Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “To-day saw W. 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 land-marks 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.

  “Ly. Me. 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 his 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 philtred 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 have 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 chibouque. 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.

  “Tuesday, December 7.

  “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. Ld. Glenbervie wants me to go to Brighton — um!

  “This morning, a very pretty billet from the Staël 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, that, 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.

  “Friday, December 10. 1813.

  “I am ennuyè 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 M * * e. 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, Staëls, Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbournes, Mackintoshes, &c. &c. — 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 Staël 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 démon.” 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, &c. in the square. Took leave of Lord Gr. who is going to Holland and Germany. He tells me that he carries with him a parcel of ‘Harolds’ and ‘Giaours,’ &c. 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.

  “G —— t 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.

  “Saturday, December 11.

  “Sunday, December 12.

  “By G —— t’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 M. de Staël. 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 Staël’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 Staël’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 13. 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 pack-horse, or ‘ass, or any thing that is his:’ or, like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some enquiry 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 other’s 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.

  “December 14, 15, 16.

  “Much done, but nothing to record. It is quite enough to set down my thoughts, — my actions will rarely bear retrospection.

  “December 17, 18.

  “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 Porson’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 16. 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 Staël 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 * *, the youngest sister of * *. A wife would be my salvation. I am sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done me little good. * * 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 betw
een 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.

  “W. and, after him, * *, has stolen one of my buffooneries about Mde. de Staël’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.”