by Thomas Moore
“M * * e has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents, — poetry, music, voice, all his own; and an expression in each, which never was, nor will be, possessed by another. But he is capable of still higher flights in poetry. By the by, what humour, what — every thing, in the ‘Post-Bag!’ There is nothing M * * e may not do, if he will but seriously set about it. In society, he is gentlemanly, gentle, and, altogether, more pleasing than any individual with whom I am acquainted. For his honour, principle, and independence, his conduct to * * * * speaks ‘trumpet-tongued.’ He has but one fault — and that one I daily regret — he is not here.
“Nov. 23.
“Ward — I like Ward. By Mahomet! I begin to think I like every body; — a disposition not to be encouraged; — a sort of social gluttony that swallows every thing set before it. But I like Ward. He is piquant; and, in my opinion, will stand very high in the House, and every where else, if he applies regularly. By the by, I dine with him to-morrow, which may have some influence on my opinion. It is as well not to trust one’s gratitude after dinner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally lips.
“I have taken Lord Salisbury’s box at Covent Garden for the season; and now I must go and prepare to join Lady Holland and party, in theirs, at Drury Lane, questa sera.
“Holland doesn’t think the man is Junius; but that the yet unpublished journal throws great light on the obscurities of that part of George the Second’s reign — What is this to George the Third’s? I don’t know what to think. Why should Junius be yet dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his grave without sending his ειδωλον to shout in the ears of posterity, ‘Junius was X.Y.Z., Esq., buried in the parish of * * *. Repair his monument, ye churchwardens! Print a new edition of his Letters, ye booksellers!’ Impossible, — the man must be alive, and will never die without the disclosure. I like him; — he was a good hater.
“Came home unwell and went to bed, — not so sleepy as might be desirable.
“Tuesday morning.
“I awoke from a dream! — well! and have not others dreamed? — Such a dream! — but she did not overtake me. I wish the dead would rest, however. Ugh! how my blood chilled — and I could not wake — and — and — heigho!
“‘Shadows to-night Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, Than could the substance of ten thousand * * s, Arm’d all in proof, and led by shallow * *.’
I do not like this dream, — I hate its ‘foregone conclusion.’ And am I to be shaken by shadows? Ay, when they remind us of — no matter — but, if I dream thus again, I will try whether all sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, I’ve been in considerable bodily pain also; but it is gone, and now, like Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day.
“A note from Mountnorris — I dine with Ward; — Canning is to be there, Frere and Sharpe, — perhaps Gifford. I am to be one of ‘the five’ (or rather six), as Lady * * said a little sneeringly yesterday. They are all good to meet, particularly Canning, and — Ward, when he likes. I wish I may be well enough to listen to these intellectuals.
“No letters to-day; — so much the better, — there are no answers. I must not dream again; — it spoils even reality. I will go out of doors, and see what the fog will do for me. Jackson has been here: the boxing world much as usual; — but the club increases. I shall dine at Crib’s to-morrow. I like energy — even animal energy — of all kinds; and I have need of both mental and corporeal. I have not dined out, nor, indeed, at all, lately; have heard no music — have seen nobody. Now for a plunge — high life and low life. ‘Amant alterna Camoenæ!’
“I have burnt my Roman — as I did the first scenes and sketch of my comedy — and, for aught I see, the pleasure of burning is quite as great as that of printing. These two last would not have done. I ran into realities more than ever; and some would have been recognised and others guessed at.
“Redde the Ruminator — a collection of Essays, by a strange, but able, old man (Sir E.B.), and a half-wild young one, author of a poem on the Highlands, called ‘Childe Alarique.’ The word ‘sensibility’ (always my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays; and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discontent. This young man can know nothing of life; and, if he cherishes the disposition which runs through his papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after all, which he seems determined to be. God help him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might have all been agents and leaders, now mere spectators. For, though they may have other ostensible avocations, these last are reduced to a secondary consideration. * *, too, frittering away his time among dowagers and unmarried girls. If it advanced any serious affair, it were some excuse; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous speculation, and tiresome enough, too; and, with the veterans, it is not much worth trying, unless, perhaps, one in a thousand.
“If I had any views in this country, they would probably be parliamentary. But I have no ambition; at least, if any, it would be ‘aut Cæsar aut nihil.’ My hopes are limited to the arrangement of my affairs, and settling either in Italy or the East (rather the last), and drinking deep of the languages and literature of both. Past events have unnerved me; and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, and look on while others play. After all, even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it? Vide Napoleon’s last twelve-month. It has completely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if crushed, he would have fallen, when ‘fractus illabitur orbis,’ and not have been pared away to gradual insignificance; that all this was not a mere jeu of the gods, but a prelude to greater changes and mightier events. But men never advance beyond a certain point; and here we are, retrograding to the dull, stupid old system, — balance of Europe — poising straws upon kings’ noses, instead of wringing them off! Give me a republic, or a despotism of one, rather than the mixed government of one, two, three. A republic! — look in the history of the Earth — Rome, Greece, Venice, France, Holland, America, our short (eheu!) Commonwealth, and compare it with what they did under masters. The Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, but they have the liberty of demolishing despots, which is the next thing to it. To be the first man — not the Dictator — not the Sylla, but the Washington or the Aristides — the leader in talent and truth — is next to the Divinity! Franklin, Penn, and, next to these, either Brutus or Cassius — even Mirabeau — or St. Just. I shall never be any thing, or rather always be nothing. The most I can hope is, that some will say, ‘He might, perhaps, if he would.’
“12, midnight.
“Here are two confounded proofs from the printer. I have looked at the one, but for the soul of me, I can’t look over that ‘Giaour’ again, — at least, just now, and at this hour — and yet there is no moon.
“Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have partly discussed an ensemble expedition. It must be in ten days, if at all, if we wish to be in at the Revolution. And why not? * * is distant, and will be at * *, still more distant, till spring. No one else, except Augusta, cares for me; no ties — no trammels — andiamo dunque — se torniamo, bene — se non, ch’ importa? Old William of Orange talked of dying in ‘the last ditch’ of his dingy country. It is lucky I can swim, or I suppose I should not well weather the first. But let us see. I have heard hyænas and jackalls in the ruins of Asia; and bull-frogs in the marshes; besides wolves and angry Mussulmans. Now, I should like to listen to the shout of a free Dutchman.
“Alla! Viva! For ever! Hourra! Huzza! — which is the most rational or musical of these cries? ‘Orange Boven,’ according to the Morning Post.
“Wednesday, 24.
“No dreams last night of the dead nor the living, so — I am ‘firm as the marble, founded as the rock,’ till the next earthquake.
“Ward’s dinner went off well. There was not a disagreeable person there — unless I offended any body, which I am sure I could not by contradi
ction, for I said little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a man of elegant mind, and who has lived much with the best — Fox, Horne Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agitators of other times and tongues,) told us the particulars of his last interview with Windham, a few days before the fatal operation which sent ‘that gallant spirit to aspire the skies.’ Windham, — the first in one department of oratory and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond the intellect of half his hearers, — Windham, half his life an active participator in the events of the earth, and one of those who governed nations, — he regretted, and dwelt much on that regret, that ‘he had not entirely devoted himself to literature and science!!!’ His mind certainly would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere; — but I cannot comprehend what debility of that mind could suggest such a wish. I, who have heard him, cannot regret any thing but that I shall never hear him again. What! would he have been a plodder? a metaphysician? — perhaps a rhymer? a scribbler? Such an exchange must have been suggested by illness. But he is gone, and Time ‘shall not look upon his like again.’
“I am tremendously in arrear with my letters, — except to * *, and to her my thoughts overpower me: — my words never compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write with most pleasure — and her answers, so sensible, so tactique — I never met with half her talent. If she had been a few years younger, what a fool she would have made of me, had she thought it worth her while, — and I should have lost a valuable and most agreeable friend. Mem. a mistress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you are lovers; and, when it is over, any thing but friends.
“I have not answered W. Scott’s last letter, — but I will. I regret to hear from others that he has lately been unfortunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedly the Monarch of Parnassus, and the most English of bards. I should place Rogers next in the living list (I value him more as the last of the best school) — Moore and Campbell both third — Southey and Wordsworth and Coleridge — the rest, ὁι πολλοι — thus: —
There is a triangular ‘Gradus ad Parnassum!’ — the names are too numerous for the base of the triangle. Poor Thurlow has gone wild about the poetry of Queen Bess’s reign — c’est dommage. I have ranked the names upon my triangle more upon what I believe popular opinion, than any decided opinion of my own. For, to me, some of M * * e’s last Erin sparks— ‘As a beam o’er the face of the waters’— ‘When he who adores thee’— ‘Oh blame not’ — and ‘Oh breathe not his name’ — are worth all the Epics that ever were composed.
“* * thinks the Quarterly will attack me next. Let them. I have been ‘peppered so highly’ in my time, both ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. I can sincerely say that I am not very much alive now to criticism. But — in tracing this — I rather believe, that it proceeds from my not attaching that importance to authorship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. ‘One gets tired of every thing, my angel,’ says Valmont. The ‘angels’ are the only things of which I am not a little sick — but I do think the preference of writers to agents — the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by themselves and others — a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, who had any thing better to do? ‘Action — action — action’ — said Demosthenes: ‘Actions — actions,’ I say, and not writing, — least of all, rhyme. Look at the querulous and monotonous lives of the ‘genus;’ — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, Kleist (who were brave and active citizens), Aeschylus, Sophocles, and some other of the antiques also — what a worthless, idle brood it is!
“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 * * 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. * * is on alimony, and * *’s daughter lives with the champion. This * * 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. * * * * 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. — Νωἁιρων.
“Thursday, November 26.
“Awoke a little feverish, but no headach — no dreams neither, thanks to stupor! Two letters; one from * * * *’s, 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 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, &c. &c. &c. &c.
“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 27. (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!) that art both Mother and May, I think it never was a man’s lot to die before this 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, a
nd 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 Ed. 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 Staël. 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.