by Thomas Moore
This trait of the young poet speaks sufficiently for itself; — the sensibility, the temper, the ingenuous pliableness which it exhibits, show a disposition capable, by nature, of every thing we most respect and love.
Of a no less amiable character were the feelings that, about this time, dictated the following letter; — a letter which it is impossible to peruse without acknowledging the noble candour and conscientiousness of the writer: —
LETTER 8. TO THE EARL OF CLARE.
“Southwell, Notts, February 6. 1807.
“My dearest Clare,
“Were I to make all the apologies necessary to atone for my late negligence, you would justly say you had received a petition instead of a letter, as it would be filled with prayers for forgiveness; but instead of this, I will acknowledge my sins at once, and I trust to your friendship and generosity rather than to my own excuses. Though my health is not perfectly re-established, I am out of all danger, and have recovered every thing but my spirits, which are subject to depression. You will be astonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarre, for the purpose of explaining (as far as possible without involving some old friends of mine in the business) the cause of my behaviour to him during my last residence at Harrow (nearly two years ago), which you will recollect was rather ‘en cavalier.’ Since that period, I have discovered he was treated with injustice both by those who misrepresented his conduct, and by me in consequence of their suggestions. I have therefore made all the reparation in my power, by apologising for my mistake, though with very faint hopes of success; indeed I never expected any answer, but desired one for form’s sake; that has not yet arrived, and most probably never will. However, I have eased my own conscience by the atonement, which is humiliating enough to one of my disposition; yet I could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have done all that could be done to repair the injury, and there the affair must end. Whether we renew our intimacy or not is of very trivial consequence.
“My time has lately been much occupied with very different pursuits. I have been transporting a servant, who cheated me, — rather a disagreeable event; — performing in private theatricals; — publishing a volume of poems (at the request of my friends, for their perusal); — making love, — and taking physic. The two last amusements have not had the best effect in the world; for my attentions have been divided amongst so many fair damsels, and the drugs I swallow are of such variety in their composition, that between Venus and Aesculapius I am harassed to death. However, I have still leisure to devote some hours to the recollections of past, regretted friendships, and in the interval to take the advantage of the moment, to assure you how much I am, and ever will be, my dearest Clare,
“Your truly attached and sincere
“Byron.”
Considering himself bound to replace the copies of his work which he had withdrawn, as well as to rescue the general character of the volume from the stigma this one offender might bring upon it, he set instantly about preparing a second edition for the press, and, during the ensuing six weeks, continued busily occupied with his task. In the beginning of January we find him forwarding a copy to his friend, Dr. Pigot, in Edinburgh: —
LETTER 9. TO MR. PIGOT.
“Southwell, Jan. 13. 1807.
“I ought to begin with sundry apologies, for my own negligence, but the variety of my avocations in prose and verse must plead my excuse. With this epistle you will receive a volume of all my Juvenilia, published since your departure: it is of considerably greater size than the copy in your possession, which I beg you will destroy, as the present is much more complete. That unlucky poem to my poor Mary has been the cause of some animadversion from ladies in years. I have not printed it in this collection, in consequence of my being pronounced a most profligate sinner, in short, a ‘young Moore,’ by —— , your —— friend. I believe, in general, they have been favourably received, and surely the age of their author will preclude severe criticism. The adventures of my life from sixteen to nineteen, and the dissipation into which I have been thrown in London, have given a voluptuous tint to my ideas; but the occasions which called forth my muse could hardly admit any other colouring. This volume is vastly correct and miraculously chaste. Apropos, talking of love,...
“If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of unconnected nonsense, you need not doubt what gratification will accrue from your reply to yours ever,” &c.
To his young friend, Mr. William Bankes, who had met casually with a copy of the work, and wrote him a letter conveying his opinion of it, he returned the following answer: —
LETTER 10. TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES.
“Southwell, March 6. 1807.
“Dear Bankes,
“Your critique is valuable for many reasons: in the first place, it is the only one in which flattery has borne so slight a part; in the next, I am cloyed with insipid compliments. I have a better opinion of your judgment and ability than your feelings. Accept my most sincere thanks for your kind decision, not less welcome, because totally unexpected. With regard to a more exact estimate, I need not remind you how few of the best poems, in our language, will stand the test of minute or verbal criticism: it can, therefore, hardly be expected the effusions of a boy (and most of these pieces have been produced at an early period) can derive much merit either from the subject or composition. Many of them were written under great depression of spirits, and during severe indisposition: — hence the gloomy turn of the ideas. We coincide in opinion that the ‘poësies érotiques’ are the most exceptionable; they were, however, grateful to the deities, on whose altars they were offered — more I seek not.
“The portrait of Pomposus was drawn at Harrow, after a long sitting; this accounts for the resemblance, or rather the caricatura. He is your friend, he never was mine — for both our sakes I shall be silent on this head. The collegiate rhymes are not personal — one of the notes may appear so, but could not be omitted. I have little doubt they will be deservedly abused — a just punishment for my unfilial treatment of so excellent an Alma Mater. I sent you no copy, lest we should be placed in the situation of Gil Blas and the Archbishop of Grenada; though running some hazard from the experiment, I wished your verdict to be unbiassed. Had my ‘Libellus’ been presented previous to your letter, it would have appeared a species of bribe to purchase compliment. I feel no hesitation in saying, I was more anxious to hear your critique, however severe, than the praises of the million. On the same day I was honoured with the encomiums of Mackenzie, the celebrated author of the ‘Man of Feeling.’ Whether his approbation or yours elated me most, I cannot decide.
“You will receive my Juvenilia, — at least all yet published. I have a large volume in manuscript, which may in part appear hereafter; at present I have neither time nor inclination to prepare it for the press. In the spring I shall return to Trinity, to dismantle my rooms, and bid you a final adieu. The Cam will not be much increased by my tears on the occasion. Your further remarks, however caustic or bitter, to a palate vitiated with the sweets of adulation, will be of service. Johnson has shown us that no poetry is perfect; but to correct mine would be an Herculean labour. In fact I never looked beyond the moment of composition, and published merely at the request of my friends. Notwithstanding so much has been said concerning the ‘Genus irritabile vatum,’ we shall never quarrel on the subject — poetic fame is by no means the ‘acme’ of my wishes. Adieu.
“Yours ever,
“Byron.”
This letter was followed by another, on the same subject, to Mr. Bankes, of which, unluckily, only the annexed fragment remains: —
“For my own part, I have suffered severely in the decease of my two greatest friends, the only beings I ever loved (females excepted); I am therefore a solitary animal, miserable enough, and so perfectly a citizen of the world, that whether I pass my days in Great Britain or Kamschatka, is to me a matter of perfect indifference. I cannot evince greater respect for your alter
ation than by immediately adopting it — this shall be done in the next edition. I am sorry your remarks are not more frequent, as I am certain they would be equally beneficial. Since my last, I have received two critical opinions from Edinburgh, both too flattering for me to detail. One is from Lord Woodhouselee, at the head of the Scotch literati, and a most voluminous writer (his last work is a life of Lord Kaimes); the other from Mackenzie, who sent his decision a second time, more at length. I am not personally acquainted with either of these gentlemen, nor ever requested their sentiments on the subject: their praise is voluntary, and transmitted through the medium of a friend, at whose house they read the productions.
“Contrary to my former intention, I am now preparing a volume for the public at large: my amatory pieces will be exchanged, and others substituted in their place. The whole will be considerably enlarged, and appear the latter end of May. This is a hazardous experiment; but want of better employment, the encouragement I have met with, and my own vanity, induce me to stand the test, though not without sundry palpitations. The book will circulate fast enough in this country, from mere curiosity, what I prin—”
The following modest letter accompanied a copy which he presented to Mr. Falkner, his mother’s landlord: —
LETTER 11. TO MR. FALKNER.
“Sir,
“The volume of little pieces which accompanies this, would have been presented before, had I not been apprehensive that Miss Falkner’s indisposition might render such trifles unwelcome. There are some errors of the printer which I have not had time to correct in the collection: you have it thus, with ‘all its imperfections on its head,’ a heavy weight, when joined with the faults of its author. Such ‘Juvenilia,’ as they can claim no great degree of approbation, I may venture to hope, will also escape the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps not undeserved, criticism.
“They were written on many and various occasions, and are now published merely for the perusal of a friendly circle. Believe me, sir, if they afford the slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of my social readers, I shall have gathered all the bays I ever wish to adorn the head of yours,
very truly,
“Byron.
“P.S. — I hope Miss F. is in a state of recovery.”
Notwithstanding this unambitious declaration of the young author, he had that within which would not suffer him to rest so easily; and the fame he had now reaped within a limited circle made him but more eager to try his chance on a wider field. The hundred copies of which this edition consisted were hardly out of his hands, when with fresh activity he went to press again, — and his first published volume, “The Hours of Idleness,” made its appearance. Some new pieces which he had written in the interim were added, and no less than twenty of those contained in the former volume omitted; — for what reason does not very clearly appear, as they are, most of them, equal, if not superior, to those retained.
In one of the pieces, reprinted in the “Hours of Idleness,” there are some alterations and additions, which, as far as they may be supposed to spring from the known feelings of the poet respecting birth, are curious. This poem, which is entitled “Epitaph on a Friend,” appears, from the lines I am about to give, to have been, in its original state, intended to commemorate the death of the same lowly born youth, to whom some affectionate verses, cited in a preceding page, were addressed: —
“Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn; To me, far dearer was thy artless love Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove.”
But, in the altered form of the epitaph, not only this passage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank of his young companion, is omitted; while, in the added parts, the introduction of such language as
“What, though thy sire lament his failing line,”
seems calculated to give an idea of the youth’s station in life, wholly different from that which the whole tenour of the original epitaph warrants. The other poem, too, which I have mentioned, addressed evidently to the same boy, and speaking in similar terms, of the “lowness” of his “lot,” is, in the “Hours of Idleness,” altogether omitted. That he grew more conscious of his high station, as he approached to manhood, is not improbable; and this wish to sink his early friendship with the young cottager may have been a result of that feeling.
As his visits to Southwell were, after this period, but few and transient, I shall take the present opportunity of mentioning such miscellaneous particulars respecting his habits and mode of life, while there, as I have been able to collect.
Though so remarkably shy, when he first went to Southwell, this reserve, as he grew more acquainted with the young people of the place, wore off; till, at length, he became a frequenter of their assemblies and dinner-parties, and even felt mortified if he heard of a rout to which he was not invited. His horror, however, at new faces still continued; and if, while at Mrs. Pigot’s, he saw strangers approaching the house, he would instantly jump out of the window to avoid them. This natural shyness concurred with no small degree of pride to keep him aloof from the acquaintance of the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, whose visits, in more than one instance, he left unreturned; — some under the plea that their ladies had not visited his mother; others, because they had neglected to pay him this compliment sooner. The true reason, however, of the haughty distance, at which, both now and afterwards, he stood apart from his more opulent neighbours, is to be found in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel this inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior. His friend, Mr. Becher, frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and to his remonstrances, on one occasion, Lord Byron returned a poetical answer, so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst, with which his own volcanic genius opened upon the world, that as the volume containing the verses is in very few hands, I cannot resist the temptation of giving a few extracts here: —
“Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind, — I cannot deny such a precept is wise; But retirement accords with the tone of my mind, And I will not descend to a world I despise.
“Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth; And, when infancy’s years of probation expire, Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
“The fire, in the cavern of Ætna concealed, Still mantles unseen, in its secret recess; — At length, in a volume terrific revealed, No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
“Oh thus, the desire in my bosom for fame Bids me live but to hope for Posterity’s praise; Could I soar, with the Phoenix, on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
“For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave? Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath, — Their glory illumines the gloom of the grave!”
In his hours of rising and retiring to rest he was, like his mother, always very late; and this habit he never altered during the remainder of his life. The night, too, was at this period, as it continued afterwards, his favourite time for composition; and his first visit in the morning was generally paid to the fair friend who acted as his amanuensis, and to whom he then gave whatever new products of his brain the preceding night might have inspired. His next visit was usually to his friend Mr. Becher’s, and from thence to one or two other houses on the Green, after which the rest of the day was devoted to his favourite exercises. The evenings he usually passed with the same family, among whom he began his morning, either in conversation, or in hearing Miss Pigot play upon the piano-forte, and singing over with her a certain set of songs which he admired, — among which the “Maid of Lodi,” (with the words, “My heart with love is beating,”) and “When Time who steals our years away,” were, it seems, his particular favourites. He appears, indeed, to have, even thus early, shown a decided taste for that sort of regular routine of life, —
bringing round the same occupations at the stated periods, — which formed so much the system of his existence during the greater part of his residence abroad.
Those exercises, to which he flew for distraction in less happy days, formed his enjoyment now; and between swimming, sparring, firing at a mark, and riding, the greater part of his time was passed. In the last of these accomplishments he was by no means very expert. As an instance of his little knowledge of horses, it is told, that, seeing a pair one day pass his window, he exclaimed, “What beautiful horses! I should like to buy them.”— “Why, they are your own, my Lord,” said his servant. Those who knew him, indeed, at that period, were rather surprised, in after-life, to hear so much of his riding; — and the truth is, I am inclined to think, that he was at no time a very adroit horse-man.
In swimming and diving we have already seen, by his own accounts, he excelled; and a lady in Southwell, among other precious relics of him, possesses a thimble which he borrowed of her one morning, when on his way to bathe in the Greet, and which, as was testified by her brother, who accompanied him, he brought up three times successively from the bottom of the river. His practice of firing at a mark was the occasion, once, of some alarm to a very beautiful young person, Miss H., — one of that numerous list of fair ones by whom his imagination was dazzled while at Southwell. A poem relating to this occurrence, which may be found in his unpublished volume, is thus introduced:— “As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies, passing near the spot, were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.”