Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Ever yours, Biron.

  P. S. — I have got out of my bed (in which, however, I could not sleep, whether I had amended this or not), and so good morning. I am trying whether De l’Allemagne will act as an opiate, but I doubt it.

  “Then, if my lip once murmurs, it must be

  No sigh for Safety, but a prayer for thee.”

  361 — to John Murray

  November 29, 1813.

  “You have looked at it!” to much purpose, to allow so stupid a blunder to stand; it is not “courage” but “carnage;” and if you don’t want me to cut my own throat, see it altered.

  I am very sorry to hear of the fall of Dresden.

  362 — to John Murray

  Nov. 29, 1813, Monday.

  Dear Sir, — You will act as you please upon that point; but whether I go or stay, I shall not say another word on the subject till May — nor then, unless quite convenient to yourself. I have many things I wish to leave to your care, principally papers. The vases need not be now sent, as Mr. W. is gone to Scotland. You are right about the Er[rata] page; place it at the beginning. Mr. Perry is a little premature in his compliments: these may do harm by exciting expectation, and I think we ought to be above it — though I see the next paragraph is on the Journal, which makes me suspect you as the author of both.

  Would it not have been as well to have said in 2 cantos in the advertisement? they will else think of fragments, a species of composition very well for once, like one ruin in a view; but one would not build a town of them. The Bride, such as it is, is my first entire composition of any length (except the Satire, and be damned to it), for The Giaour is but a string of passages, and Childe Harold is, and I rather think always will be, unconcluded. I return Mr. Hay’s note, with thanks to him and you.

  There have been some epigrams on Mr. W[ard]: one I see to-day.

  The first I did not see, but heard yesterday. The second seems very bad and Mr. P[erry] has placed it over your puff. I only hope that Mr. W. does not believe that I had any connection with either. The Regent is the only person on whom I ever expectorated an epigram, or ever should; and even if I were disposed that way, I like and value Mr. W. too well to allow my politics to contract into spleen, or to admire any thing intended to annoy him or his. You need not take the trouble to answer this, as I shall see you in the course of the afternoon.

  Yours very truly, B.

  P. S. — I have said this much about the epigrams, because I live so much in the opposite camp, and, from my post as an Engineer, might be suspected as the flinger of these hand Grenadoes; but with a worthy foe I am all for open war, and not this bush-fighting, and have [not] had, nor will have, any thing to do with it. I do not know the author.

  “Lord Byron’s muse is extremely fruitful. He has another poem coming out, entitled The Bride of Abydos, which is spoken of in terms of the highest encomium.”

  “Ward has no heart, they say; but I deny it; —

  He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.”

  363 — to John Murray

  Tuesday evening, Nov. 30, 1813.

  Dear Sir, — For the sake of correctness, particularly in an Errata page, the alteration of the couplet I have just sent (half an hour ago) must take place, in spite of delay or cancel; let me see the proof early to-morrow. I found out murmur to be a neuter verb, and have been obliged to alter the line so as to make it a substantive, thus:

  The deepest murmur of this life shall be

  No sigh for Safety, but a prayer for thee!

  Don’t send the copies to the country till this is all right.

  Yours,

  B.

  364 — to Thomas Moore.

  November 30, 1813.

  Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, good, bad, and indifferent, — not to make me forget you, but to prevent me from reminding you of one who, nevertheless, has often thought of you, and to whom your thoughts, in many a measure, have frequently been a consolation. We were once very near neighbours this autumn; and a good and bad neighbourhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say, that your French quotation was confoundedly to the purpose, — though very unexpectedly pertinent, as you may imagine by what I said before, and my silence since. However, “Richard’s himself again,” and except all night and some part of the morning, I don’t think very much about the matter.

  All convulsions end with me in rhyme; and to solace my midnights, I have scribbled another Turkish story — not a Fragment — which you will receive soon after this. It does not trench upon your kingdom in the least, and if it did, you would soon reduce me to my proper boundaries. You will think, and justly, that I run some risk of losing the little I have gained in fame, by this further experiment on public patience; but I have really ceased to care on that head. I have written this, and published it, for the sake of the employment, — to wring my thoughts from reality, and take refuge in “imaginings,” however “horrible;” and, as to success! those who succeed will console me for a failure — excepting yourself and one or two more, whom luckily I love too well to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower. This is the work of a week, and will be the reading of an hour to you, or even less, — and so, let it go — — .

  P.S. — Ward and I talk of going to Holland. I want to see how a Dutch canal looks after the Bosphorus. Pray respond.

  “I am sorry I must wait till ‘we are veterans’ before you will open to me ‘the story of your wandering life, wherein you find more hours due to repentance … than time hath told you yet.’ Is it so with you, or are you, like me, reprobate enough to look back with complacency on what you have done? I suppose repentance must bring up the rear with us all; but at present I should say with old Fontenelle, Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferais tout ce que j’ai fait.”

  “Conscience, avaunt! Richard’s himself again.”

  “Horrible imaginings.”

  Macbeth, act i. sc. 3.

  365 — to Francis Hodgson

  Nov’r — Dec’r 1st, 1813.

  I have just heard that Knapp is acquainted with what I was but too happy in being enabled to do for you.

  Now, my dear Hn., you, or Drury, must have told this, for, upon my own honour, not even to Scrope, nor to one soul, (Drury knew it before) have I said one syllable of the matter. So don’t be out of humour with me about it, but you can’t be more so than I am. I am, however, glad of one thing; if you ever conceived it to be in the least an obligation, this disclosure most fairly and fully releases you from it:

  “To John I owe some obligation,

  But John unluckily thinks fit

  To publish it to all the nation,

  So John and I are more than quit.”

  And so there’s an end of the matter.

  Ward wavers a little about the Dutch, till matters are more sedative, and the French more sedentary.

  The Bride will blush upon you in a day or two; there is much, at least a little addition. I am happy to say that Frere and Heber, and some other “good men and true,” have been kind enough to adopt the same opinion that you did.

  Pray write when you like, and believe me,

  Ever yours,

  Byron.

  P.S. — Murray has offered me a thousand guineas for the two (Giaour and Bride), and told M’e. de Stael that he had paid them to me!! I should be glad to be able to tell her so too. But the truth is, he would; but I thought the fair way was to decline it till May, and, at the end of 6 months, he can safely say whether he can afford it or not — without running any risk by Speculation. If he paid them now and lost by it, it would be hard. If he gains, it will be time enough when he has already funded his profits. But he needed not have told “la Baronne” such a devil of an uncalled for piece of — premature truth, perhaps — but, nevertheless, a lie in the mean time.

  “My noble-hearted friend, Lord Byron, after many offers of a similar kind, which I felt bound to refuse, has irresistibly in my present circumstances �
� volunteered to pay all my debts, and within a few pounds it is done! Oh, if you knew (but you do know) the exultation of heart, aye, and of head too, I feel at being free from these depressing embarrassments, you would, as I do, bless my dearest friend and brother Byron.”

  366 — to John Murray

  Dec. 2, 1813.

  Dear Sir, — When you can, let the couplet enclosed be inserted either in the page, or in the Errata page. I trust it is in time for some of the copies. This alteration is in the same part — the page but one before the last correction sent.

  Yours, etc.,

  B.

  P. S. — I am afraid, from all I hear, that people are rather inordinate in their expectations, which is very unlucky, but cannot now be helped. This comes of Mr. Perry and one’s wise friends; but do not you wind your hopes of success to the same pitch, for fear of accidents, and I can assure you that my philosophy will stand the test very fairly; and I have done every thing to ensure you, at all events, from positive loss, which will be some satisfaction to both.

  367 — to Leigh Hunt

  4, Bennet St., Dec. 2, 1813.

  My dear Sir, — Few things could be more welcome than your note, and on Saturday morning I will avail myself of your permission to thank you for it in person. My time has not been passed, since we met, either profitably or agreeably. A very short period after my last visit, an incident occurred with which, I fear, you are not unacquainted, as report, in many mouths and more than one paper, was busy with the topic. That, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then I nearly incurred a lawsuit on the sale of an estate; but that is now arranged: next — but why should I go on with a series of selfish and silly details? I merely wish to assure you that it was not the frivolous forgetfulness of a mind, occupied by what is called pleasure (not in the true sense of Epicurus), that kept me away; but a perception of my, then, unfitness to share the society of those whom I value and wish not to displease. I hate being larmoyant, and making a serious face among those who are cheerful.

  It is my wish that our acquaintance, or, if you please to accept it, friendship, may be permanent. I have been lucky enough to preserve some friends from a very early period, and I hope, as I do not (at least now) select them lightly, I shall not lose them capriciously. I have a thorough esteem for that independence of spirit which you have maintained with sterling talent, and at the expense of some suffering. You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were composing, when Moore and I partook of your hospitality in the summer. I hope a time will come when he and I may be able to repay you in kind for the latter — for the rhyme, at least in quantity, you are in arrear to both.

  Believe me, very truly and affectionately yours,

  Byron.

  “My dear Lord, — I need not tell you how much your second letter has gratified me, for I am apt to speak as sincerely as I think (you must suffer me to talk in this way after what you have been kind enough to say of my independence), and it always rejoices me to find that those whom I wish to regard will take me at my word. But I shall grow egotistical upon the strength of your Lordship’s good opinion. I shall be heartily glad to see you on Saturday morning, and perhaps shall prevail upon you to take a luncheon with us at our dinner-time (3). The nature of your letter would have brought upon you a long answer, filled perhaps with an enthusiasm that might have made you smile; but I am keeping your servant in the cold, and so, among other good offices, you see what he has done for you. However, I would not make a light thing of so good a matter as I mean my enthusiasm to be, and intend, before I have done, that you shall have as sound a regard for it, as I have for the feelings on your Lordship’s part that have called it forth.

  Yours, my dear Lord, most sincerely and cordially,

  Leigh Hunt.

  Surrey Jail, 2’d Dec’r., 1813.”

  368 — to John Murray

  Dec. 3, 1813.

  I send you a scratch or two, the which heal. The Christian Observer is very savage, but certainly uncommonly well written — and quite uncomfortable at the naughtiness of book and author. I rather suspect you won’t much like the present to be more moral, if it is to share also the usual fate of your virtuous volumes.

  Let me see a proof of the six before incorporation.

  “He never attempts to deceive the world by representing the profligate as happy…. And his testimony is of the more value, as his situation in life must have permitted him to see the experiment tried under the most favourable circumstances. He has probably seen more than one example of young men of high birth, talents, and expectancies, ... sink under the burden of unsubdued tempers, licentious alliances, and ennervating indulgence…. He has seen all this; nay, perhaps — But we check our pen,” etc., etc.

  369 — to John Murray

  Dec. 3, 1813.

  My dear Sir, — Look out the Encyclopedia article Mecca whether it is there or at Medina the Prophet is entombed, if at Medina the first lines of my alteration must run:

  Blest as the call which from Medina’s dome

  Invites Devotion to her Prophet’s tomb, etc.

  If at “Mecca” the lines may stand as before. Page 45, C°. 2nd, Bride of Abydos. Yours, B.

  You will find this out either by Article Mecca, Medina or Mahommed. I have no book of reference by me.

  370 — to John Murray

  [No date.]

  Did you look out? is it Medina or Mecca that contains the holy Sepulchre? don’t make me blaspheme by your negligence. I have no books of reference or I would save you the trouble. I blush as a good Mussulman to have confused the point. Yours, B.

  371 — to John Murray

  Dec. 4, 1813.

  Dear Sir, — I have redde through your Persian Tales, and have taken the liberty of making some remarks on the blank pages. There are many beautiful passages, and an interesting story; and I cannot give you a stronger proof that such is my opinion, than by the date of the hour — two o’clock, — till which it has kept me awake without a yawn.

  The conclusion is not quite correct in costume: there is no Mussulman suicide on record — at least for love. But this matters not. The tale must have been written by some one who has been on the spot, and I wish him, and he deserves, success. Will you apologise to the author for the liberties I have taken with his MS.? Had I been less awake to, and interested in, his theme, I had been less obtrusive; but you know I always take this in good part, and I hope he will. It is difficult to say what will succeed, and still more to pronounce what will not. I am at this moment in that uncertainty (on your own score); and it is no small proof of the author’s powers to be able to charm and fix a mind’s attention on similar subjects and climates in such a predicament. That he may have the same effect upon all his readers is very sincerely the wish, and hardly the doubt, of

  Yours truly, B.

  “I tried at ‘Ilderim;’

  Ahem!”

  372 — to John Murray

  Dear Sir, — It is all very well, except that the lines are not numbered properly, and a diabolical mistake, page 67., which must be corrected with the pen, if no other way remains; it is the omission of “not” before “disagreeable” in the note on the amber rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad as the stumble of mine at the Threshold — I mean the misnomer of bride. Pray do not let a copy go without the “not;” it is nonsense, and worse than nonsense, as it now stands. I wish the printer was saddled with a vampire.

  Yours ever, B.

  P. S. — It is still hath instead of have in page 20; never was any one so misused as I am by your Devils of printers.

  P. S. — I hope and trust the “not” was inserted in the first Edition. We must have something — any thing — to set it right. It is enough to answer for one’s own bulls, without other people’s.

  373 — to Thomas Moore

  December 8, 1813.

  Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest things in this world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to w
hat sits nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate to you, — not in a formal inscription, as to one’s elders, — but through a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your intimate, and held forth the prospect of your poem; when, lo! the recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy as to the said poem, more than once repeated by word and letter, flashed upon me, and marred my intents. I could have no motive for repressing my own desire of alluding to you (and not a day passes that I do not think and talk of you), but an idea that you might, yourself, dislike it. You cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waving personal friendship for the present, which, by the by, is not less sincere and deep rooted. I have you by rote and by heart; of which ecce signum! When I was at Aston, on my first visit, I have a habit, in passing my time a good deal alone, of — I won’t call it singing, for that I never attempt except to myself — but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your “Oh breathe not,” “When the last glimpse,” and “When he who adores thee,” with others of the same minstrel; — they are my matins and vespers. I assuredly did not intend them to be overheard, but, one morning, in comes, not La Donna, but Il Marito, with a very grave face, saying, “Byron, I must request you won’t sing any more, at least of those songs.” I stared, and said, “Certainly, but why?” — ”To tell you the truth,” quoth he, “they make my wife cry, and so melancholy, that I wish her to hear no more of them.”

  Now, my dear M., the effect must have been from your words, and certainly not my music. I merely mention this foolish story to show you how much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases — at least, in composition. Though I think no one equal to you in that department, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever so popular in both, — I certainly am of opinion that you have not yet done all you can do, though more than enough for any one else. I want, and the world expects, a longer work from you; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, a strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot account for, and which must be unaccountable, when a Cossac like me can appal a cuirassier. Your story I did not, could not, know, — I thought only of a Peri. I wish you had confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent the world from losing a much better poem than my own, but which, I yet hope, this clashing will not even now deprive them of.