Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Sic tu cæcus Amor, sic erit illa Venus.”

  Wilkes, with his ugliness, used to say that “he was but a quarter of an hour behind the handsomest man in England;” and this vaunt of his is said not to have been disproved by circumstances. Swift, when neither young, nor handsome, nor rich, nor even amiable, inspired the two most extraordinary passions upon record, Vanessa’s and Stella’s.

  “Vanessa, aged scarce a score,

  Sighs for a gown of forty-four.”

  He requited them bitterly; for he seems to have broken the heart of the one, and worn out that of the other; and he had his reward, for he died a solitary idiot in the hands of servants.

  For my own part, I am of the opinion of Pausanias. that success in love depends upon Fortune. “They particularly renounce Celestial Venus, into whose temple, &c. &c. &c. I remember, too, to have seen a building in Ægina in which there is a statue of Fortune, holding a horn of Amalthea; and near her there is a winged Love. The meaning of this is, that the success of men in love affairs depends more on the assistance of Fortune than the charms of beauty. I am persuaded, too, with Pindar (to whose opinion I submit in other particulars), that Fortune is one of the Fates, and that in a certain respect she is more powerful than her sisters.” — See Pausanias, Achaics, book vii. chap.26. p.. Taylor’s “Translation.”

  Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the different destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rousseau. The former writes a licentious novel, and a young English girl of some fortune and family (a Miss Strafford) runs away, and crosses the sea to marry him; while Rousseau, the most tender and passionate of lovers, is obliged to espouse his chambermaid. If I recollect rightly, this remark was also repeated in the Edinburgh Review of Grimm’s correspondence, seven or eight years ago.

  In regard “to the strange mixture of indecent, and sometimes profane levity, which his conduct and language often exhibited,” and which so much shocks Mr. Bowles, I object to the indefinite word “often;” and in extenuation of the occasional occurrence of such language it is to be recollected, that it was less the tone of Pope, than the tone of the time. With the exception of the correspondence of Pope and his friends, not many private letters of the period have come down to us; but those, such as they are — a few scattered scraps from Farquhar and others — are more indecent and coarse than any thing in Pope’s letters. The comedies of Congreve, Vanbrugh, Farquhar, Cibber, &c., which naturally attempted to represent the manners and conversation of private life, are decisive upon this point; as are also some of Steele’s papers, and even Addison’s. We all know what the conversation of Sir R. Walpole, for seventeen years the prime minister of the country, was at his own table, and his excuse for his licentious language, viz. “that every body understood that, but few could talk rationally upon less common topics.” The refinement of latter days, — which is perhaps the consequence of vice, which wishes to mask and soften itself, as much as of virtuous civilisation, — had not yet made sufficient progress. Even Johnson, in his “London,” has two or three passages which cannot be read aloud, and Addison’s “Drummer” some indelicate allusions.

  The expression of Mr. Bowles, “his consciousness of physical defect,” is not very clear. It may mean deformity or debility. If it alludes to Pope’s deformity, it has been attempted to be shown that this was no insuperable objection to his being beloved. If it alludes to debility, as a consequence of Pope’s peculiar conformation, I believe that it is a physical and known fact that hump-backed persons are of strong and vigorous passions. Several years ago, at Mr. Angelo’s fencing rooms, when I was a pupil of him and of Mr. Jackson, who had the use of his rooms in Albany on the alternate days, I recollect a gentleman named B — ll — gh — t, remarkable for his strength, and the fineness of his figure. His skill was not inferior, for he could stand up to the great Captain Barclay himself, with the muffles on; — a task neither easy nor agreeable to a pugilistic aspirant. As the by-standers were one day admiring his athletic proportions, he remarked to us, that he had five brothers as tall and strong as himself, and that their father and mother were both crooked, and of very small stature; — I think he said, neither of them five feet high. It would not be difficult to adduce similar instances; but I abstain, because the subject is hardly refined enough for this immaculate period, this moral millenium of expurgated editions in books, manners, and royal trials of divorce.

  This laudable delicacy — this crying-out elegance of the day — reminds me of a little circumstance which occurred when I was about eighteen years of age. There was then (and there may be still) a famous French “entremetteuse,” who assisted young gentlemen in their youthful pastimes. We had been acquainted for some time, when something occurred in her line of business more than ordinary, and the refusal was offered to me (and doubtless to many others), probably because I was in cash at the moment, having taken up a decent sum from the Jews, and not having spent much above half of it. The adventure on the tapis, it seems, required some caution and circumspection. Whether my venerable friend doubted my politeness I cannot tell; but she sent me a letter couched in such English as a short residence of sixteen years in England had enabled her to acquire. After several precepts and instructions, the letter closed. But there was a postscript. It contained these words:— “Remember, Milor, that delicaci ensure everi succés.” The delicacy of the day is exactly, in all its circumstances, like that of this respectable foreigner. “It ensures every succès,” and is not a whit more moral than, and not half so honourable as, the coarser candour of our less polished ancestors.

  To return to Mr. Bowles. “If what is here extracted can excite in the mind (I will not say of any ‘layman’, of any ‘Christian’, but) of any human being,” &c. &c. Is not Mr. Gilchrist a “human being?” Mr. Bowles asks “whether in attributing an article,” &c. &c, “to the critic, he had any reason for distinguishing him with that courtesy,” &c. &c. But Mr. Bowles was wrong in “attributing the article” to Mr. Gilchrist at all; and would not have been right in calling him a dunce and a grocer, if he had written it.

  Mr. Bowles is here “peremptorily called upon to speak of a circumstance which gives him the greatest pain, — the mention of a letter he received from the editor of ‘The London Magazine.’” Mr. Bowles seems to have embroiled himself on all sides; whether by editing, or replying, or attributing, or quoting, — it has been an awkward affair for him.

  Poor Scott is now no more. In the exercise of his vocation, he contrived at last to make himself the subject of a coroner’s inquest. But he died like a brave man, and he lived an able one. I knew him personally, though slightly. Although several years my senior, we had been schoolfellows together at the “grammar-schule” (or, as the Aberdonians pronounce it, “squeel”) of New Aberdeen. He did not behave to me quite handsomely in his capacity of editor a few years ago, but he was under no obligation to behave otherwise. The moment was too tempting for many friends and for all enemies. At a time when all my relations (save one) fell from me like leaves from the tree in autumn winds, and my few friends became still fewer, — when the whole periodical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not the literary press) was let loose against me in every shape of reproach, with the two strange exceptions (from their usual opposition) of “The Courier” and “The Examiner,” — the paper of which Scott had the direction was neither the last nor the least vituperative. Two years ago I met him at Venice, when he was bowed in griefs by the loss of his son, and had known, by experience, the bitterness of domestic privation. He was then earnest with me to return to England; and on my telling him, with a smile, that he was once of a different opinion, he replied to me, ‘that he and others had been greatly misled; and that some pains, and rather extraordinary means, had been taken to excite them.’ Scott is no more, but there are more than one living who were present at this dialogue. He was a man of very considerable talents, and of great acquirements. He had made his way, as a literary character, with high success, and in a few years. Poor fellow! I recollect his jo
y at some appointment which he had obtained, or was to obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, and which prevented the further extension (unless by a rapid run to Rome) of his travels in Italy. I little thought to what it would conduct him. Peace be with him! — and may all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity be as readily forgiven him, as the little injury which he had done to one who respected his talents, and regrets his loss.

  I pass over Mr. Bowles’s page of explanation, upon the correspondence between him and Mr. S —— . It is of little importance in regard to Pope, and contains merely a re-contradiction of a contradiction of Mr. Gilchrist’s. We now come to a point where Mr. Gilchrist has, certainly, rather exaggerated matters; and, of course, Mr. Bowles makes the most of it. Capital letters, like Kean’s name, “large upon the bills,” are made use of six or seven times to express his sense of the outrage. The charge is, indeed, very boldly made; but, like “Ranold of the Mist’s” practical joke of putting the bread and cheese into a dead man’s mouth, is, as Dugald Dalgetty says, “somewhat too wild and salvage, besides wasting the good victuals.”

  Mr. Gilchrist charges Mr. Bowles with “suggesting” that Pope “attempted” to commit “a rape” upon Lady M. Wortley Montague. There are two reasons why this could not be true. The first is, that like the chaste Letitia’s prevention of the intended ravishment by Fireblood (in Jonathan Wild), it might have been impeded by a timely compliance. The second is, that however this might be, Pope was probably the less robust of the two; and (if the Lines on Sappho were really intended for this lady) the asserted consequences of her acquiescence in his wishes would have been a sufficient punishment. The passage which Mr. Bowles quotes, however, insinuates nothing of the kind: it merely charges her with encouragement, and him with wishing to profit by it, — a slight attempt at seduction, and no more. The phrase is, “a step beyond decorum.” Any physical violence is so abhorrent to human nature, that it recoils in cold blood from the very idea. But, the seduction of a woman’s mind as well as person is not, perhaps, the least heinous sin of the two in morality. Dr. Johnson commends a gentleman who having seduced a girl who said, “I am afraid we have done wrong,” replied, “Yes, we have done wrong,”— “for I would not pervert her mind also.” Othello would not “kill Desdemona’s soul.” Mr. Bowles exculpates himself from Mr. Gilchrist’s charge; but it is by substituting another charge against Pope. “A step beyond decorum,” has a soft sound, but what does it express? In all these cases, “ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute.” Has not the Scripture something upon “the lusting after a woman” being no less criminal than the crime? “A step beyond decorum,” in short, any step beyond the instep, is a step from a precipice to the lady who permits it. For the gentleman who makes it it is also rather hazardous if he does not succeed, and still more so if he does.

  Mr. Bowles appeals to the “Christian reader!” upon this “Gilchristian criticism.” Is not this play upon such words “a step beyond decorum” in a clergyman? But I admit the temptation of a pun to be irresistible.

  But “a hasty pamphlet was published, in which some personalities respecting Mr. Gilchrist were suffered to appear.” If Mr. Bowles will write “hasty pamphlets,” why is he so surprised on receiving short answers? The grand grievance to which he perpetually returns is a charge of “hypochondriacism,” asserted or insinuated in the Quarterly. I cannot conceive a man in perfect health being much affected by such a charge, because his complexion and conduct must amply refute it. But were it true, to what does it amount? — to an impeachment of a liver complaint. “I will tell it to the world,” exclaimed the learned Smelfungus.— “You had better,” said I, “tell it to your physician.” There is nothing dishonourable in such a disorder, which is more peculiarly the malady of students. It has been the complaint of the good, and the wise, and the witty, and even of the gay. Regnard, the author of the last French comedy after Molière, was atrabilious; and Molière himself, saturnine. Dr. Johnson, Gray, and Burns, were all more or less affected by it occasionally. It was the prelude to the more awful malady of Collins, Cowper, Swift, and Smart; but it by no means follows that a partial affliction of this disorder is to terminate like theirs. But even were it so, —

  “Nor best, nor wisest, are exempt from thee;

  Folly — Folly’s only free.” PENROSE.

  If this be the criterion of exemption, Mr. Bowles’s last two pamphlets form a better certificate of sanity than a physician’s. Mendehlson and Bayle were at times so overcome with this depression, as to be obliged to recur to seeing “puppet-shows, and counting tiles upon the opposite houses,” to divert themselves. Dr. Johnson at times “would have given a limb to recover his spirits.” Mr. Bowles, who is (strange to say) fond of quoting Pope, may perhaps answer, —

  “Go on, obliging creatures, let me see

  All which disgrac’d my betters met in me.”

  But the charge, such as it is, neither disgraces them nor him. It is easily disproved if false; and even if proved true, has nothing in it to make a man so very indignant. Mr. Bowles himself appears to be a little ashamed of his “hasty pamphlet;” for he attempts to excuse it by the “great provocation;” that is to say, by Mr. Bowles’s supposing that Mr. Gilchrist was the writer of the article in the Quarterly, which he was not.

  “But, in extenuation, not only the great provocation should be remembered, but it ought to be said, that orders were sent to the London booksellers, that the most direct personal passages should be omitted entirely,” &c. This is what the proverb calls “breaking a head and giving a plaster;” but, in this instance, the plaster was not spread in time, and Mr. Gilchrist does not seem at present disposed to regard Mr. Bowles’s courtesies like the rust of the spear of Achilles, which had such “skill in surgery.”

  But “Mr. Gilchrist has no right to object, as the reader will see.” I am a reader, a “gentle reader,” and I see nothing of the kind. Were I in Mr. Gilchrist’s place, I should object exceedingly to being abused; firstly, for what I did write, and, secondly, for what I did not write; merely because it is Mr. Bowles’s will and pleasure to be as angry with me for having written in the London Magazine, as for not having written in the Quarterly Review.

  “Mr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge; for he has, in his answer, said so and so,” &c. &c. There is no great revenge in all this; and I presume that nobody either seeks or wishes it. What revenge? Mr. Bowles calls names, and he is answered. But Mr. Gilchrist and the Quarterly Reviewer are not poets, nor pretenders to poetry; therefore they can have no envy nor malice against Mr. Bowles: they have no acquaintance with Mr. Bowles, and can have no personal pique; they do not cross his path of life, nor he theirs. There is no political feud between them. What, then, can be the motive of their discussion of his deserts as an editor? — veneration for the genius of Pope, love for his memory, and regard for the classic glory of their country. Why would Mr. Bowles edite? Had he limited his honest endeavours to poetry, very little would have been said upon the subject, and nothing at all by his present antagonists.

  Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a “mud-cart,” and the writer a “scavenger.” Afterward he asks, “Shall he fling dirt and receive rose-water?” This metaphor, by the way, is taken from Marmontel’s Memoirs; who, lamenting to Chamfort the shedding of blood during the French revolution, was answered, “Do you think that revolutions are to be made with rose-water?”

  For my own part, I presume that “rose-water” would be infinitely more graceful in the hands of Mr. Bowles than the substance which he has substituted for that delicate liquid. It would also more confound his adversary, supposing him a “scavenger.” I remember, (and do you remember, reader, that it was in my earliest youth, “Consule Planco,”) — on the morning of the great battle, (the second) — between Gulley and Gregson, — Cribb, who was matched against Horton for the second fight, on the same memorable day, awaking me (a lodger at the inn in the next room) by a loud remonstrance to the waiter against the abomination of his towels, which had been laid i
n lavender. Cribb was a coal-heaver — and was much more discomfited by this odoriferous effeminacy of fine linen, than by his adversary Horton, whom, he “finished in style,” though with some reluctance; for I recollect that he said, “he disliked hurting him, he looked so pretty,” — Horton being a very fine fresh-coloured young man.

  To return to “rose-water” — that is, to gentle means of rebuke. Does Mr. Bowles know how to revenge himself upon a hackney-coachman, when he has overcharged his fare? In case he should not, I will tell him. It is of little use to call him “a rascal, a scoundrel, a thief, an impostor, a blackguard, a villain, a raggamuffin, a — what you please;” all that he is used to — it is his mother-tongue, and probably his mother’s. But look him steadily and quietly in the face, and say— “Upon my word, I think you are the ugliest fellow I ever saw in my life,” and he will instantly roll forth the brazen thunders of the charioteer Salmoneus as follows:— “Hugly! what the h — ll are you? You a gentleman! Why —— !” So much easier it is to provoke — and therefore to vindicate — (for passion punishes him who feels it more than those whom the passionate would excruciate) — by a few quiet words the aggressor, than by retorting violently. The “coals of fire” of the Scripture are benefits; — but they are not the less “coals of fire.”

  I pass over a page of quotation and reprobation— “Sin up to my song”— “Oh let my little bark”— “Arcades ambo”— “Writer in the Quarterly Review and himself”— “In-door avocations, indeed”— “King of Brentford”— “One nosegay”— “Perennial nosegay”— “Oh Juvenes,” — and the like.

  Page 12. produces “more reasons,” — (the task ought not to have been difficult, for as yet there were none)— “to show why Mr. Bowles attributed the critique in the Quarterly to Octavius Gilchrist.” All these “reasons” consist of surmises of Mr. Bowles, upon the presumed character of his opponent. “He did not suppose there could exist a man in the kingdom so impudent, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist.”— “He did not think there was a man in the kingdom who would pretend ignorance, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist.”— “He did not conceive that one man in the kingdom would utter such stupid flippancy, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist.”— “He did not think there was one man in the kingdom who, &c. &c. could so utterly show his ignorance, combined with conceit, &c. as Octavius Gilchrist.”— “He did not believe there was a man in the kingdom so perfect in Mr. Gilchrist’s ‘old lunes,’” &c. &c.— “He did not think the mean mind of any one in the kingdom,” &c. and so on; always beginning with “any one in the kingdom,” and ending with “Octavius Gilchrist,” like the word in a catch. I am not “in the kingdom,” and have not been much in the kingdom since I was one and twenty, (about five years in the whole, since I was of age,) and have no desire to be in the kingdom again, whilst I breathe, nor to sleep there afterwards; and I regret nothing more than having ever been “in the kingdom” at all. But though no longer a man “in the kingdom,” let me hope that when I have ceased to exist, it may be said, as was answered by the master of Clanronald’s henchman, his day after the battle of Sheriff-Muir, when he was found watching his chief’s body. He was asked, “who that was?” he replied— “it was a man yesterday.” And in this capacity, “in or out of the kingdom,” I must own that I participate in many of the objections urged by Mr. Gilchrist. I participate in his love of Pope, and in his not understanding, and occasionally finding fault with, the last editor of our last truly great poet.