by Thomas Moore
The following is the passage, which Lord Byron, as I take for granted, showed to Mr. Hunt, and to which one of his letters to myself (February 20.) refers: —
“I am most anxious to know that you mean to emerge out of the Liberal. It grieves me to urge any thing so much against Hunt’s interest; but I should not hesitate to use the same language to himself, were I near him. I would, if I were you, serve him in every possible way but this — I would give him (if he would accept of it) the profits of the same works, published separately — but I would not mix myself up in this way with others. I would not become a partner in this sort of miscellaneous ‘pot au feu,’ where the bad flavour of one ingredient is sure to taint all the rest. I would be, if I were you, alone, single-handed, and, as such, invincible.”
While on the subject of Mr. Hunt, I shall avail myself of the opportunity it affords me of introducing some portions of a letter addressed to a friend of that gentleman by Lord Byron, in consequence of an appeal made to the feelings of the latter on the score of his professed “friendship” for Mr. Hunt. The avowals he here makes are, I own, startling, and must be taken with more than the usual allowance, not only for the particular mood of temper or spirits in which the letter was written, but for the influence also of such slight casual piques and resentments as might have been, just then, in their darkening transit through his mind, — indisposing him, for the moment, to those among his friends whom, in a sunnier mood, he would have proclaimed as his most chosen and dearest.
LETTER 509. TO MRS. —— .
“I presume that you, at least, know enough of me to be sure that I could have no intention to insult Hunt’s poverty. On the contrary, I honour him for it; for I know what it is, having been as much embarrassed as ever he was, without perceiving aught in it to diminish an honourable man’s self-respect. If you mean to say that, had he been a wealthy man, I would have joined in this Journal, I answer in the negative. * * * I engaged in the Journal from good-will towards him, added to respect for his character, literary and personal; and no less for his political courage, as well as regret for his present circumstances: I did this in the hope that he might, with the same aid from literary friends of literary contributions (which is requisite for all journals of a mixed nature), render himself independent.
“I have always treated him, in our personal intercourse, with such scrupulous delicacy, that I have forborne intruding advice which I thought might be disagreeable, lest he should impute it to what is called ‘taking advantage of a man’s situation.’
“As to friendship, it is a propensity in which my genius is very limited. I do not know the male human being, except Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom I feel any thing that deserves the name. All my others are men-of-the-world friendships. I did not even feel it for Shelley, however much I admired and esteemed him, so that you see not even vanity could bribe me into it, for, of all men, Shelley thought highest of my talents, — and, perhaps, of my disposition.
“I will do my duty by my intimates, upon the principle of doing as you would be done by. I have done so, I trust, in most instances. I may be pleased with their conversation — rejoice in their success — be glad to do them service, or to receive their counsel and assistance in return. But as for friends and friendship, I have (as I already said) named the only remaining male for whom I feel any thing of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas Moore. I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one’s partners in the waltz of this world — not much remembered when the ball is over, though very pleasant for the time. Habit, business, and companionship in pleasure or in pain, are links of a similar kind, and the same faith in politics is another.” * * *
LETTER 510. TO LADY —— .
“Genoa, March 28. 1823.
“Mr. Hill is here: I dined with him on Saturday before last; and on leaving his house at S. P. d’Arena, my carriage broke down. I walked home, about three miles, — no very great feat of pedestrianism; but either the coming out of hot rooms into a bleak wind chilled me, or the walking up-hill to Albaro heated me, or something or other set me wrong, and next day I had an inflammatory attack in the face, to which I have been subject this winter for the first time, and I suffered a good deal of pain, but no peril. My health is now much as usual. Mr. Hill is, I believe, occupied with his diplomacy. I shall give him your message when I see him again.
“My name, I see in the papers, has been dragged into the unhappy Portsmouth business, of which all that I know is very succinct. Mr. H —— is my solicitor. I found him so when I was ten years old — at my uncle’s death — and he was continued in the management of my legal business. He asked me, by a civil epistle, as an old acquaintance of his family, to be present at the marriage of Miss H —— . I went very reluctantly, one misty morning (for I had been up at two balls all night), to witness the ceremony, which I could not very well refuse without affronting a man who had never offended me. I saw nothing particular in the marriage. Of course I could not know the preliminaries, except from what he said, not having been present at the wooing, nor after it, for I walked home, and they went into the country as soon as they had promised and vowed. Out of this simple fact I hear the Debats de Paris has quoted Miss H. as ‘autrefois trés liée avec le célebre,’ &c. &c. I am obliged to him for the celebrity, but beg leave to decline the liaison, which is quite untrue; my liaison was with the father, in the unsentimental shape of long lawyers’ bills, through the medium of which I have had to pay him ten or twelve thousand pounds within these few years. She was not pretty, and I suspect that the indefatigable Mr. A —— was (like all her people) more attracted by her title than her charms. I regret very much that I was present at the prologue to the happy state of horse-whipping and black jobs, &c. &c.; but I could not foresee that a man was to turn out mad, who had gone about the world for fifty years, as competent to vote, and walk at large; nor did he seem to me more insane than any other person going to be married.
“I have no objection to be acquainted with the Marquis Palavicini, if he wishes it. Lately I have gone little into society, English or foreign, for I had seen all that was worth seeing in the former before I left England, and at the time of life when I was more disposed to like it; and of the latter I had a sufficiency in the first few years of my residence in Switzerland, chiefly at Madame de Staël’s, where I went sometimes, till I grew tired of conversazioni and carnivals, with their appendages; and the bore is, that if you go once, you are expected to be there daily, or rather nightly. I went the round of the most noted soirées at Venice or elsewhere (where I remained not any time) to the Benzona, and the Albrizzi, and the Michelli, &c. &c. and to the Cardinals and the various potentates of the Legation in Romagna, (that is, Ravenna,) and only receded for the sake of quiet when I came into Tuscany. Besides, if I go into society, I generally get, in the long run, into some scrape of some kind or other, which don’t occur in my solitude. However, I am pretty well settled now, by time and temper, which is so far lucky, as it prevents restlessness; but, as I said before, as an acquaintance of yours, I will be ready and willing to know your friends. He may be a sort of connection for aught I know; for a Palavicini, of Bologna, I believe, married a distant relative of mine half a century ago. I happen to know the fact, as he and his spouse had an annuity of five hundred pounds on my uncle’s property, which ceased at his demise; though I recollect hearing they attempted, naturally enough, to make it survive him. If I can do any thing for you here or elsewhere, pray order, and be obeyed.”
LETTER 511. TO MR. MOORE.
“Genoa, April 2. 1823.
“I have just seen some friends of yours, who paid me a visit yesterday, which, in honour of them and of you, I returned to-day; — as I reserve my bear-skin and teeth, and paws and claws, for our enemies.
“I have also seen Henry F —— , Lord H — — ‘s son, whom I had not looked upon since I left him a pretty, mild boy, without a neckcloth, in a jacket, and in delicate he
alth, seven long years agone, at the period of mine eclipse — the third, I believe, as I have generally one every two or three years. I think that he has the softest and most amiable expression of countenance I ever saw, and manners correspondent. If to those he can add hereditary talents, he will keep the name of F —— in all its freshness for half a century more, I hope. I speak from a transient glimpse — but I love still to yield to such impressions; for I have ever found that those I liked longest and best, I took to at first sight; and I always liked that boy — perhaps, in part, from some resemblance in the less fortunate part of our destinies — I mean, to avoid mistakes, his lameness. But there is this difference, that he appears a halting angel, who has tripped against a star; whilst I am Le Diable Boiteux, — a soubriquet, which I marvel that, amongst their various nominis umbræ, the Orthodox have not hit upon.
“Your other allies, whom I have found very agreeable personages, are Milor B —— and épouse, travelling with a very handsome companion, in the shape of a ‘French Count’ (to use Farquhar’s phrase in the Beaux Stratagem), who has all the air of a Cupidon déchainé, and is one of the few specimens I have seen of our ideal of a Frenchman before the Revolution — an old friend with a new face, upon whose like I never thought that we should look again. Miladi seems highly literary, — to which, and your honour’s acquaintance with the family, I attribute the pleasure of having seen them. She is also very pretty, even in a morning, — a species of beauty on which the sun of Italy does not shine so frequently as the chandelier. Certainly, English-women wear better than their continental neighbours of the same sex. M —— seems very good-natured, but is much tamed, since I recollect him in all the glory of gems and snuff-boxes, and uniforms, and theatricals, and speeches in our house— ‘I mean, of peers,’ — (I must refer you to Pope — who you don’t read and won’t appreciate — for that quotation, which you must allow to be poetical,) and sitting to Stroeling, the painter, (do you remember our visit, with Leckie, to the German?) to be depicted as one of the heroes of Agincourt, ‘with his long sword, saddle, bridle, Whack fal de, &c. &c.’
“I have been unwell — caught a cold and inflammation, which menaced a conflagration, after dining with our ambassador, Monsieur Hill, — not owing to the dinner, but my carriage broke down in the way home, and I had to walk some miles, up hill partly, after hot rooms, in a very bleak, windy evening, and over-hotted, or over-colded myself. I have not been so robustious as formerly, ever since the last summer, when I fell ill after a long swim in the Mediterranean, and have never been quite right up to this present writing. I am thin, — perhaps thinner than you saw me, when I was nearly transparent, in 1812, — and am obliged to be moderate of my mouth; which, nevertheless, won’t prevent me (the gods willing) from dining with your friends the day after to-morrow.
“They give me a very good account of you, and of your nearly ‘Emprisoned Angels.’ But why did you change your title? — you will regret this some day. The bigots are not to be conciliated; and, if they were — are they worth it? I suspect that I am a more orthodox Christian than you are; and, whenever I see a real Christian, either in practice or in theory, (for I never yet found the man who could produce either, when put to the proof,) I am his disciple. But, till then, I cannot truckle to tithe-mongers, — nor can I imagine what has made you circumcise your Seraphs.
“I have been far more persecuted than you, as you may judge by my present decadence, — for I take it that I am as low in popularity and book-selling as any writer can be. At least, so my friends assure me — blessings on their benevolence! This they attribute to Hunt; but they are wrong — it must be, partly at least, owing to myself; be it so. As to Hunt, I prefer not having turned him to starve in the streets to any personal honour which might have accrued from such genuine philanthropy. I really act upon principle in this matter, for we have nothing much in common; and I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do any thing further for himself, — at least, to the purpose. It is like pulling a man out of a river who directly throws himself in again. For the last three or four years Shelley assisted, and had once actually extricated him. I have since his demise, — and even before, — done what I could: but it is not in my power to make this permanent. I want Hunt to return to England, for which I would furnish him with the means in comfort; and his situation there, on the whole, is bettered, by the payment of a portion of his debts, &c.; and he would be on the spot to continue his Journal, or Journals, with his brother, who seems a sensible, plain, sturdy, and enduring person.” * *
The new intimacy of which he here announces the commencement, and which it was gratifying to me, as the common friend of all, to find that he had formed, was a source of much pleasure to him during the stay of his noble acquaintances at Genoa. So long, indeed, had he persuaded himself that his countrymen abroad all regarded him in no other light than as an outlaw or a show, that every new instance he met of friendly reception from them was as much a surprise as pleasure to him; and it was evident that to his mind the revival of English associations and habitudes always brought with it a sense of refreshment, like that of inhaling his native air.
With the view of inducing these friends to prolong their stay at Genoa, he suggested their taking a pretty villa called “Il Paradiso,” in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some intentions of residing there, he produced the following impromptu, which — but for the purpose of showing that he was not so “chary of his fame” as to fear failing in such trifles — I should have thought hardly worth transcribing.
“Beneath — — ‘s eyes
The reclaim’d Paradise
Should be free as the former from evil;
But, if the new Eve
For an apple should grieve,
What mortal would not play the devil?”
[Footnote 1: The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa (which was also, I believe, a Casa Saluzzo) had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said “Il Diavolo é ancora entrato in Paradise.”]
Another copy of verses addressed by him to the same lady, whose beauty and talent might well have claimed a warmer tribute from such a pen, is yet too interesting, as descriptive of the premature feeling of age now stealing upon him, to be omitted in these pages.
“TO THE COUNTESS OF B —— .
1.
“You have ask’d for a verse: — the request
In a rhymer ‘twere strange to deny,
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
2.
“Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.
3.
“I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.
4.
“My life is not dated by years —
There are moments which act as a plough,
And there is not a furrow appears
But is deep in my soul as my brow.
5.
“Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain.
“B.”
018The following letters written during the stay of this party at Genoa will be found, — some of them at least, — not a little curious.
LETTER 512. TO THE EARL OF B —— .
“April 5. 1823.
“My dear Lord,
“How is your gout? or rather, how are you? I return the Count — — ‘s Journal, which is a very extraordinary producti
on, and of a most melancholy truth in all that regards high life in England. I know, or knew personally, most of the personages and societies which he describes; and after reading his remarks, have the sensation fresh upon me as if I had seen them yesterday. I would however plead in behalf of some few exceptions, which I will mention by and by. The most singular thing is, how he should have penetrated not the fact, but the mystery of the English ennui, at two-and-twenty. I was about the same age when I made the same discovery, in almost precisely the same circles, — (for there is scarcely a person mentioned whom I did not see nightly or daily, and was acquainted more or less intimately with most of them,) — but I never could have described it so well. Il faut étre Français, to effect this.
[Footnote 1: In another letter to Lord B —— he says of this gentleman, “he seems to have all the qualities requisite to have figured in his brother-in-law’s ancestor’s Memoirs.”]
“But he ought also to have been in the country during the hunting season, with ‘a select party of distinguished guests,’ as the papers term it. He ought to have seen the gentlemen after dinner (on the hunting days), and the soiree ensuing thereupon, — and the women looking as if they had hunted, or rather been hunted; and I could have wished that he had been at a dinner in town, which I recollect at Lord C — — ‘s — small, but select, and composed of the most amusing people. The dessert was hardly on the table, when, out of twelve, I counted five asleep; of that five, there were Tierney, Lord —— , and Lord —— — I forget the other two, but they were either wits or orators — perhaps poets.