Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “I mean to write a tragedy on the subject, which appears to me very dramatic; an old man, jealous, and conspiring against the state of which he was the actually reigning chief. The last circumstance makes it the most remarkable and only fact of the kind in all history of all nations.”

  LETTER 263. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Venice, February 28. 1817.

  “You will, perhaps, complain as much of the frequency of my letters now, as you were wont to do of their rarity. I think this is the fourth within as many moons. I feel anxious to hear from you, even more than usual, because your last indicated that you were unwell. At present, I am on the invalid regimen myself. The Carnival — that is, the latter part of it, and sitting up late o’nights, had knocked me up a little. But it is over, — and it is now Lent, with all its abstinence and sacred music.

  “The mumming closed with a masked ball at the Fenice, where I went, as also to most of the ridottos, &c. &c.; and, though I did not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I find ‘the sword wearing out the scabbard,’ though I have but just turned the corner of twenty-nine.

  “So, we’ll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword out-wears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And Love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we’ll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.

  I have lately had some news of litteratoor, as I heard the editor of the Monthly pronounce it once upon a time. I hear that W.W. has been publishing and responding to the attacks of the Quarterly, in the learned Perry’s Chronicle. I read his poesies last autumn, and, amongst them, found an epitaph on his bull-dog, and another on myself. But I beg leave to assure him (like the astrologer Partridge) that I am not only alive now, but was alive also at the time he wrote it. Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter against the Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel awkwardly situated between him and Gifford, both being my friends.

  “And this is your month of going to press — by the body of Diana! (a Venetian oath,) I feel as anxious — but not fearful for you — as if it were myself coming out in a work of humour, which would, you know, be the antipodes of all my previous publications. I don’t think you have any thing to dread but your own reputation. You must keep up to that. As you never showed me a line of your work, I do not even know your measure; but you must send me a copy by Murray forthwith, and then you shall hear what I think. I dare say you are in a pucker. Of all authors, you are the only really modest one I ever met with, — which would sound oddly enough to those who recollect your morals when you were young — that is, when you were extremely young — don’t mean to stigmatise you either with years or morality.

  “I believe I told you that the E.R. had attacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have not seen it)— ‘Et tu, Jeffrey?’— ‘there is nothing but roguery in villanous man.’ But I absolve him of all attacks, present and future; for I think he had already pushed his clemency in my behoof to the utmost, and I shall always think well of him. I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domestic destruction was a fine opening for all the world, of which all who could did well to avail themselves.

  “If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, that it is not over with me — I don’t mean in literature, for that is nothing; and it may seem odd enough to say, I do not think it my vocation. But you will see that I shall do something or other — the times and fortune permitting — that, ‘like the cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puzzle the philosophers of all ages.’ But I doubt whether my constitution will hold out. I have, at intervals, exorcised it most devilishly.

  “I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I think of the spring. I shall have been away a year in April next. You never mention Rogers, nor Hodgson, your clerical neighbour, who has lately got a living near you. Has he also got a child yet? — his desideratum, when I saw him last.

  “Pray let me hear from you, at your time and leisure, believing me ever and truly and affectionately,” &c.

  LETTER 264. TO MR. MURRAY.

  “Venice, March 3. 1817.

  “In acknowledging the arrival of the article from the ‘Quarterly,’ which I received two days ago, I cannot express myself better than in the words of my sister Augusta, who (speaking of it) says, that it is written in a spirit ‘of the most feeling and kind nature.’ It is, however, something more; it seems to me (as far as the subject of it may be permitted to judge) to be very well written as a composition, and I think will do the journal no discredit, because even those who condemn its partiality must praise its generosity. The temptations to take another and a less favourable view of the question have been so great and numerous, that, what with public opinion, politics, &c. he must be a gallant as well as a good man, who has ventured in that place, and at this time, to write such an article even anonymously. Such things are, however, their own reward; and I even flatter myself that the writer, whoever he may be (and I have no guess), will not regret that the perusal of this has given me as much gratification as any composition of that nature could give, and more than any other has given, — and I have had a good many in my time of one kind or the other. It is not the mere praise, but there is a tact and a delicacy throughout, not only with regard to me, but to others, which, as it had not been observed elsewhere, I had till now doubted whether it could be observed any where.

  “Perhaps some day or other you will know or tell me the writer’s name. Be assured, had the article been a harsh one, I should not have asked it.

  “I have lately written to you frequently, with extracts, &c., which I hope you have received, or will receive, with or before this letter. — Ever since the conclusion of the Carnival I have been unwell, (do not mention this, on any account, to Mrs. Leigh; for if I grow worse, she will know it too soon, and if I get better, there is no occasion that she should know it at all,) and have hardly stirred out of the house. However, I don’t want a physician, and if I did, very luckily those of Italy are the worst in the world, so that I should still have a chance. They have, I believe, one famous surgeon, Vacca, who lives at Pisa, who might be useful in case of dissection: — but he is some hundred miles off. My malady is a sort of lowish fever, originating from what my ‘pastor and master,’ Jackson, would call ‘taking too much out of one’s self.’ However, I am better within this day or two.

  “I missed seeing the new Patriarch’s procession to St. Mark’s the other day (owing to my indisposition), with six hundred and fifty priests in his rear — a ‘goodly army.’ The admirable government of Vienna, in its edict from thence, authorising his installation, prescribed, as part of the pageant, ‘a coach and four horses.’ To show how very, very ‘German to the matter’ this was, you have only to suppose our parliament commanding the Archbishop of Canterbury to proceed from Hyde Park Corner to St. Paul’s Cathedral in the Lord Mayor’s barge, or the Margate hoy. There is but St. Mark’s Place in all Venice broad enough for a carriage to move, and it is paved with large smooth flag-stones, so that the chariot and horses of Elijah himself would be puzzled to manoeuvre upon it. Those of Pharaoh might do better; for the canals — and particularly the Grand Canal — are sufficiently capacious and extensive for his whole host. Of course, no coach could be attempted; but the Venetians, who are very naïve as well as arch, were much amused with the ordinance.

  “The Armenian Grammar is published; but my Armenian studies are suspended for the present till my head aches a little less. I sent you the other day, in two covers, the first Act of ‘Manfred,’ a drama as mad as Nat. Lee’s Bedlam tragedy, which was in 25 acts and some odd scenes: — mine is but in Three Acts.

  “I find I have begun this letter at the wrong end: never mind; I must end it, then, at the right.

  “Yours ever very truly and obligedly,” &c.

  LETTER 265. TO MR. MURRAY.

  “Venice, March 9. 1817.

  “In remitting t
he third Act of the sort of dramatic poem of which you will by this time have received the two first (at least I hope so), which were sent within the last three weeks, I have little to observe, except that you must not publish it (if it ever is published) without giving me previous notice. I have really and truly no notion whether it is good or bad; and as this was not the case with the principal of my former publications, I am, therefore, inclined to rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Gifford, and to whomsoever you please besides. With regard to the question of copyright (if it ever comes to publication), I do not know whether you would think three hundred guineas an over-estimate; if you do, you may diminish it: I do not think it worth more; so you may see I make some difference between it and the others.

  “I have received your two Reviews (but not the ‘Tales of my Landlord’); the Quarterly I acknowledged particularly to you, on its arrival, ten days ago. What you tell me of Perry petrifies me; it is a rank imposition. In or about February or March, 1816, I was given to understand that Mr. Croker was not only a coadjutor in the attacks of the Courier in 1814, but the author of some lines tolerably ferocious, then recently published in a morning paper. Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of the lines I have forgotten, and even the purport of them I scarcely remember; for on your assuring me that he was not, &c. &c., I put them into the fire before your face, and there never was but that one rough copy. Mr. Davies, the only person who ever heard them read, wanted a copy, which I refused. If, however, by some impossibility, which I cannot divine, the ghost of these rhymes should walk into the world, I never will deny what I have really written, but hold myself personally responsible for satisfaction, though I reserve to myself the right of disavowing all or any fabrications. To the previous facts you are a witness, and best know how far my recapitulation is correct; and I request that you will inform Mr. Perry from me, that I wonder he should permit such an abuse of my name in his paper; I say an abuse, because my absence, at least, demands some respect, and my presence and positive sanction could alone justify him in such a proceeding, even were the lines mine; and if false, there are no words for him. I repeat to you that the original was burnt before you on your assurance, and there never was a copy, nor even a verbal repetition, — very much to the discomfort of some zealous Whigs, who bored me for them (having heard it bruited by Mr. Davies that there were such matters) to no purpose; for, having written them solely with the notion that Mr. Croker was the aggressor, and for my own and not party reprisals, I would not lend me to the zeal of any sect when I was made aware that he was not the writer of the offensive passages. You know, if there was such a thing, I would not deny it. I mentioned it openly at the time to you, and you will remember why and where I destroyed it; and no power nor wheedling on earth should have made, or could make, me (if I recollected them) give a copy after that, unless I was well assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of that which you assured me he was not.

  “I intend for England this spring, where I have some affairs to adjust; but the post hurries me. For this month past I have been unwell, but am getting better, and thinking of moving homewards towards May, without going to Rome, as the unhealthy season comes on soon, and I can return when I have settled the business I go upon, which need not be long. I should have thought the Assyrian tale very succeedable.

  “I saw, in Mr. W.W.’s poetry, that he had written my epitaph; I would rather have written his.

  “The thing I have sent you, you will see at a glimpse, could never be attempted or thought of for the stage; I much doubt it for publication even. It is too much in my old style; but I composed it actually with a horror of the stage, and with a view to render the thought of it impracticable, knowing the zeal of my friends that I should try that for which I have an invincible repugnance, viz. a representation.

  “I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must leave off; but what could I do? Without exertion of some kind, I should have sunk under my imagination and reality. My best respects to Mr. Gifford, to Walter Scott, and to all friends.

  “Yours ever.”

  LETTER 266. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Venice, March 10. 1817.

  “I wrote again to you lately, but I hope you won’t be sorry to have another epistle. I have been unwell this last month, with a kind of slow and low fever, which fixes upon me at night, and goes off in the morning; but, however, I am now better. In spring it is probable we may meet; at least I intend for England, where I have business, and hope to meet you in your restored health and additional laurels.

  “Murray has sent me the Quarterly and the Edinburgh. When I tell you that Walter Scott is the author of the article in the former, you will agree with me that such an article is still more honourable to him than to myself. I am perfectly pleased with Jeffrey’s also, which I wish you to tell him, with my remembrances — not that I suppose it is of any consequence to him, or ever could have been, whether I am pleased or not, but simply in my private relation to him, as his well-wisher, and it may be one day as his acquaintance. I wish you would also add, what you know, that I was not, and, indeed, am not even now, the misanthropical and gloomy gentleman he takes me for, but a facetious companion, well to do with those with whom I am intimate, and as loquacious and laughing as if I were a much cleverer fellow.

  “I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off my sables in public imagination, more particularly since my moral * * clove down my fame. However, nor that, nor more than that, has yet extinguished my spirit, which always rises with the rebound.

  “At Venice we are in Lent, and I have not lately moved out of doors, my feverishness requiring quiet, and — by way of being more quiet — here is the Signora Marianna just come in and seated at my elbow.

  “Have you seen * * *’s book of poesy? and, if you have seen it, are you not delighted with it? And have you — I really cannot go on: there is a pair of great black eyes looking over my shoulder, like the angel leaning over St. Matthew’s, in the old frontispieces to the Evangelists, — so that I must turn and answer them instead of you.

  “Ever,” &c.

  LETTER 267. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Venice, March 25. 1817.

  “I have at last learned, in default of your own writing (or not writing — which should it be? for I am not very clear as to the application of the word default) from Murray, two particulars of (or belonging to) you; one, that you are removing to Hornsey, which is, I presume, to be nearer London; and the other, that your Poem is announced by the name of Lalla Rookh. I am glad of it, — first, that we are to have it at last, and next, I like a tough title myself — witness The Giaour and Childe Harold, which choked half the Blues at starting. Besides, it is the tail of Alcibiades’s dog, — not that I suppose you want either dog or tail. Talking of tail, I wish you had not called it a ‘Persian Tale’ Say a ‘Poem’ or ‘Romance,’ but not ‘Tale.’ I am very sorry that I called some of my own things ‘Tales,’ because I think that they are something better. Besides, we have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turkish, and Assyrian Tales. But, after all, this is frivolous in me; you won’t, however, mind my nonsense.

  “Really and truly, I want you to make a great hit, if only out of self-love, because we happen to be old cronies; and I have no doubt you will — I am sure you can. But you are, I’ll be sworn, in a devil of a pucker; and I am not at your elbow, and Rogers is. I envy him; which is not fair, because he does not envy any body. Mind you send to me — that is, make Murray send — the moment you are forth.

  “I have been very ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half-delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headach, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see any physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place, which is annual, and visits strangers. Here follow some versicles, which I made one sleepless night.

  “I read the ‘Christabel;’ Very well: I read the ‘Missionary;’ Pretty — very: I tried at ‘Ilder
im;’ Ahem; I read a sheet of ‘Marg’ret of Anjou;’ Can you? I turn’d a page of * *’s ‘Waterloo;’ Pooh! pooh! I look’d at Wordsworth’s milk-white ‘Rylstone Doe:’ Hillo! &c. &c. &c.

  “I have not the least idea where I am going, nor what I am to do. I wished to have gone to Rome; but at present it is pestilent with English, — a parcel of staring boobies, who go about gaping and wishing to be at once cheap and magnificent. A man is a fool who travels now in France or Italy, till this tribe of wretches is swept home again. In two or three years the first rush will be over, and the Continent will be roomy and agreeable.

  “I stayed at Venice chiefly because it is not one of their ‘dens of thieves;’ and here they but pause and pass. In Switzerland it was really noxious. Luckily, I was early, and had got the prettiest place on all the Lake before they were quickened into motion with the rest of the reptiles. But they crossed me every where. I met a family of children and old women half-way up the Wengen Alp (by the Jungfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and others too young to be the least aware of what they saw.

  “By the way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that region of Alps, which I traversed in September — going to the very top of the Wengen, which is not the highest (the Jungfrau itself is inaccessible) but the best point of view — much finer than Mont-Blanc and Chamouni, or the Simplon I kept a journal of the whole for my sister Augusta, part of which she copied and let Murray see.

  “I wrote a sort of mad Drama, for the sake of introducing the Alpine scenery in description: and this I sent lately to Murray. Almost all the dram. pers. are spirits, ghosts, or magicians, and the scene is in the Alps and the other world, so you may suppose what a Bedlam tragedy it must be: make him show it you. I sent him all three acts piece-meal, by the post, and suppose they have arrived.