Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  “resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity…. ‘Well,’ asks the Vicar, ‘and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes?’ ‘Sir,’ replied my son, ‘the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes, nothing at all…. I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.’“

  “With what delight rhymes on the scribbling dunce.

  He’s ne’er perplex’d to choose, but right at once;

  With rapture hails each work as soon as done,

  And wonders so much wit was all his own.”

  “I once had the gratification of Seeing Lord Byron. He was at Evening party at the Poet Sotheby’s. I was not aware of his being in the room, or even that he had been invited, when I was arrested from listening to the person conversing with me by the Sounds of the most melodious Speaking Voice I had ever heard. It was gentle and beautifully modulated. I turned round to look for the Speaker, and then saw a Gentleman in black of an Elegant form (for nothing of his lameness could be discovered), and with a face I never shall forget. The features of the finest proportions. The Eye deep set, but mildly lustrous; and the Complexion what I at the time described to my Sister as a Sort of moonlight paleness. It was so pale, yet with all so Softly brilliant.

  I instantly asked my Companion who that Gentleman was. He replied, ‘Lord Byron.’ I was astonished, for there was no Scorn, no disdain, nothing in that noble Countenance then of the proud Spirit which has since soared to Heaven, illuminating the Horizon far and wide.”

  “in all the capitals of Europe. At one of her dinners in Park Street (all the company except herself being Whigs), the desperate prospects of the Whig party were discussed. Yes,’ said Sydney Smith, who was present, ‘we are in a most deplorable condition; we must do something to help ourselves. I think,’ said he, looking at Lydia White, ‘we had better sacrifice a Tory Virgin’“

  (Lady Morgan’s Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 236). Miss Berry, in her Journal (vol. iii. p. 49, May 8, 1815), says,

  “Lord and Lady Byron persuaded me to go with them to Miss White. Never have I seen a more imposing convocation of ladies arranged in a circle than when we entered, taking William Spencer with us. Lord Byron brought me home. He stayed to supper.”

  Miss White’s last years were passed in bad health. Moore called upon Rogers, May 7, 1826:

  “Found him in high good humour. In talking of Miss White, he said, ‘How wonderfully she does hold out! They may say what they will, but Miss White and Missolongi are the most remarkable things going”

  (Memoirs, etc., vol. v. p. 62). Lydia White died in February, 1827.

  “Sir George thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle.”

  “The head of Lady Charlemont (when I first saw her, nine years ago) seemed to possess all that sculpture could require for its ideal.”

  Moore (Journals, etc., vol. iii. p. 78) has the following entry in his Diary for November 21, 1819:

  “Called upon Lady Charlemont, and sat with her some time. Lady Mansfield told me that the effect she produces here with her beauty is wonderful; last night, at the Comtesse d’Albany’s, the Italians were ready to fall down and worship her.”

  For the two quotations, see Horace, Odes, I. iii. 1, and The Rape of the Lock, ii. 18.

  November 23rd, 1813

  Ward — I like Ward. By Mahomet! I begin to think I like every body; — a disposition not to be encouraged; — a sort of social gluttony that swallows every thing set before it. But I like Ward. He is piquant; and, in my opinion, will stand very high in the House, and every where else, if he applies regularly. By the by, I dine with him to-morrow, which may have some influence on my opinion. It is as well not to trust one’s gratitude after dinner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally lips.

  I have taken Lord Salisbury’s box at Covent Garden for the season; and now I must go and prepare to join Lady Holland and party, in theirs, at Drury Lane, questa sera.

  Holland doesn’t think the man is Junius; but that the yet unpublished journal throws great light on the obscurities of that part of George the Second’s reign. — What is this to George the Third’s? I don’t know what to think. Why should Junius be yet dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his grave without sending his to shout in the ears of posterity, “Junius was X.Y.Z., Esq., buried in the parish of — — . Repair his monument, ye churchwardens! Print a new edition of his Letters, ye booksellers!” Impossible, — the man must be alive, and will never die without the disclosure. I like him; — he was a good hater.

  Came home unwell and went to bed, — not so sleepy as might be desirable.

  Tuesday morning. I awoke from a dream! — well! and have not others dreamed? — Such a dream! — but she did not overtake me. I wish the dead would rest, however. Ugh! how my blood chilled, — and I could not wake — and — and — heigho!

  “Shadows to-night

  Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,

  Than could the substance of ten thousand — — s,

  Arm’d all in proof, and led by shallow — — .”

  I do not like this dream, — I hate its “foregone conclusion.” And am I to be shaken by shadows? Ay, when they remind us of — no matter — but, if I dream thus again, I will try whether all sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, I’ve been in considerable bodily pain also; but it is gone, and now, like Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day.

  A note from Mountnorris — I dine with Ward; — Canning is to be there, Frere and Sharpe, perhaps Gifford. I am to be one of “the five” (or rather six), as Lady — — said a little sneeringly yesterday. They are all good to meet, particularly Canning, and — Ward, when he likes. I wish I may be well enough to listen to these intellectuals.

  No letters to-day; — so much the better, — there are no answers. I must not dream again; — it spoils even reality. I will go out of doors, and see what the fog will do for me. Jackson has been here: the boxing world much as usual; — but the club increases. I shall dine at Crib’s to-morrow. I like energy — even animal energy — of all kinds; and I have need of both mental and corporeal. I have not dined out, nor, indeed, at all, lately: have heard no music — have seen nobody. Now for a plunge — high life and low life. Amant alterna Camoenæ!.

  I have burnt my Roman — as I did the first scenes and sketch of my comedy — and, for aught I see, the pleasure of burning is quite as great as that of printing. These two last would not have done. I ran into realities more than ever; and some would have been recognised and others guessed at.

  Redde the Ruminator — a collection of Essays, by a strange, but able, old man [Sir Egerton Brydges], and a half-wild young one, author of a poem on the Highlands, called Childe Alarique.

  The word “sensibility” (always my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays; and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discontent. This young man can know nothing of life; and, if he cherishes the disposition which runs through his papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after all, which he seems determined to be. God help him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might have all been agents and leaders, now mere spectators. For, though they may have other ostensible avocations, these last are reduced to a secondary consideration. — — , too, frittering away his time among dowagers and unmarried girls. If it advanced any serious affair, it were some excuse; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous speculation, and tiresome enough, too; and, with the veterans, it is not much worth trying, unless, perhaps, one in a thousand.

  If I had any views in this country, they would probably be parliamentary.

  But I have no ambition; at least, if any
, it would be aut Cæsar aut nihil. My hopes are limited to the arrangement of my affairs, and settling either in Italy or the East (rather the last), and drinking deep of the languages and literature of both. Past events have unnerved me; and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, and look on while others play. After all, even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it? Vide Napoleon’s last twelvemonth. It has completely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if crushed, he would have fallen, when fractus illabitur orbis, and not have been pared away to gradual insignificance; that all this was not a mere jeu of the gods, but a prelude to greater changes and mightier events. But men never advance beyond a certain point; and here we are, retrograding, to the dull, stupid old system, — balance of Europe — poising straws upon kings’ noses, instead of wringing them off! Give me a republic, or a despotism of one, rather than the mixed government of one, two, three. A republic! — look in the history of the Earth — Rome, Greece, Venice, France, Holland, America, our short (eheu!) Commonwealth, and compare it with what they did under masters. The Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, but they have the liberty of demolishing despots, which is the next thing to it. To be the first man — not the Dictator — not the Sylla, but the Washington or the Aristides — the leader in talent and truth — is next to the Divinity! Franklin, Penn, and, next to these, either Brutus or Cassius — even Mirabeau — or St. Just. I shall never be any thing, or rather always be nothing. The most I can hope is, that some will say, “He might, perhaps, if he would.”

  12, midnight.

  Here are two confounded proofs from the printer. I have looked at the one, but for the soul of me, I can’t look over that Giaour again, — at least, just now, and at this hour — and yet there is no moon.

  Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have partly discussed an ensemble expedition. It must be in ten days, if at all, if we wish to be in at the Revolution. And why not? — — is distant, and will be at — — , still more distant, till spring. No one else, except Augusta, cares for me; no ties — no trammels — andiamo dunque — se torniamo, bene — se non, ch’ importa? Old William of Orange talked of dying in “the last ditch” of his dingy country. It is lucky I can swim, or I suppose I should not well weather the first. But let us see. I have heard hyeenas and jackalls in the ruins of Asia; and bull-frogs in the marshes; besides wolves and angry Mussulmans. Now, I should like to listen to the shout of a free Dutchman.

  Alla! Viva! For ever! Hourra! Huzza! — which is the most rational or musical of these cries? “Orange Boven,” according to the Morning Post.

  “By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night

  Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard

  Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,

  Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.”

  Richard III., act v. sc. 3.

  “What with qualms, age, rheumatism, and a few surfeits in his youth, he must have a great deal of brushing, oyling, screwing, and winding up, to set him a-going for the day.”

  His translations of “The Frogs” of Aristophanes (1839), and of “The Acharnians, the Knights, and the Birds” (1840), are masterpieces of spirit and fidelity. His Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work, by William and Robert Whistlecraft (cantos i., ii., 1817; cantos iii., iv., 1818), inspired Byron with Beppo.

  Ticknor describes him in 1819 (Life, vol. i. p. 267):

  “Frere is a slovenly fellow. His remarks on Homer, in the Classical Journal, prove how fine a Greek scholar he is; his Quarterly Reviews, how well he writes; his ‘Rovers, or the Double Arrangement,’ what humour he possesses; and the reputation he has left in Spain and Portugal, how much better he understood their literatures than they do themselves; while, at the same time, his books left in France, in Gallicia, at Lisbon, and two or three places in England; his manuscripts, neglected and lost to himself; his manners, lazy and careless; and his conversation, equally rich and negligent, show how little he cares about all that distinguishes him in the eyes of the world. He studies as a luxury, he writes as an amusement, and conversation is a kind of sensual enjoyment to him. If he had been born in Asia, he would have been the laziest man that ever lived.”

  Gillies, in his Memoirs of a Literary Veteran (vol. ii. p. 4), says that in 1809 he addressed an anonymous letter to Brydges, containing some thoughts on the advantages of retirement (the subject of Childe Alarique). The letter, printed in The Ruminator, began his literary career and introduced him to Brydges. The Ruminator, 2 vols. (1813), and Childe Alarique (1813), are among the books included in the sale catalogue of Byron’s books, April 5, 1816.

  “At the Opposition meeting of the peers, in 1812, at Lord Grenville’s, when Lord Grey and he read to us the correspondence upon Moira’s negociation, I sate next to the present Duke of Grafton. When it was over, I turned to him and said, ‘What is to be done next?’ ‘Wake the Duke of Norfolk’ (who was snoring away near us), replied he. ‘I don’t think the Negociators have left anything else for us to do this turn.’“

  “In the debate, or rather discussion, afterwards, in the House of Lords, upon that very question, I sate immediately behind Lord Moira, who was extremely annoyed at G.’s speech upon the subject, and while G. was speaking, turned round to me repeatedly and asked me whether I agreed with him? It was an awkward question to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to me, ‘It was not so, it was so and so,’ etc. I did not know very well what to think, but I sympathized with the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject.”

  “Lord Eldon affects an Imitation of two very different Chancellors — Thurlow and Loughborough — and can indulge in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the Catholic question, when we were either equal or within one (I forget which), I had been sent for in great haste from a Ball, which I quitted, I confess somewhat reluctantly, to emancipate five Millions of people. I came in late, and did not go immediately into the body of the house, but stood just behind the Woolsack. Eldon turned round, and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer (who had come to him for a few minutes on the Woolsack, as is the custom of his friends), ‘Damn them! they’ll have it now, by God! — the vote that is just come in will give it them.’“

  24th November, 1813

  No dreams last night of the dead, nor the living; so — I am “firm as the marble, founded as the rock,” till the next earthquake.

  Ward’s dinner went off well. There was not a disagreeable person there — unless I offended any body, which I am sure I could not by contradiction, for I said little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a man of elegant mind, and who has lived much with the best — Fox, Horne Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agitators of other times and tongues,) told us the particulars of his last interview with Windham, a few days before the fatal operation which sent “that gallant spirit to aspire the skies.” Windham, — the first in one department of oratory and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond the intellect of half his hearers, — Windham, half his life an active participator in the events of the earth, and one of those who governed nations, — he regretted, — and dwelt much on that regret, that “he had not entirely devoted himself to literature and science!!!” His mind certainly would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere; — but I cannot comprehend what debility of that mind could suggest such a wish. I, who have heard him, cannot regret any thing but that I shall never hear him again. What! would he have been a plodder? a metaphysician? — perhaps a rhymer? a scribbler? Such an exchange must have been suggested by illness. But he is gone, and Time “shall not look upon his like again.”

  I am tremendously in arrear with my letters, — except to — — , and to her my thoughts overpower me: — my words never compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write with most pleasure — and her answers, so sensible, so tactique — I never met with half her talent. If she had been a few years younger, what a fool she would have made of me, had she thought it worth her while, — and I should have
lost a valuable and most agreeable friend. Mem. a mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and, when it is over, any thing but friends.

  I have not answered W. Scott’s last letter, — but I will. I regret to hear from others, that he has lately been unfortunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most English of bards. I should place Rogers next in the living list (I value him more as the last of the best school) — Moore and Campbell both third — Southey and Wordsworth and Coleridge — the rest, — thus:

  There is a triangular Gradus ad Parnassum! — the names are too numerous for the base of the triangle. Poor Thurlow has gone wild about the poetry of Queen Bess’s reign — c’est dommage. I have ranked the names upon my triangle more upon what I believe popular opinion, than any decided opinion of my own. For, to me, some of Moore’s last Erin sparks — ”As a beam o’er the face of the waters” — ”When he who adores thee” — ”Oh blame not” — and “Oh breathe not his name” — are worth all the Epics that ever were composed.

  Rogers thinks the Quarterly will attack me next. Let them. I have been “peppered so highly” in my time, both ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. I can sincerely say, that I am not very much alive now to criticism. But — in tracing this — I rather believe that it proceeds from my not attaching that importance to authorship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. “One gets tired of every thing, my angel,” says Valmont.

  The “angels” are the only things of which I am not a little sick — but I do think the preference of writers to agents — the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by themselves and others — a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, who had any thing better to do? “Action — action — action” — said Demosthenes: “Actions — actions,” I say, and not writing, — least of all, rhyme. Look at the querulous and monotonous lives of the “genus;” — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, Kleist (who were brave and active citizens), Æschylus, Sophocles, and some other of the antiques also — what a worthless, idle brood it is!