by Lord Byron
“Whole as the marble, founded as the rock.”
“I saw little of them, excepting Mr. Sharp, formerly a Member of Parliament, and who, from his talents in society, has been called ‘Conversation Sharp.’ He has been made an associate of most of the literary clubs in London, from the days of Burke down to the present time. He told me a great many amusing anecdotes of them, and particularly of Burke, Porson, and Grattan, with whom he had been intimate; and occupied the dinner-time as pleasantly as the same number of hours have passed with me in England….
June 7. — This morning I breakfasted with Mr. Sharp, and had a continuation of yesterday, — more pleasant accounts of the great men of the present day, and more amusing anecdotes of the generation that has passed away.”
Miss Berry, who met Sharp often, writes, in her Journal for March 26, 1808 (Journal, vol. ii. p. 344),
“He is clever, but I should suspect of little real depth of intellect.”
Sharp published anonymously a volume of Epistles in Verse (1828). These were reproduced, with additions, in his Letters and Essays, published with his name in 1834. His “Epistle to an Eminent Poet” is evidently addressed to his lifelong friend, Samuel Rogers:
“Yes! thou hast chosen well ‘the better part,’
And, for the triumphs of the noblest art,
Hast wisely scorn’d the sordid cares of life.”
Windham, a shrewd critic of other speakers, called Pitt’s style a “State-paper style,” because of its combined dignity and poverty, and “verily believed Mr. Pitt could speak a king’s speech off-hand.” As a speaker he was himself remarkably effective, a master of illustration and allusion, delighting in “homely Saxon,” and affecting provincial words and pronunciation. Lord Sheffield, writing to Gibbon, February 5, 1793, says, “As to Windham, I should think he is become the best, at least the most sensible, speaker of the whole.” His love of paradox, combined with his political independence and irresolution, gained him the name of “Weathercock Windham;” but he was respected by both sides as an honest politician. Outside the house it was his ambition to be known as a thorough Englishman — a patron of horse-racing, cock-fighting, bull-baiting, pugilism, and football. He was also a scholar, a man of wide reading, an admirable talker, and a friend of Miss Berry and of Madame d’Arblay, in whose Diaries he is a prominent figure. His own Diary (1784-1810) was published in 1866.
On the 8th of July, 1809, he saw a fire in Conduit Street, which threatened to spread to the house of his friend North, who possessed a valuable library. In his efforts to save the books, he fell and bruised his hip. A tumour formed, which was removed; but he sank under the operation, and died June 4, 1810.
“O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead;
That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds.”
Romeo and Juliet, act iii. sc. 1.
“He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.”
Hamlet, act i. sc. 2.
12, Mezza Notte
Just returned from dinner with Jackson (the Emperor of Pugilism) and another of the select, at Crib’s, the champion’s. I drank more than I like, and have brought away some three bottles of very fair claret — for I have no headach. We had Tom Crib up after dinner; — very facetious, though somewhat prolix. He don’t like his situation — wants to fight again — pray Pollux (or Castor, if he was the miller) he may! Tom has been a sailor — a coal-heaver — and some other genteel profession, before he took to the cestus. Tom has been in action at sea, and is now only three-and-thirty. A great man! has a wife and a mistress, and conversations well — bating some sad omissions and misapplications of the aspirate. Tom is an old friend of mine; I have seen some of his best battles in my nonage. He is now a publican, and, I fear, a sinner; — for Mrs. Crib is on alimony, and Tom’s daughter lives with the champion. This Tom told me, — Tom, having an opinion of my morals, passed her off as a legal spouse. Talking of her, he said, “she was the truest of women” — from which I immediately inferred she could not be his wife, and so it turned out.
These panegyrics don’t belong to matrimony; — for, if “true,” a man don’t think it necessary to say so; and if not, the less he says the better. Crib is the only man except — — , I ever heard harangue upon his wife’s virtue; and I listened to both with great credence and patience, and stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, when I found yawning irresistible — By the by, I am yawning now — so, good night to thee. —
Thursday, November 26th
Awoke a little feverish, but no headach — no dreams neither, thanks to stupor! Two letters; one from — — , the other from Lady Melbourne — both excellent in their respective styles. — — ’s contained also a very pretty lyric on “concealed griefs;” if not her own, yet very like her. Why did she not say that the stanzas were, or were not, of her own composition? I do not know whether to wish them hers or not. I have no great esteem for poetical persons, particularly women; they have so much of the “ideal” in practics, as well as ethics.
I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel passion, nor know the meaning of the word. And the effect! My mother used always to rally me about this childish amour; and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me one day, “Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your old sweetheart Mary Duff is married to a Mr. Co’e.” And what was my answer? I really cannot explain or account for my feelings at that moment; but they nearly threw me into convulsions, and alarmed my mother so much, that after I grew better, she generally avoided the subject — to me — and contented herself with telling it to all her acquaintance. Now, what could this be? I had never seen her since her mother’s faux pas at Aberdeen had been the cause of her removal to her grandmother’s at Banff; we were both the merest children. I had and have been attached fifty times since that period; yet I recollect all we said to each other, all our caresses, her features, my restlessness, sleeplessness, my tormenting my mother’s maid to write for me to her, which she at last did, to quiet me. Poor Nancy thought I was wild, and, as I could not write for myself, became my secretary. I remember, too, our walks, and the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the children’s apartment, at their house not far from the Plain-stanes at Aberdeen, while her lesser sister Helen played with the doll, and we sat gravely making love, in our way.
How the deuce did all this occur so early? where could it originate? I certainly had no sexual ideas for years afterwards; and yet my misery, my love for that girl were so violent, that I sometimes doubt if I have ever been really attached since. Be that as it may, hearing of her marriage several years after was like a thunder-stroke — it nearly choked me — to the horror of my mother and the astonishment and almost incredulity of every body. And it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not eight years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it; and lately, I know not why, the recollection (not the attachment) has recurred as forcibly as ever. I wonder if she can have the least remembrance of it or me? or remember her pitying sister Helen for not having an admirer too? How very pretty is the perfect image of her in my memory — her brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes; her very dress! I should be quite grieved to see her now; the reality, however beautiful, would destroy, or at least confuse, the features of the lovely Peri which then existed in her, and still lives in my imagination, at the distance of more than sixteen years. I am now twenty-five and odd months….
I think my mother told the circumstances (on my hearing of her marriage) to the Parkynses, and certainly to the Pigot family, and probably mentioned it in her answer to Miss A., who was well acquainted with my childish penchant, and had sent the news on purpose for me, — and thanks to her!
Next to the beginning, the conclusion has often occupied my reflections, in the way of investigation. That the facts are thus, othe
rs know as well as I, and my memory yet tells me so, in more than a whisper. But, the more I reflect, the more I am bewildered to assign any cause for this precocity of affection.
Lord Holland invited me to dinner to-day; but three days’ dining would destroy me. So, without eating at all since yesterday, I went to my box at Covent Garden.
Saw — — looking very pretty, though quite a different style of beauty from the other two. She has the finest eyes in the world, out of which she pretends not to see, and the longest eyelashes I ever saw, since Leila’s and Phannio’s Moslem curtains of the light. She has much beauty, — just enough, — but is, I think, méchante.
I have been pondering on the miseries of separation, that — oh how seldom we see those we love! yet we live ages in moments, when met. The only thing that consoles me during absence is the reflection that no mental or personal estrangement, from ennui or disagreement, can take place; and when people meet hereafter, even though many changes may have taken place in the mean time, still, unless they are tired of each other, they are ready to reunite, and do not blame each other for the circumstances that severed them.
Saturday 27th [November 1813]
(I believe or rather am in doubt, which is the ne plus ultra of mortal faith.)
I have missed a day; and, as the Irishman said, or Joe Miller says for him, “have gained a loss,” or by the loss. Every thing is settled for Holland, and nothing but a cough, or a caprice of my fellow-traveller’s, can stop us. Carriage ordered, funds prepared, and, probably, a gale of wind into the bargain. N’importe — I believe, with Clym o’ the Clow, or Robin Hood, “By our Mary, (dear name!) thou art both Mother and May, I think it never was a man’s lot to die before his day.”
Heigh for Helvoetsluys, and so forth!
To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see Nourjahad, a drama, which the Morning Post hath laid to my charge, but of which I cannot even guess the author. I wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They cannot well sink below a melodrama; but that is better than a satire, (at least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly arraigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved to bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even praises, for bad pantomimes never composed by me, without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report is my loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his dresses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. I suppose the real author will soon own it, as it has succeeded; if not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverage!
— — has received the portrait safe; and, in answer, the only remark she makes upon it is, “indeed it is like” — and again, “indeed it is like.” With her the likeness “covered a multitude of sins;” for I happen to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and stern, — even black as the mood in which my mind was scorching last July, when I sat for it. All the others of me, like most portraits whatsoever, are, of course, more agreeable than nature.
Redde the Edinburgh Review of Rogers. He is ranked highly; but where he should be. There is a summary view of us all — Moore and me among the rest; and both (the first justly) praised — though, by implication (justly again) placed beneath our memorable friend. Mackintosh is the writer, and also of the critique on the Stael.
His grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number. But I know nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other Review, but from rumour; and I have long ceased; indeed, I could not, in justice, complain of any, even though I were to rate poetry, in general, and my rhymes in particular, more highly than I really do. To withdraw myself from myself (oh that cursed selfishness!) has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all; and publishing is also the continuance of the same object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, which have gathered strength by time, and will yet wear longer than any living works to the contrary. But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give the lie to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise, — in which, from the description, I see nothing very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something “within that passeth show.”
It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but I see no such horror in a “dreamless sleep,” and I have no conception of any existence which duration would not render tiresome. How else “fell the angels,” even according to your creed? They were immortal, heavenly, and happy, as their apostate Abdiel is now by his treachery. Time must decide; and eternity won’t be the less agreeable or more horrible because one did not expect it. In the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably patient under certain evils — grace à Dieu et mon bon tempérament.
“Ah, deere ladye, said Robin Hood, thou
That art both Mother and May,
I think it was never man’s destinye
To die before his day.”
Ballad of Robin Hood
“Greece, the mother of freedom and of poetry in the West, which had long employed only the antiquary, the artist, and the philologist, was at length destined, after an interval of many silent and inglorious ages, to awaken the genius of a poet. Full of enthusiasm for those perfect forms of heroism and liberty which his imagination had placed in the recesses of antiquity, he gave vent to his impatience of the imperfections of living men and real institutions, in an original strain of sublime satire, which clothes moral anger in imagery of an almost horrible grandeur; and which, though it cannot coincide with the estimate of reason, yet could only flow from that worship of perfection which is the soul of all true poetry.”
Edin. Rev., vol. xxii. p. 37.
“In the last Edinburgh Review you will find two articles of mine, one on Rogers, and the other on Madame de Staël: they are both, especially the first, thought too panegyrical. I like the praises which I have bestowed on Lord Byron and Thomas Moore. I am convinced of the justness of the praises given to Madame de Staël.”
Mackintosh’s Life, vol. ii. p. 271.
“I have that within which passeth show.”
Hamlet, act i. sc. 2.
“ ... the seraph Abdiel, faithful found
Among the faithless.”
Milton, Paradise Lost, v. 896.
Tuesday 30th [November 1813]
Two days missed in my log-book; — hiatus haud deflendus. They were as little worth recollection as the rest; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from notching them.
Sunday, I dined with the Lord Holland in St. James’s Square. Large party — among them Sir S. Romilly and Lady R’y. — General Sir Somebody Bentham, a man of science and talent, I am told — Horner — the Horner, an Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the “Honourable House,” very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in company, as far as I have seen — Sharpe — Philips of Lancashire — Lord John Russell, and others, “good men and true.” Holland’s society is very good; you always see some one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed myself with sturgeon, and exceeded in champagne and wine in general, but not to confusion of head. When I do dine, I gorge like an Arab or a Boa snake, on fish and vegetables, but no meat. I am always better, however, on my tea and biscuit than any other regimen, and even that sparingly.
Why does Lady H. always have that damned screen between the whole room and the fire? I, who bear cold no better than an antelope, and never yet found a sun quite done to my taste, was absolutely petrified, and could not even shiver. All the rest, too, looked as if they were just unpacked, like salmon from an ice-basket, and set down to table for that day only. When she retired, I watched their looks as I dismissed the screen, and every cheek thawed, and every nose reddened with the anticipated glow.
Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to Nourjahad; and, I believe, conv
inced him, by incessant yawning, that it was not mine. I wish the precious author would own it, and release me from his fame. The dresses are pretty, but not in costume; — Mrs. Horn’s, all but the turban, and the want of a small dagger (if she is a sultana), perfect. I never saw a Turkish woman with a turban in my life — nor did any one else. The sultanas have a small poniard at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy — the action heavy — the scenery fine — the actors tolerable. I can’t say much for their seraglio — Teresa, Phannio, or — — , were worth them all.
Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackintosh, who is a rare instance of the union of very transcendent talent and great good nature. To-day (Tuesday) a very pretty billet from M. la Baronne de Stael Holstein. She is pleased to be much pleased with my mention of her and her last work in my notes. I spoke as I thought. Her works are my delight, and so is she herself, for — half an hour. I don’t like her politics — at least, her having changed them; had she been qualis ab incepto, it were nothing. But she is a woman by herself, and has done more than all the rest of them together, intellectually; — she ought to have been a man. She flatters me very prettily in her note; — but I know it. The reason that adulation is not displeasing is, that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie, to make us their friend: — that is their concern.
— — is, I hear, thriving on the repute of a pun which was mine (at Mackintosh’s dinner some time back), on Ward, who was asking, “how much it would take to re-whig him?” I answered that, probably, “he must first, before he was re-whigged, be re-warded.” This foolish quibble, before the Stael and Mackintosh, and a number of conversationers, has been mouthed about, and at last settled on the head of — — , where long may it remain!
George is returned from afloat to get a new ship. He looks thin, but better than I expected. I like George much more than most people like their heirs. He is a fine fellow, and every inch a sailor. I would do any thing, but apostatise, to get him on in his profession.