Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “January 8. 1821, Monday.

  “Rose, and found Count P.G. in my apartments. Sent away the servant. Told me that, according to the best information, the Government had not issued orders for the arrests apprehended; that the attack in Forli had not taken place (as expected) by the Sanfedisti — the opponents of the Carbonari or Liberals — and that, as yet, they are still in apprehension only. Asked me for some arms of a better sort, which I gave him. Settled that, in case of a row, the Liberals were to assemble here (with me), and that he had given the word to Vincenzo G. and others of the Chiefs for that purpose. He himself and father are going to the chase in the forest; but V.G. is to come to me, and an express to be sent off to him, P.G., if any thing occurs. Concerted operations. They are to seize — but no matter.

  “I advised them to attack in detail, and in different parties, in different places (though at the same time), so as to divide the attention of the troops, who, though few, yet being disciplined, would beat any body of people (not trained) in a regular fight — unless dispersed in small parties, and distracted with different assaults. Offered to let them assemble here, if they choose. It is a strongish post — narrow street, commanded from within — and tenable walls.

  “Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Murray, with corrections of Bacon’s Apophthegms and an epigram — the latter not for publication. At eight went to Teresa, Countess G. At nine and a half came in Il Conte P. and Count P.G. Talked of a certain proclamation lately issued. Count R.G. had been with * * (the * *), to sound him about the arrests. He, * *, is a trimmer, and deals, at present, his cards with both hands. If he don’t mind, they’ll be full. * * pretends (I doubt him — they don’t, — we shall see) that there is no such order, and seems staggered by the immense exertions of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of the Liberals here. The truth is, that * * cares for little but his place (which is a good one), and wishes to play pretty with both parties. He has changed his mind thirty times these last three moons, to my knowledge, for he corresponds with me. But he is not a bloody fellow — only an avaricious one.

  “It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia Languish says), there will be no elopement after all. I wish that I had known as much last night — or, rather, this morning — I should have gone to bed two hours earlier. And yet I ought not to complain; for, though it is a sirocco, and heavy rain, I have not yawned for these two days.

  “Came home — read History of Greece — before dinner had read Walter Scott’s Rob Roy. Wrote address to the letter in answer to Alessio del Pinto, who has thanked me for helping his brother (the late Commandant, murdered here last month) in his last moments. Have told him I only did a duty of humanity — as is true. The brother lives at Rome.

  “Mended the fire with some ‘sgobole’ (a Romagnuole word), and gave the falcon some water. Drank some Seltzer-water. Mem. — received to-day a print, or etching, of the story of Ugolino, by an Italian painter — different, of course, from Sir Joshua Reynolds’s, and I think (as far as recollection goes) no worse, for Reynolds’s is not good in history. Tore a button in my new coat.

  “I wonder what figure these Italians will make in a regular row. I sometimes think that, like the Irishman’s gun (somebody had sold him a crooked one), they will only do for ‘shooting round a corner;’ at least, this sort of shooting has been the late tenor of their exploits. And yet, there are materials in this people, and a noble energy, if well directed. But who is to direct them? No matter. Out of such times heroes spring. Difficulties are the hotbeds of high spirits, and Freedom the mother of the few virtues incident to human nature.

  “Tuesday, January 9. 1821.

  “Rose — the day fine. Ordered the horses; but Lega (my secretary, an Italianism for steward or chief servant) coming to tell me that the painter had finished the work in fresco, for the room he has been employed on lately, I went to see it before I set out. The painter has not copied badly the prints from Titian, &c. considering all things.

  “Dined. Read Johnson’s ‘Vanity of Human Wishes,’ — all the examples and mode of giving them sublime, as well as the latter part, with the exception of an occasional couplet. I do not so much admire the opening. I remember an observation of Sharpe’s, (the Conversationist, as he was called in London, and a very clever man,) that the first line of this poem was superfluous, and that Pope (the best of poets, I think) would have begun at once, only changing the punctuation —

  “‘Survey mankind from China to Peru.’

  The former line, ‘Let observation,’ &c. is certainly heavy and useless. But ’tis a grand poem — and so true! — true as the 10th of Juvenal himself. The lapse of ages changes all things — time — language — the earth — the bounds of the sea — the stars of the sky, and every thing ‘about, around, and underneath’ man, except man himself, who has always been, and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have multiplied little but existence. An extirpated disease is succeeded by some new pestilence; and a discovered world has brought little to the old one, except the p —— first and freedom afterwards — the latter a fine thing, particularly as they gave it to Europe in exchange for slavery. But it is doubtful whether ‘the Sovereigns’ would not think the first the best present of the two to their subjects.

  “At eight went out — heard some news. They say the King of Naples has declared, by couriers from Florence, to the Powers (as they call now those wretches with crowns) that his Constitution was compulsive, &c. &c. and that the Austrian barbarians are placed again on war pay, and will march. Let them— ‘they come like sacrifices in their trim,’ the hounds of hell! Let it still be a hope to see their bones piled like those of the human dogs at Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen.

  “Heard some music. At nine the usual visiters — news, war, or rumours of war. Consulted with P.G. &c. &c. They mean to insurrect here, and are to honour me with a call thereupon. I shall not fall back; though I don’t think them in force or heart sufficient to make much of it. But, onward! — it is now the time to act, and what signifies self, if a single spark of that which would be worthy of the past can be bequeathed unquenchedly to the future? It is not one man, nor a million, but the spirit of liberty which must be spread. The waves which dash upon the shore are, one by one, broken, but yet the ocean conquers, nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears the rock, and, if the Neptunians are to be believed, it has not only destroyed, but made a world. In like manner, whatever the sacrifice of individuals, the great cause will gather strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilise (for sea-weed is manure) what is cultivable. And so, the mere selfish calculation ought never to be made on such occasions; and, at present, it shall not be computed by me. I was never a good arithmetician of chances, and shall not commence now.

  “January 10. 1821.

  “Day fine — rained only in the morning. Looked over accounts. Read Campbell’s Poets — marked errors of Tom (the author) for correction. Dined — went out — music — Tyrolese air, with variations. Sustained the cause of the original simple air against the variations of the Italian school.

  “Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier daily. To-morrow being foreign post-day, probably something more will be known.

  “Came home — read. Corrected Tom Campbell’s slips of the pen. A good work, though — style affected — but his defence of Pope is glorious. To be sure, it is his own cause too, — but no matter, it is very good, and does him great credit.

  “Midnight.

  “I have been turning over different Lives of the Poets. I rarely read their works, unless an occasional flight over the classical ones, Pope, Dryden, Johnson, Gray, and those who approach them nearest (I leave the rant of the rest to the cant of the day), and — I had made several reflections, but I feel sleepy, and may as well go to bed.

  “January 11. 1821.

  “Read the letters. Corrected the tr
agedy and the ‘Hints from Horace.’ Dined, and got into better spirits. Went out — returned — finished letters, five in number. Read Poets, and an anecdote in Spence.

  “Alli. writes to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tuscany, and King of Sardinia, have also been called to Congress; but the Pope will only deal there by proxy. So the interests of millions are in the hands of about twenty coxcombs, at a place called Leibach!

  “I should almost regret that my own affairs went well, when those of nations are in peril. If the interests of mankind could be essentially bettered (particularly of these oppressed Italians), I should not so much mind my own ‘suma peculiar.’ God grant us all better times, or more philosophy!

  “In reading, I have just chanced upon an expression of Tom Campbell’s; — speaking of Collins, he says that no reader cares any more about the characteristic manners of his Eclogues than about the authenticity of the tale of Troy.’ ’Tis false — we do care about the authenticity of the tale of Troy. I have stood upon that plain daily, for more than a month in 1810; and if any thing diminished my pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had impugned its veracity. It is true I read ‘Homer Travestied’ (the first twelve books), because Hobhouse and others bored me with their learned localities, and I love quizzing. But I still venerated the grand original as the truth of history (in the material facts) and of place. Otherwise, it would have given me no delight. Who will persuade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did not contain a hero? — its very magnitude proved this. Men do not labour over the ignoble and petty dead — and why should not the dead be Homer’s dead? The secret of Tom Campbell’s defence of inaccuracy in costume and description is, that his Gertrude, &c. has no more locality in common with Pennsylvania than with Penmanmaur. It is notoriously full of grossly false scenery, as all Americans declare, though they praise parts of the poem. It is thus that self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting any thing which happens, even accidentally, to stumble upon it.

  “January 12. 1821.

  “The weather still so humid and impracticable, that London, in its most oppressive fogs, were a summer-bower to this mist and sirocco, which has now lasted (but with one day’s interval), chequered with snow or heavy rain only, since the 30th of December, 1820. It is so far lucky that I have a literary turn; — but it is very tiresome not to be able to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for so many days. The roads are even worse than the weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy soil, and the growth of the waters.

  “Read the Poets — English, that is to say — out of Campbell’s edition. There is a good deal of taffeta in some of Tom’s prefatory phrases, but his work is good as a whole. I like him best, though, in his own poetry.

  “Murray writes that they want to act the Tragedy of Marino Faliero — more fools they, it was written for the closet. I have protested against this piece of usurpation, (which, it seems, is legal for managers over any printed work, against the author’s will,) and I hope they will not attempt it. Why don’t they bring out some of the numberless aspirants for theatrical celebrity, now encumbering their shelves, instead of lugging me out of the library? I have written a fierce protest against any such attempt, but I still would hope that it will not be necessary, and that they will see, at once, that it is not intended for the stage. It is too regular — the time, twenty-four hours — the change of place not frequent — nothing melodramatic — no surprises, no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities ‘for tossing their heads and kicking their heels’ — and no love — the grand ingredient of a modern play.

  “I have found out the seal cut on Murray’s letter. It is meant for Walter Scott — or Sir Walter — he is the first poet knighted since Sir Richard Blackmore. But it does not do him justice. Scott’s — particularly when he recites — is a very intelligent countenance, and this seal says nothing.

  “Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. His novels are a new literature in themselves, and his poetry as good as any — if not better (only on an erroneous system) — and only ceased to be so popular, because the vulgar learned were tired of hearing ‘Aristides called the Just,’ and Scott the Best, and ostracised him.

  “I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the extreme pleasantness of his conversation, and his good-nature towards myself, personally. May he prosper! — for he deserves it. I know no reading to which I fall with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott’s. I shall give the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contesse G. this evening, who will be curious to have the effigies of a man so celebrated.

  “How strange are our thoughts, &c. &c. &c.

  “Midnight.

  “Read the Italian translation by Guido Sorelli of the German Grillparzer — a devil of a name, to be sure, for posterity; but they must learn to pronounce it. With all the allowance for a translation, and above all, an Italian translation (they are the very worst of translators, except from the Classics — Annibale Caro, for instance — and there, the bastardy of their language helps them, as, by way of looking legitimate, they ape their father’s tongue); — but with every allowance for such a disadvantage, the tragedy of Sappho is superb and sublime! There is no denying it. The man has done a great thing in writing that play. And who is he? I know him not; but ages will. ’Tis a high intellect.

  “I must premise, however, that I have read nothing of Adolph Müllner’s (the author of ‘Guilt’), and much less of Goethe, and Schiller, and Wieland, than I could wish. I only know them through the medium of English, French, and Italian translations. Of the real language I know absolutely nothing, — except oaths learnt from postilions and officers in a squabble. I can swear in German potently, when I like— ‘Sacrament — Verfluchter — Hundsfott’ — and so forth; but I have little of their less energetic conversation.

  “I like, however, their women, (I was once so desperately in love with a German woman, Constance,) and all that I have read, translated, of their writings, and all that I have seen on the Rhine of their country and people — all, except the Austrians, whom I abhor, loathe, and — I cannot find words for my hate of them, and should be sorry to find deeds correspondent to my hate; for I abhor cruelty more than I abhor the Austrians — except on an impulse, and then I am savage — but not deliberately so.

  “Grillparzer is grand — antique — not so simple as the ancients, but very simple for a modern — too Madame de Staëlish, now and then — but altogether a great and goodly writer.

  “January 13. 1821, Saturday.

  “Sketched the outline and Drams. Pers. of an intended tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for some time meditated. Took the names from Diodorus Siculus, (I know the history of Sardanapalus, and have known it since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in the ninth vol. octavo, of Mitford’s Greece, where he rather vindicates the memory of this last of the Assyrians.

  “Dined — news come — the Powers mean to war with the peoples. The intelligence seems positive — let it be so — they will be beaten in the end. The king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water, and tears like mist; but the peoples will conquer in the end. I shall not live to see it, but I foresee it.

  “I carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer’s Sappho, which she promises to read. She quarrelled with me, because I said that love was not the loftiest theme for true tragedy; and, having the advantage of her native language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put more love into ‘Sardanapalus’ than I intended. I speak, of course, if the times will allow me leisure. That if will hardly be a peace-maker.

  “January 14. 1821.

  “Turned over Seneca’s tragedies. Wrote the opening lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanapalus. Rode out some miles into the forest. Misty and rainy. Returned — dined — wrote some more of my tragedy.

  “Read Diodorus Siculus — turned over Seneca, and some other books. Wrote some more of the tragedy. Took a glass of gr
og. After having ridden hard in rainy weather, and scribbled, and scribbled again, the spirits (at least mine) need a little exhilaration, and I don’t like laudanum now as I used to do. So I have mixed a glass of strong waters and single waters, which I shall now proceed to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude this day’s diary.

  “The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is, however, strange. It settles, but it makes me gloomy — gloomy at the very moment of their effect, and not gay hardly ever. But it composes for a time, though sullenly.

  “January 15. 1821.

  “Weather fine. Received visit. Rode out into the forest — fired pistols. Returned home — dined — dipped into a volume of Mitford’s Greece — wrote part of a scene of ‘Sardanapalus.’ Went out — heard some music — heard some politics. More ministers from the other Italian powers gone to Congress. War seems certain — in that case, it will be a savage one. Talked over various important matters with one of the initiated. At ten and half returned home.

  “I have just thought of something odd. In the year 1814, Moore (‘the poet,’ par excellence, and he deserves it) and I were going together, in the same carriage, to dine with Earl Grey, the Capo Politico of the remaining Whigs. Murray, the magnificent (the illustrious publisher of that name), had just sent me a Java gazette — I know not why, or wherefore. Pulling it out, by way of curiosity, we found it to contain a dispute (the said Java gazette) on Moore’s merits and mine. I think, if I had been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of disputing on the subject. But, there is fame for you at six and twenty! Alexander had conquered India at the same age; but I doubt if he was disputed about, or his conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus, at Java.