by Lord Byron
“A gross blunder of the English public has been talking of Burns as if the character of his poetry ought to be estimated with an eternal recollection that he was a peasant. It would be just as proper to say that Lord Byron ought always to be thought of as a Peer. Rank in life was nothing to either in his true moments. Then, they were both great Poets. Some silly and sickly affectations connected with the accidents of birth and breeding may be observed in both, when they are not under the influence of ‘the happier star.’ Witness Burns’s prate about independence, when he was an exciseman, and Byron’s ridiculous pretence of Republicanism, when he never wrote sincerely about the Multitude without expressing or insinuating the very soul of scorn.”
December 14th, 15th, 16th, 1813
Much done, but nothing to record. It is quite enough to set down my thoughts, — my actions will rarely bear retrospection.
December 17th, 18th, 1813
Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentality in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our respective and various opinions on him and other hommes marquans, and mine was this: — ”Whatever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has been, par excellence, always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy (School for Scandal), the best drama (in my mind, far before that St. Giles’s lampoon, the Beggar’s Opera), the best farce (the Critic — it is only too good for a farce), and the best Address (Monologue on Garrick), and, to crown all, delivered the very best Oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country.” Somebody told S. this the next day, and on hearing it he burst into tears!
Poor Brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, I would rather have said these few, but most sincere, words than have written the Iliad or made his own celebrated Philippic. Nay, his own comedy never gratified me more than to hear that he had derived a moment’s gratification from any praise of mine, humble as it must appear to “my elders and my betters.”
Went to my box at Covent Garden to-night; and my delicacy felt a little shocked at seeing S — — ’s mistress (who, to my certain knowledge, was actually educated, from her birth, for her profession) sitting with her mother, “a three-piled b — — d, b — — d Major to the army,” in a private box opposite. I felt rather indignant; but, casting my eyes round the house, in the next box to me, and the next, and the next, were the most distinguished old and young Babylonians of quality; — so I burst out a laughing. It was really odd; Lady — — divorced — Lady — — and her daughter, Lady — — , both divorceable — Mrs. — — , in the next the like, and still nearer — — — ! What an assemblage to me, who know all their histories. It was as if the house had been divided between your public and your understood courtesans; — but the intriguantes much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On the other side were only Pauline and her mother, and, next box to her, three of inferior note. Now, where lay the difference between her and mamma, and Lady — — and daughter? except that the two last may enter Carleton and any other house, and the two first are limited to the opera and b — — house. How I do delight in observing life as it really is! — and myself, after all, the worst of any. But no matter — I must avoid egotism, which, just now, would be no vanity.
I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called “The Devil’s Drive” the notion of which I took from Person’s “Devil’s Walk.” Redde some Italian, and wrote two Sonnets on — — . I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise — and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions. I detest the Petrarch so much, that I would not be the man even to have obtained his Laura, which the metaphysical, whining dotard never could.
January 16th, 1814
To-morrow I leave town for a few days. I saw Lewis to-day, who is just returned from Oatlands, where he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about himself, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me. My homage has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have agreed still worse. I don’t talk — I can’t flatter, and won’t listen, except to a pretty or a foolish woman. She bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened — found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh the first man in England. There I agree, at least one of the first — but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I leave to those who can read it to judge and dispute. I could not do the one, and am, consequently, not qualified for the other. She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that I was affected, in the first place; and that, in the next place, I committed the heinous offence of sitting at dinner with my eyes shut, or half shut. I wonder if I really have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. One insensibly acquires awkward habits, which should be broken in time. If this is one, I wish I had been told of it before. It would not so much signify if one was always to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as well see some of one’s neighbours, as well as the plate upon the table.
I should like, of all things, to have heard the Amabæan eclogue between her and Lewis — both obstinate, clever, odd, garrulous, and shrill. In fact, one could have heard nothing else. But they fell out, alas! — and now they will never quarrel again. Could not one reconcile them for the “nonce?” Poor Corinne — she will find that some of her fine sayings won’t suit our fine ladies and gentlemen.
I am getting rather into admiration of [Lady C. Annesley] the youngest sister of [Lady F. Webster]. A wife would be my salvation. I am sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done me little good. Catherine is beautiful, but very young, and, I think, a fool. But I have not seen enough to judge; besides, I hate an esprit in petticoats. That she won’t love me is very probable, nor shall I love her. But, on my system, and the modern system in general, that don’t signify. The business (if it came to business) would probably be arranged between papa and me. She would have her own way; I am good-humoured to women, and docile; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which I should try to prevent, we should be a very comfortable couple. As to conduct, that she must look to. But if I love, I shall be jealous; — and for that reason I will not be in love. Though, after all, I doubt my temper, and fear I should not be so patient as becomes the bienséance of a married man in my station. Divorce ruins the poor femme, and damages are a paltry compensation. I do fear my temper would lead me into some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, at any rate, into a summary appeal to the court of twelve paces. So “I’ll none on’t,” but e’en remain single and solitary; — though I should like to have somebody now and then to yawn with one.
Ward, and, after him, — — , has stolen one of my buffooneries about Mde. de Stael’s Metaphysics and the Fog, and passed it, by speech and letter, as their own. As Gibbet says, “they are the most of a gentleman of any on the road.” W. is in sad enmity with the Whigs about this Review of Fox (if he did review him); — all the epigrammatists and essayists are at him. I hate odds, and wish he may beat them. As for me, by the blessing of indifference, I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better nor worse for a people than another. I shall adhere to my party, because it would not be honourable to act otherwise; but, as to opinions, I don’t think politics worth an opinion. Conduct is another thing: — if you begin with a party, go on with them. I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference on the subject altogether.
Footnote 1: The Beaux’ Stratagem, by George Farquhar (act iv. sc. 3):
Gibbet
And I can assure you, friend, there’s a great deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady: I am most a gentleman that way that ever travelled the road.
February 18th
Better than a month since I
last journalised: — most of it out of London and at Notts., but a busy one and a pleasant, at least three weeks of it. On my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess Charlotte’s weeping at Regency’s speech to Lauderdale in 1812. They are daily at it still; — some of the abuse good, all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our House upon it — be it so.
Got up — redde the Morning Post containing the battle of Buonaparte, the destruction of the Customhouse, and a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vituperative, as usual.
Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best friend, the most lively, and a man of the most sterling talents extant.
The Corsair has been conceived, written, published, etc., since I last took up this journal. They tell me it has great success; — it was written con amore, and much from existence. Murray is satisfied with its progress; and if the public are equally so with the perusal, there’s an end of the matter.
Nine o’clock.
Been to Hanson’s on business. Saw Rogers, and had a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it is said I am “much out of spirits.” I wonder if I really am or not? I have certainly enough of “that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart,” and it is better they should believe it to be the result of these attacks than of the real cause; but — ay, ay, always but, to the end of the chapter.
Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of Napoleon, all good and true. My friend H. is the most entertaining of companions, and a fine fellow to boot.
Redde a little — wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke says is bad company. “Be not solitary, be not idle.” — Um! — the idleness is troublesome; but I can’t see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women too, all would be well. Why can’t I? I am now six-and-twenty; my passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to wither them, — and yet — and yet — always yet and but — ”Excellent well, you are a fishmonger — get thee to a nunnery.” — ”They fool me to the top of my bent.”
Midnight.
Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde — but to little purpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as I promised and ought. No matter, the loss is mine. Smoked cigars.
Napoleon! — this week will decide his fate. All seems against him; but I believe and hope he will win — at least, beat back the invaders. What right have we to prescribe sovereigns to France? Oh for a Republic! “Brutus, thou sleepest.” Hobhouse abounds in continental anecdotes of this extraordinary man; all in favour of his intellect and courage, but against his bonhommie. No wonder; — how should he, who knows mankind well, do other than despise and abhor them?
The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is distributed, and becomes lighter by the division among so many — therefore, a Republic!
More notes from Madame de Stael unanswered — and so they shall remain. I admire her abilities, but really her society is overwhelming — an avalanche that buries one in glittering nonsense — all snow and sophistry.
Shall I go to Mackintosh’s on Tuesday? um! — I did not go to Marquis Lansdowne’s nor to Miss Berry’s, though both are pleasant. So is Sir James’s, — but I don’t know — I believe one is not the better for parties; at least, unless some regnante is there.
I wonder how the deuce any body could make such a world; for what purpose dandies, for instance, were ordained — and kings — and fellows of colleges — and women of “a certain age” — and many men of any age — and myself, most of all!
“Divesne prisco natus ab Inacho
Nil interest, an pauper et infimâ
De gente, sub dio (sic) moreris,
Victima nil miserantis Orci.
Omnes eodem cogimur,” etc.
Is there any thing beyond? — who knows? He that can’t tell. Who tells that there is? He who don’t know. And when shall he know? perhaps, when he don’t expect, and generally when he don’t wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not alike: it depends a good deal upon education, — something upon nerves and habits — but most upon digestion.
“We are informed from very good authority, that as soon as the House of Lords meet again, a Peer of very independent principles and character intends to give notice of a motion occasioned by a late spontaneous avowal of a copy of verses by Lord Byron, addressed to the Princess Charlotte of Wales, in which he has taken the most unwarrantable liberties with her august father’s character and conduct: this motion being of a personal nature, it will be necessary to give the noble Satirist some days’ notice, that he may prepare himself for his defence against a charge of so aggravated a nature,” etc.
Morning Post, February 18.
“Brutus, thou sleepest, awake.”
Julius Cæsar, act ii. sc. 1.
“There is nothing left for Mankind but a Republic, and I think that there are hopes of such. The two Americas (South and North) have it; Spain and Portugal approach it; all thirst for it. Oh Washington!”
“Je renonce à vos visites, pourvu que vous acceptiez mes diners, car enfin à quoi servirait il de vivre dans le même tems que vous, si l’on ne vous voyait pas? Dinez chez moi dimanche avec vos amis, — je ne dirai pas vos admirateurs, car je n’ai rencontré que cela de touts parts.
“A dimanche, “de Staël.
“Mardi.
“Je prends le silence pour oui.”
Saturday, February 19th
Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By Jove, he is a soul! Life — nature — truth without exaggeration or diminution. Kemble’s Hamlet is perfect; — but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a man; and Kean is Richard. Now to my own concerns.
Went to Waite’s. Teeth are all right and white; but he says that I grind them in my sleep and chip the edges. That same sleep is no friend of mine, though I court him sometimes for half the twenty-four.
In the Courier, February 26, 1814, appears this paragraph:
“Mr. Kean’s attraction is unprecedented in the annals of theatricals — even Cooke’s performances are left at an immeasurable distance; his first three nights of Richard produced upwards of £1800, and on repeating that character on Thursday night for the fourthth (sic) time, the receipts were upwards of £700.”
On March 1 the same paper says,
“Drury Lane Theatre again overflowed last night, at an early hour. Such is the continued and increasing attraction of that truly great actor Mr. Kean.”
After the retirement of John Kemble (June 23, 1817), he had no rival on the stage, especially in such parts as “Othello,” “Lear,” “Hamlet,” “Sir Giles Overreach,” and the two already mentioned. His last appearance on the stage was in “Othello” at Covent Garden, March 25, 1833.
“To see Kean act,” said Coleridge, “is like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning.”
“Garrick’s nature,” writes Leigh Hunt, in the Tatler, July 25, 1831, “displaced Quin’s formalism; and in precisely the same way did Kean displace Kemble. ... Everything with Kemble was literally a personation — it was a mask and a sounding-pipe. It was all external and artificial…. Kean’s face is full of light and shade, his tones vary, his voice trembles, his eye glistens, sometimes with a withering scorn, sometimes with a tear.”
It was the realism and nature of Kean which so strongly appealed to Byron, and enabled the actor, to the last, in spite of his drunken habits, poor figure, and weak voice, to sway his audiences. The same qualities at first repelled more timid critics, and perhaps justified Hazlitt’s saying that Kean was “not much relished in the upper circles.” Miss Berry, for example, who saw him in all his principal parts in 1814 — in “Richard III,” “Hamlet,” “Othello,” and “Sir Giles Overreach” — remained cold.
“His ‘Richard III.’ pleased me, but I was not enthusiastic. His expression of the passions is natural and strong, but I do not like his declamation; his voi
ce, naturally not agreeable, becomes monotonous”
(Diary, vol. iii. p. 7). Of his “Hamlet” she says,
“To my mind he is without grace and without elevation of mind, because he never seems to rise with the poet in those sublime passages which abound in Hamlet”
(ibid., p. 9). Miss Berry’s criticism is supported by good authority. Lewes (On Actors and the Art of Acting, pp. 6, 11), while calling him “a consummate master of passionate expression,” denies his capacity for representing “the intellectual side of heroism.”
Kean preferred the Coal-Hole Tavern in the Strand, and the society of the Wolf Club, to Lord Holland’s dinner-parties. Though he never fell so low as Cooke, his recklessness, irregularities, eccentricities, and habits of drinking, in spite of the large sums of money that passed through his hands, made his closing days neither prosperous nor reputable.
Such effect had the passionate energy of Kean’s acting on Byron’s mind, that, once, in seeing him play “Sir Giles Overreach,” he was so affected as to be seized with a sort of convulsive fit. Some years later, in Italy, when the representation of Alfieri’s tragedy of Mirra had agitated him in the same violent manner, he compared the two instances as the only ones in his life when “any thing under reality” had been able to move him so powerfully.
“To such lengths,” says Moore, “did he, at this time, carry his enthusiasm for Kean, that when Miss O’Neil appeared, and, by her matchless representation of feminine tenderness, attracted all eyes and hearts, he was not only a little jealous of her reputation, as interfering with that of his favourite, but, in order to guard himself against the risk of becoming a convert, refused to go to see her act. I endeavoured sometimes to persuade him into witnessing, at least, one of her performances; but his answer was (punning upon Shakspeare’s word, ‘unanealed’), ‘No — I am resolved to continue un-Oneiled.’“