Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates were a little more accommodating to our parallel lines, which prolong ad infinitum without coming a jot nearer. I almost wish I were married, too — which is saying much. All my friends, seniors and juniors, are in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — the only species of parentage which, I believe, will ever come to my share in a lawful way; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can never be certain, — though the parish may. I suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If not, this goes as it is; but I leave room for a P.S., in case any thing requires an answer. Ever, &c.

  “No letter — n’importe. R. thinks the Quarterly will be at me this time: if so, it shall be a war of extermination — no quarter. From the youngest devil down to the oldest woman of that review, all shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller; nay, if one were to include readers also, all the better.”

  LETTER 137. TO MR. MOORE.

  “September 8. 1813.

  “I am sorry to see Tod. again so soon, for fear your scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully availing yourself of his spoils. By this coach I send you a copy of that awful pamphlet ‘The Giaour,’ which has never procured me half so high a compliment as your modest alarm. You will (if inclined in an evening) perceive that I have added much in quantity, — a circumstance which may truly diminish your modesty upon the subject.

  “You stand certainly in great need of a ‘lift’ with Mackintosh. My dear Moore, you strangely under-rate yourself. I should conceive it an affectation in any other; but I think I know you well enough to believe that you don’t know your own value. However, ’tis a fault that generally mends; and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard him speak of you as highly as your wife could wish; and enough to give all your friends the jaundice.

  “Yesterday I had a letter from Ali Pacha! brought by Dr. Holland, who is just returned from Albania. It is in Latin, and begins ‘Excellentissime nec non Carissime,’ and ends about a gun he wants made for him; — it is signed ‘Ali Vizir.’ What do you think he has been about? H. tells me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were treated as Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes the town, selects all the survivors of this exploit — children, grandchildren, &c. to the tune of six hundred, and has them shot before his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the city, and confined himself to the Tarquin pedigree, — which is more than I would. So much for ‘dearest friend.’”

  LETTER 138. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Sept. 9. 1813.

  “I write to you from Mr. Murray’s, and I may say, from Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in favour of any other publisher, would be happy to treat with you, at a fitting time, for your work. I can safely recommend him as fair, liberal, and attentive, and certainly, in point of reputation, he stands among the first of ‘the trade.’ I am sure he would do you justice. I have written to you so much lately, that you will be glad to see so little now.

  “Ever,” &c. &c.

  LETTER 139. TO MR. MOORE.

  “September 27. 1813.

  “Thomas Moore,

  “(Thou wilt never be called ‘true Thomas,’ like he of Ercildoune,) why don’t you write to me? — as you won’t, I must. I was near you at Aston the other day, and hope I soon shall be again. If so, you must and shall meet me, and go to Matlock and elsewhere, and take what, in flash dialect, is poetically termed ‘a lark,’ with Rogers and me for accomplices. Yesterday, at Holland House, I was introduced to Southey — the best looking bard I have seen for some time. To have that poet’s head and shoulders, I would almost have written his Sapphics. He is certainly a prepossessing person to look on, and a man of talent, and all that, and — there is his eulogy.

  “* * read me part of a letter from you. By the foot of Pharaoh, I believe there was abuse, for he stopped short, so he did, after a fine saying about our correspondence, and looked — I wish I could revenge myself by attacking you, or by telling you that I have had to defend you — an agreeable way which one’s friends have of recommending themselves by saying— ‘Ay, ay, I gave it Mr. Such-a-one for what he said about your being a plagiary, and a rake, and so on.’ But do you know that you are one of the very few whom I never have the satisfaction of hearing abused, but the reverse; — and do you suppose I will forgive that?

  “I have been in the country, and ran away from the Doncaster races. It is odd, — I was a visiter in the same house which came to my sire as a residence with Lady Carmarthen, (with whom he adulterated before his majority — by the by, remember, she was not my mamma,) — and they thrust me into an old room, with a nauseous picture over the chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded with due respect, and which, inheriting the family taste, I looked upon with great satisfaction. I stayed a week with the family, and behaved very well — though the lady of the house is young, and religious, and pretty, and the master is my particular friend. I felt no wish for any thing but a poodle dog, which they kindly gave me. Now, for a man of my courses not even to have coveted, is a sign of great amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, and don’t ‘snub me when I’m in spirits.’

  “Ever, yours, BN.

  “Here’s an impromptu for you by a ‘person of quality,’ written last week, on being reproached for low spirits.

  “When from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o’er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye: Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink; My Thoughts their dungeon know too well — Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, And bleed within their silent cell.”

  LETTER 140. TO MR. MOORE.

  “October 2. 1813.

  “You have not answered some six letters of mine. This, therefore, is my penultimate. I will write to you once more, but, after that — I swear by all the saints — I am silent and supercilious. I have met Curran at Holland House — he beats every body; — his imagination is beyond human, and his humour (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect. Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he mimics — I never met his equal. Now, were I a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my Scamander. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met him but once; and you, who have known him long, may probably deduct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He talked a great deal about you — a theme never tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know. What a variety of expression he conjures into that naturally not very fine countenance of his! He absolutely changes it entirely. I have done — for I can’t describe him, and you know him. On Sunday I return to * *, where I shall not be far from you. Perhaps I shall hear from you in the mean time. Good night.

  “Saturday morn — Your letter has cancelled all my anxieties. I did not suspect you in earnest. Modest again! Because I don’t do a very shabby thing, it seems, I ‘don’t fear your competition.’ If it were reduced to an alternative of preference, I should dread you, as much as Satan does Michael. But is there not room enough in our respective regions? Go on — it will soon be my turn to forgive. To-day I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. Stale — as John Bull may be pleased to denominate Corinne — whom I saw last night, at Covent Garden, yawning over the humour of Falstaff.

  “The reputation of ‘gloom,’ if one’s friends are not included in the reputants, is of great service; as it saves one from a legion of impertinents, in the shape of common-place acquaintance. But thou know’st I can be a right merry and conceited fellow, and rarely ‘larmoyant.’ Murray shall reinstate your line forthwith. I believe the blunder in the motto was mine: — and yet I have, in general, a memory for you, and am sure it was rightly printed at first.

  “I do ‘blush’ very often, if I may believe Ladies H. and M.; — but luckily, at present, no one sees me. Adieu.”

  LETTER 141. TO MR. MOORE.

  “November 30. 1813.
r />   “Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, good, bad, and indifferent, — not to make me forget you, but to prevent me from reminding you of one who, nevertheless, has often thought of you, and to whom your thoughts, in many a measure, have frequently been a consolation. We were once very near neighbours this autumn; and a good and bad neighbourhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say, that your French quotation was confoundedly to the purpose, — though very unexpectedly pertinent, as you may imagine by what I said before, and my silence since. However, ‘Richard’s himself again,’ and except all night and some part of the morning, I don’t think very much about the matter.

  “All convulsions end with me in rhyme; and to solace my midnights, I have scribbled another Turkish story — not a Fragment — which you will receive soon after this. It does not trench upon your kingdom in the least, and if it did, you would soon reduce me to my proper boundaries. You will think, and justly, that I run some risk of losing the little I have gained in fame, by this further experiment on public patience; but I have really ceased to care on that head. I have written this, and published it, for the sake of the employment, — to wring my thoughts from reality, and take refuge in ‘imaginings,’ however ‘horrible;’ and, as to success! those who succeed will console me for a failure — excepting yourself and one or two more, whom luckily I love too well to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower. This is the work of a week, and will be the reading of an hour to you, or even less, — and so, let it go * * * *.

  “P.S. Ward and I talk of going to Holland. I want to see how a Dutch canal looks after the Bosphorus. Pray respond.”

  LETTER 142. TO MR. MOORE.

  “December 8. 1813.

  “Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest things in this world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to what sits nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate to you, — not in a formal inscription, as to one’s elders, — but through a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your intimate, and held forth the prospect of your poem; when, lo! the recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy as to the said poem, more than once repeated by word and letter, flashed upon me, and marred my intents. I could have no motive for repressing my own desire of alluding to you (and not a day passes that I do not think and talk of you), but an idea that you might, yourself, dislike it. You cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waving personal friendship for the present, which, by the by, is not less sincere and deep rooted. I have you by rote and by heart; of which ‘ecce signum!’ When I was at * *, on my first visit, I have a habit, in passing my time a good deal alone, of — I won’t call it singing, for that I never attempt except to myself — but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your ‘Oh breathe not,’ ‘When the last glimpse,’ and ‘When he who adores thee,’ with others of the same minstrel; — they are my matins and vespers. I assuredly did not intend them to be overheard, but, one morning, in comes, not La Donna, but Il Marito, with a very grave face, saying, ‘Byron, I must request you won’t sing any more, at least of those songs.’ I stared, and said, ‘Certainly, but why?’— ‘To tell you the truth,’ quoth he, ‘they make my wife cry, and so melancholy, that I wish her to hear no more of them.’

  “Now, my dear M., the effect must have been from your words, and certainly not my music. I merely mention this foolish story to show you how much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases — at least, in composition. Though I think no one equal to you in that department, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever so popular in both, — I certainly am of opinion that you have not yet done all you can do, though more than enough for any one else. I want, and the world expects, a longer work from you; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, a strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot account for, and which must be unaccountable, when a Cossac like me can appal a cuirassier. Your story I did not, could not, know, — I thought only of a Peri. I wish you had confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent the world from losing a much better poem than my own, but which, I yet hope, this clashing will not even now deprive them of. Mine is the work of a week, written, why I have partly told you, and partly I cannot tell you by letter — some day I will.

  “Go on — I shall really be very unhappy if I at all interfere with you. The success of mine is yet problematical; though the public will probably purchase a certain quantity, on the presumption of their own propensity for ‘The Giaour’ and such ‘horrid mysteries.’ The only advantage I have is being on the spot; and that merely amounts to saving me the trouble of turning over books which I had better read again. If your chamber was furnished in the same way, you have no need to go there to describe — I mean only as to accuracy — because I drew it from recollection.

  “This last thing of mine may have the same fate, and I assure you I have great doubts about it. But, even if not, its little day will be over before you are ready and willing. Come out— ‘screw your courage to the sticking-place.’ Except the Post Bag (and surely you cannot complain of a want of success there), you have not been regularly out for some years. No man stands higher, — whatever you may think on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. ‘Aucun homme, dans aucune langue, n’a été, peut-être, plus completèment le poëte du coeur et le poëte des femmes. Les critiques lui reprochent de n’avoir représenté le monde ni tel qu’il est, ni tel qu’il doit être; mais les femmes répondent qu’il l’a représenté tel qu’elles le désirent.’ — I should have thought Sismondi had written this for you instead of Metastasio.

  “Write to me, and tell me of yourself. Do you remember what Rousseau said to some one— ‘Have we quarrelled? you have talked to me often, and never once mentioned yourself.’

  “P.S. — The last sentence is an indirect apology for my own egotism, — but I believe in letters it is allowed. I wish it was mutual. I have met with an odd reflection in Grimm; it shall not — at least the bad part — be applied to you or me, though one of us has certainly an indifferent name — but this it is:— ‘Many people have the reputation of being wicked, with whom we should be too happy to pass our lives.’ I need not add it is a woman’s saying — a Mademoiselle de Sommery’s.”

  At this time Lord Byron commenced a Journal, or Diary, from the pages of which I have already selected a few extracts, and of which I shall now lay as much more as is producible before the reader. Employed chiefly, — as such a record, from its nature, must be, — about persons still living, and occurrences still recent, it would be impossible, of course, to submit it to the public eye, without the omission of some portion of its contents, and unluckily, too, of that very portion which, from its reference to the secret pursuits and feelings of the writer, would the most livelily pique and gratify the curiosity of the reader. Enough, however, will, I trust, still remain, even after all this necessary winnowing, to enlarge still further the view we have here opened into the interior of the poet’s life and habits, and to indulge harmlessly that taste, as general as it is natural, which leads us to contemplate with pleasure a great mind in its undress, and to rejoice in the discovery, so consoling to human pride, that even the mightiest, in their moments of ease and weakness, resemble ourselves.

  JOURNAL, BEGUN NOVEMBER 14. 1813.

  “If this had been begun ten years ago, and faithfully kept!!! — heigho! there are too many things I wish never to have remembered, as it is. Well, — have had my share of what are called the pleasures of this life, and have seen more of the European and Asiatic world than I have made a good use of. They say ‘Virtue is its own reward,’ — it certainly should be paid well for its trouble. At five-and-twenty, when the better part of life is over, one should be something; — and what am I? nothing but five-and-twenty — and the odd months. What have I seen? the same man all over the world, — ay, and woman too. Give me a Mussulman who never asks questions, and a she of the same race who saves one the trouble of putting them. But for this same
plague — yellow fever — and Newstead delay, I should have been by this time a second time close to the Euxine. If I can overcome the last, I don’t so much mind your pestilence; and, at any rate, the spring shall see me there, — provided I neither marry myself, nor unmarry any one else in the interval. I wish one was — I don’t know what I wish. It is odd I never set myself seriously to wishing without attaining it — and repenting. I begin to believe with the good old Magi, that one should only pray for the nation, and not for the individual; — but, on my principle, this would not be very patriotic.

  “No more reflections — Let me see — last night I finished ‘Zuleika,’ my second Turkish Tale. I believe the composition of it kept me alive — for it was written to drive my thoughts from the recollection of —

  ‘Dear sacred name, rest ever unreveal’d.’

  At least, even here, my hand would tremble to write it. This afternoon I have burnt the scenes of my commenced comedy. I have some idea of expectorating a romance, or rather a tale in prose; — but what romance could equal the events —

  ‘quæque ipse ...vidi, Et quorum pars magna fui.’

  “To-day Henry Byron called on me with my little cousin Eliza. She will grow up a beauty and a plague; but, in the mean time, it is the prettiest child! dark eyes and eyelashes, black and long as the wing of a raven. I think she is prettier even than my niece, Georgina, — yet I don’t like to think so neither; and though older, she is not so clever.

  “Dallas called before I was up, so we did not meet. Lewis, too, — who seems out of humour with every thing. What can be the matter? he is not married — has he lost his own mistress, or any other person’s wife? Hodgson, too, came. He is going to be married, and he is the kind of man who will be the happier. He has talent, cheerfulness, every thing that can make him a pleasing companion; and his intended is handsome and young, and all that. But I never see any one much improved by matrimony. All my coupled contemporaries are bald and discontented. W. and S. have both lost their hair and good humour; and the last of the two had a good deal to lose. But it don’t much signify what falls off a man’s temples in that state.