by Lord Byron
“As to ‘every-day men of letters,’ pray who does like their company? Would a clever man like a prosing ‘captain, or colonel, or knight-in-arms’ the better for happening to be himself the Duke of Wellington?”
Monday, December 6th
Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the thing was called the Bride of Abydos? It is a cursed awkward question, being unanswerable. She is not a bride, only about to be one; but for, etc., etc., etc.
I don’t wonder at his finding out the Bull; but the detection — — is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being an Irishman.
Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at something or other — I know not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composition similar to that which is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, “Here is some incense for you.” Campbell answered — ”Carry it to Lord Byron, he is used to it.”
Now, this comes of “bearing no brother near the throne.”
I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one now, whatever I may have done, am at perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity; or, at least, if I dislike any, it is not poetically, but personally. Surely the field of thought is infinite; what does it signify who is before or behind in a race where there is no goal? The temple of fame is like that of the Persians, the universe; our altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally content with Mount Caucasus, or Mount Anything; and those who like it, may have Mount Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation.
I think I may now speak thus; for I have just published a poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is likely to be liked or not. I have hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can downright abuse it to one’s face, except in print. It can’t be good, or I should not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very title. But I began it with my heart full of — — , and my head of orientalities (I can’t call them isms), and wrote on rapidly.
This journal is a relief. When I am tired — as I generally am — out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can’t read it over; and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one’s self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.
Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner; I have neither head nor nerves to present it. That confounded supper at Lewis’s has spoiled my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet of vinegar. Would I were an ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons, — or any thing that my gizzard could get the better of.
To-day saw Ward. His uncle is dying, and W. don’t much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided l’oncle is not dined upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicures before that day. I wish he may recover — not for our dinner’s sake, but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles that may well wait, since they will dine at last.
Gell called — he of Troy — after I was out. Mem. — to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very landmarks of forgetfulness; — something like a light-house, with a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to forget. Mem. — I have forgotten to pay Pitt’s taxes, and suppose I shall be surcharged. “An I do not turn rebel when thou art king “ — oons! I believe my very biscuit is leavened with that impostor’s imposts.
Lady Melbourne returns from Jersey’s to-morrow; — I must call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, which I must applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence; — and yet I hate lettering.
Saw Lord Glenbervie and this Prospectus, at Murray’s, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a man more useful than all the historians and rhymers ever planted. For, by preserving our woods and forests, he furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth reading, and all the odes worth nothing.
Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is crammed with the most useless lumber. It is odd that when I do read, I can only bear the chicken broth of — any thing but Novels. It is many a year since I looked into one, (though they are sometimes ordered, by way of experiment, but never taken,) till I looked yesterday at the worst parts of the Monk. These descriptions ought to have been written by Tiberius at Caprea — they are forced — the philtered ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to me inconceivable how they could have been composed by a man of only twenty — his age when he wrote them. They have no nature — all the sour cream of cantharides. I should have suspected Buffon of writing them on the death-bed of his detestable dotage. I had never redde this edition, and merely looked at them from curiosity and recollection of the noise they made, and the name they had left to Lewis. But they could do no harm, except — — .
Called this evening on my agent — my business as usual. Our strange adventures are the only inheritances of our family that have not diminished.
I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. The cigars don’t keep well here. They get as old as a donna di quaranti anni in the sun of Africa. The Havannah are the best; — but neither are so pleasant as a hooka or chiboque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, and their horses entire — two things as they should be. I am so far obliged to this Journal, that it preserves me from verse, — at least from keeping it. I have just thrown a poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my great comfort), and have smoked out of my head the plan of another. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, at least, the confusion of thought.
“Your friend Bosville and I have entered into a strict engagement to belong for ever to the established government, to the Established Church, and to the established language of our country, because they are established.”
“Glenbervie, Glenbervie,
What’s good for the scurvy?
For ne’er be your old trade forgot.”
Gibbon writes of him, October 4, 1788 (Letters, vol. ii. p. 180),
“He has been curious, attentive, agreeable; and in every place where he has resided some days, he has left acquaintance who esteem and regret him; I never knew so clear and general an impression.”
Glenbervie was Surveyor-General of Woods and Forests, 1803-1806, and again from 1807 to 1810. In that year he became First Commissioner of Land Revenue and Woods and Forests, and held the appointment till August, 1814.
Tuesday, December 7th
Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not refreshingly. Awoke, and up an hour before being called; but dawdled three hours in dressing. When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), — sleep, eating, and swilling — buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.
Redde the papers and tea-ed and soda-watered, and found out that the fire was badly lighted. Lord Glenbervie wants me to go to Brighton — um!
This morning, a very pretty billet from the Stael about meeting her at Ld. H.’s to-morrow. She has written, I dare say, twenty such this morning to different people, all equally flattering to each. So much the better for her and those who believe all she wishes them, or they wish to believe. She has been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in the note annexed to The Bride. This is to be accounted for in several ways, — firstly, all women like all, or any, praise; secondly, this was unexpected, because I have never courted her; and, thirdly, as Scrub says, those who have been all their lives regularly praised, by regular critics, like a little variety, and are glad when any one goes out of his way to say a civil thing; and, fourthly, she is a very good-natured creature, which is the best reason, after all, and, perhaps, the only one.
A knock — knocks single and double. Bland called. He says Dutch society (he has been in Holland) is second-hand French; but the women are like women every where else. This is a bore: I should like to see them a little unlike; but that can’t be expected.
Went out — came home — this, th
at, and the other — and “all is vanity, saith the preacher,” and so say I, as part of his congregation. Talking of vanity, whose praise do I prefer? Why, Mrs. Inchbald’s, and that of the Americans. The first, because her Simple Story and Nature and Art are, to me, true to their titles; and, consequently, her short note to Rogers about The Giaour delighted me more than any thing, except the Edinburgh Review. I like the Americans, because I happened to be in Asia, while the English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers were redde in America. If I could have had a speech against the Slave Trade in Africa, and an epitaph on a dog in Europe (i.e. in the Morning Post), my vertex sublimis would certainly have displaced stars enough to overthrow the Newtonian system.
“First, it must be a plot, because there’s a woman in’t; secondly, it must be a plot, because there’s a priest in’t; thirdly, it must be a plot, because there’s French gold in’t; and fourthly, it must be a plot, because I don’t know what to make on’t.”
“It was vain,” said Mrs. Shelley, “for any other woman to attempt to gain attention.”
Miss Edgeworth wished to see her first among living celebrities; her charm fascinated Sheridan, and overcame the prejudice of Lamb; even Peter Pindar wrote verse in her praise. From the age of eighteen she was wooed on and off the stage, where her slight stammer hindered her complete success; but no breath of scandal tarnished her name. Had John Kemble, the hero of A Simple Story, proposed to her, she probably would have married him. Mrs. Butler records that her uncle John once asked the actress, when matrimony was the subject of green-room conversation, “Well, Mrs. Inchbald, would you have had me?” “Dear heart,” said the stammering beauty, turning her sunny face up at him,” I’d have j-j-j-jumped at you.” Mrs. Inchbald’s Simple Story (1791) wears a more modern air than any previously written novel. Her dramatic experience stood her in good stead. “Dorriforth,” the priest, educated, like Kemble, at Douay, impressed himself upon Macaulay’s mind as the true type of the Roman Catholic peer. Nature and Art (1796) was written when Mrs. Inchbald was most under the influence of the French Revolution. Of two boys who come to London to seek their fortunes, Nature makes one a musician, and Art raises the other into a dean. The trial and condemnation of “Agnes” perhaps suggested to Lytton the scene in Paul Clifford, where “Brandon” condemns his own son.
Friday, December 10th, 1813
I am ennuyé beyond my usual tense of that yawning verb, which I am always conjugating; and I don’t find that society much mends the matter. I am too lazy to shoot myself — and it would annoy Augusta, and perhaps — — ; but it would be a good thing for George, on the other side, and no bad one for me; but I won’t be tempted.
I have had the kindest letter from Moore. I do think that man is the best-hearted, the only hearted being I ever encountered; and, then, his talents are equal to his feelings.
Dined on Wednesday at Lord H.’s — the Staffords, Staels, Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbournes, Mackintoshes, etc., etc. — and was introduced to the Marquis and Marchioness of Stafford, — an unexpected event. My quarrel with Lord Carlisle (their or his brother-in-law) having rendered it improper, I suppose, brought it about. But, if it was to happen at all, I wonder it did not occur before. She is handsome, and must have been beautiful — and her manners are princessly.
The Stael was at the other end of the table, and less loquacious than heretofore. We are now very good friends; though she asked Lady Melbourne whether I had really any bonhommie. She might as well have asked that question before she told C. L. “c’est un demon.” True enough, but rather premature, for she could not have found it out, and so — she wants me to dine there next Sunday.
Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my part, I adhere (in liking) to my Fragment. It is no wonder that I wrote one — my mind is a fragment.
Saw Lord Gower, Tierney, etc., in the square. Took leave of Lord Gower, who is going to Holland and Germany. He tells me that he carries with him a parcel of Harolds and Giaours, etc., for the readers of Berlin, who, it seems, read English, and have taken a caprice for mine. Um! — have I been German all this time, when I thought myself Oriental?
Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow; and received a new comedy sent by Lady C. A. — but not hers. I must read it, and endeavour not to displease the author. I hate annoying them with cavil; but a comedy I take to be the most difficult of compositions, more so than tragedy.
Galt says there is a coincidence between the first part of The Bride and some story of his — whether published or not, I know not, never having seen it. He is almost the last person on whom any one would commit literary larceny, and I am not conscious of any witting thefts on any of the genus. As to originality, all pretensions are ludicrous, — ”there is nothing new under the sun.”
Went last night to the play. Invited out to a party, but did not go; — right. Refused to go to Lady — — ’s on Monday; — right again. If I must fritter away my life, I would rather do it alone. I was much tempted; — C — — looked so Turkish with her red turban, and her regular, dark, and clear features. Not that she and I ever were, or could be, any thing; but I love any aspect that reminds me of the “children of the sun.”
To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for which I have some appetite, not having tasted food for the preceding forty-eight hours. I wish I could leave off eating altogether.
Sunday, December 12th, 1813
By Galt’s answer, I find it is some story in real life, and not any work with which my late composition coincides. It is still more singular, for mine is drawn from existence also.
I have sent an excuse to Madame de Stael. I do not feel sociable enough for dinner to-day; — and I will not go to Sheridan’s on Wednesday. Not that I do not admire and prefer his unequalled conversation; but — that “but” must only be intelligible to thoughts I cannot write. Sheridan was in good talk at Rogers’s the other night, but I only stayed till nine. All the world are to be at the Stael’s to-night, and I am not sorry to escape any part of it. I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. Went out — did not go to the Stael’s but to Ld. Holland’s. Party numerous — conversation general. Stayed late — made a blunder — got over it — came home and went to bed, not having eaten. Rather empty, but fresco, which is the great point with me.
Monday, December 13th, 1813
Called at three places — read, and got ready to leave town to-morrow. Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, “he is lucky in having such a poet” — something as if one was a packhorse, or “ass, or any thing that is his;” or, like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, — ”Laws, sir, we keeps a poet.” The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript — ”The Harold and Cookery are much wanted.” Such is fame, and, after all, quite as good as any other “life in others’ breath.” ‘Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or Hannah More.
Some editor of some magazine has announced to Murray his intention of abusing the thing “without reading it.” So much the better; if he redde it first, he would abuse it more.
Allen (Lord Holland’s Allen — the best informed and one of the ablest men I know — a perfect Magliabecchi — a devourer, a Helluo of books, and an observer of men,) has lent me a quantity of Burns’s unpublished and never-to-be-published Letters. They are full of oaths and obscene songs. What an antithetical mind! — tenderness, roughness — delicacy, coarseness — sentiment, sensuality — soaring and grovelling, dirt and deity — all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!
It seems strange; a true voluptuary will never abandon his mind to the grossness of reality. It is by exalting the earthly, the material, the physique of our pleasures, by veiling these ideas, by forgetting them altogether, or, at least, never naming them hardly to one’s self, that we alone can prevent them from disgusting.
“If you wish, Sir, to Shave — nay, pray look not gr
ave,
Since nothing on earth can be worse,
To P — d repair, you’re shaved to a hair,
Which I mean to exhibit in verse.
“When in moving the beard — I wish to be heard —
The dull razor occasions a curse,
The strop that I view will its merits renew;
Behold I record it in verse.
“Some in fashion’s tontine disperse all their spleen,
And others their destinies curse;
But P — d’s fine taste, with his Strops and his Paste,
Which I’ll show you in Prose and in Verse.
“I have taken this plan to comment on a man,
Whose merit I’m proud to rehearse;
For a razor and knife he will sharpen for life,
And deserves every praise in my verse.
“Soho, Nov. 6, 1795.”
Mrs. Rundell’s Domestic Cookery was one of Murray’s most successful publications. In Byron’s lines, “To Mr. Murray” (March 25, 1818), occurs the following passage:
“Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine —
The ‘Art of Cookery,’ and mine,
My Murray.”
“could direct you to any book in any part of the world, with the precision with which the metropolitan policeman directs you to St. Paul’s or Piccadilly. It is of him that the stories are told of answers to inquiries after books, in these terms: ‘There is but one copy of that book in the world. It is in the Grand Seignior’s library at Constantinople, and is the seventh book in the second shelf on the right hand as you go in.’“
“Burns, in depth of poetical feeling, in strong shrewd sense to balance and regulate this, in the tact to make his poetry tell by connecting it with the stream of public thought and the sentiment of the age, in commanded wildness of fancy and profligacy or recklessness as to moral and occasionally as to religious matters, was much more like Lord Byron than any other person to whom Lord B. says he had been compared.