that girl who was so near being put an end to while you were there; you have asked me to remember every circumstance, in the remotest degree relating to it, which I heard. In compliance with your wishes, I write to you all I heard, and I cannot imagine it to be ver
y far from the fact, as the circumstances happened only a day or two before I arrived at Athens, and, consequently, was a matter of common conversation at the time.

  “The new governor, unaccustomed to have the same intercourse with the Christians as his predecessor, had, of course, the barbarous Turkish ideas with regard to women. In consequence, and in compliance with the strict letter of the Mohammedan law, he ordered this girl to be sewed up in a sack, and thrown into the sea — as is, indeed, quite customary at Constantinople. As you were returning from bathing in the Piræus, you met the procession going down to execute the sentence of the Waywode on this unhappy girl. Report continues to say, that on finding out what the object of their journey was, and who was the miserable sufferer, you immediately interfered; and on some delay in obeying your orders, you were obliged to inform the leader of the escort that force should make him comply; that, on further hesitation, you drew a pistol, and told him, that if he did not immediately obey your orders, and come back with you to the Aga’s house, you would shoot him dead. On this the man turned about and went with you to the governor’s house; here you succeeded, partly by personal threats, and partly by bribery and entreaty, in procuring her pardon, on condition of her leaving Athens. I was told that you then conveyed her in safety to the convent, and despatched her off at night to Thebes, where she found a safe asylum. Such is the story I heard, as nearly as I can recollect it at present. Should you wish to ask me any further questions about it, I shall be very ready and willing to answer them.

  I remain, my dear Byron,

  Yours very sincerely,

  Sligo.

  326 — to James Wedderburn Webster

  September 2nd, 1813.

  My dear Webster, — You are just the same generous and I fear careless gentleman of the years of indifferent memory 1806 — but I must not burthen you with my entire household. Joe is, I believe, necessary for the present as a fixture, to keep possession till every thing is arranged; and were it otherwise, you don’t know what a perplexity he would prove — honest and faithful, but fearfully superannuated: now this I ought and do bear, but as he has not been fifty years in your family, it would be rather hard to convert your mansion into a hospital for decayed domestics. Rushton is, or may be made useful, and I am less compunctious on his account.

  “Will I be Godfather?”

  Yea, verily! I believe it is the only species of parentage I shall ever encounter, for all my acquaintance, Powerscourt, Jocelyn, yourself, Delawarr, Stanhope, with a long list of happy etceteras, are married; most of them my juniors too, and I as single and likely to remain so as, nay more than, if I were seventy.

  If it is a girl why not also? Georgina, or even Byron will make a classical name for a spinster, if Mr. Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison is any authority in your estimation.

  My ship is not settled. My passage in the Boyne was only for one Servant, and would not do, of course. You ask after the expense, a question no less interesting to the married than the single. Unless things are much altered, no establishment in the Mediterranean Countries could amount to the quarter of the expenditure requisite in England for the same or an inferior household.

  I am interrupted, and have only time to offer my best thanks for all your good wishes and intentions, and to beg you will believe me,

  Equally yours ever,

  B.

  P.S. — Rushton shall be sent on Saturday next.

  “almost chuckled with joy or irony,” and said, “Well, I cautioned you,

  and told you that my name would almost damn any thing or creature.”

  (MS. note by Wedderburn Webster.)

  327 — to Thomas Moore

  Sept. 5, 1813.

  You need not tie yourself down to a day with Toderini, but send him at your leisure, having anatomised him into such annotations as you want; I do not believe that he has ever undergone that process before, which is the best reason for not sparing him now.

  Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered of the Quarterly. What fellows these reviewers are! “these bugs do fear us all.”

  They made you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will end by making Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading Memory again, the other day, and Hope together, and retain all my preference of the former.

  His elegance is really wonderful — there is no such thing as a vulgar line in his book.

  What say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I back him against the field, barring catalepsy and the Elements. Nay, I almost wish him success against all countries but this, — were it only to choke the Morning Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers wants me to go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege you on our way. This last is a great temptation, but I fear it will not be in my power, unless you would go on with one of us somewhere — no matter where. It is too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some scheme, high life or low, — the last would be much the best for amusement. I am so sick of the other, that I quite sigh for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smuggler’s sloop.

  You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates were a little more accommodating to our parallel lines, which prolong ad infinitum without coming a jot nearer. I almost wish I were married, too — which is saying much. All my friends, seniors and juniors, are in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — the only species of parentage which, I believe, will ever come to my share in a lawful way; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can never be certain, — though the parish may. I suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If not, this goes as it is; but I leave room for a P.S., in case any thing requires an answer.

  Ever, etc.

  No letter — n’importe. Rogers thinks the Quarterly will be at me this time; if so, it shall be a war of extermination — no quarter. From the youngest devil down to the oldest woman of that review, all shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller; nay, if one were to include readers also, all the better.

  “tavern continued to be frequented by young men, and ‘much in vogue for devilled kidneys, oysters, and Welch rabbits, cigars, “goes” of brandy, and great supplies of London stout’ (also for comic songs), till it was absorbed in the extensions of the Adelphi Theatre.”

  328 — to Thomas Moore.

  September 8, 1813.

  I am sorry to see Toderini again so soon, for fear your scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully availing yourself of his spoils. By this coach I send you a copy of that awful pamphlet The Giaour, which has never procured me half so high a compliment as your modest alarm. You will (if inclined in an evening) perceive that I have added much in quantity, — a circumstance which may truly diminish your modesty upon the subject.

  You stand certainly in great need of a “lift” with Mackintosh. My dear Moore, you strangely under-rate yourself. I should conceive it an affectation in any other; but I think I know you well enough to believe that you don’t know your own value. However, ‘tis a fault that generally mends; and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard him speak of you as highly as your wife could wish; and enough to give all your friends the jaundice.

  Yesterday I had a letter from Ali Pacha! brought by Dr. Holland, who is just returned from Albania. It is in Latin, and begins “Excellentissime nec non Carissime,” and ends about a gun he wants made for him; — it is signed “Ali Vizir.” What do you think he has been about? H. tells me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were treated as Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes the town, selects all the survivors of this exploit — children, grandchildren, etc. to the tune of six hundred, and has them shot before his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the city, and confined himself to the Tarquin pedigree, — which is more than I would. So much for “dearest friend.”

  “On ne vous a done pas viol
é? on ne vous a point fendu le ventre, comme le philosophe Pangloss me l’avait assuré? Si fait, dit la belle Cunégonde; mais on ne meurt pas toujours de ces deux accidents.”

  329 — to Thomas Moore

  Sept. 9, 1813.

  I write to you from Mr. Murray’s, and I may say, from Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in favour of any other publisher, would be happy to treat with you, at a fitting time, for your work. I can safely recommend him as fair, liberal, and attentive, and certainly, in point of reputation, he stands among the first of “the trade.” I am sure he would do you justice. I have written to you so much lately, that you will be glad to see so little now.

  Ever, etc., etc.

  330 — to James Wedderburn Webster

  September 15th, 1813.

  My dear Webster, — I shall not resist your second invitation, and shortly after the receipt of this you may expect me. You will excuse me from the races. As a guest I have no “antipathies” and few preferences…. You won’t mind, however, my not dining with you — every day at least. When we meet, we can talk over our respective plans: mine is very short and simple; viz. to sail when I can get a passage. If I remained in England I should live in the Country, and of course in the vicinity of those whom I knew would be most agreeable.

  I did not know that Jack’s graven image was at Newstead. If it be, pray transfer it to Aston. It is my hope to see you so shortly, tomorrow or next day, that I will not now trouble you with my speculations.

  Ever yours very faithfully,

  Byron.

  P.S. — I don’t know how I came to sign myself with the “i.” It is the old spelling, and I sometimes slip into it. When I say I can’t dine with you, I mean that sometimes I don’t dine at all. Of course, when I do, I conform to all hours and domestic arrangements.

  331 — to the Hon. Augusta Leigh

  [Wednesday], Sept’r. 15th, 1813.

  My dear Augusta, — I joined my friend Scrope about 8, and before eleven we had swallowed six bottles of his burgundy and Claret, which left him very unwell and me rather feverish; we were tête à tête. I remained with him next day and set off last night for London, which I reached at three in the morning. Tonight I shall leave it again, perhaps for Aston or Newstead. I have not yet determined, nor does it much matter. As you perhaps care more on the subject than I do, I will tell you when I know myself.