"Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind,—I cannot deny such a precept is wise;But retirement accords with the tone of my mind,And I will not descend to a world I despise."Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth;And, when infancy's years of probation expire,Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth."The fire, in the cavern of Ætna concealed,Still mantles unseen, in its secret recess;—At length, in a volume terrific revealed,No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress."Oh thus, the desire in my bosom for fameBids me live but to hope for Posterity's praise;Could I soar, with the Phoenix, on pinions of flame,With him I would wish to expire in the blaze."For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave?Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath,—Their glory illumines the gloom of the grave!"
"Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind,—I cannot deny such a precept is wise;But retirement accords with the tone of my mind,And I will not descend to a world I despise.
"Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth;And, when infancy's years of probation expire,Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
"The fire, in the cavern of Ætna concealed,Still mantles unseen, in its secret recess;—At length, in a volume terrific revealed,No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
"Oh thus, the desire in my bosom for fameBids me live but to hope for Posterity's praise;Could I soar, with the Phoenix, on pinions of flame,With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
"For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave?Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath,—Their glory illumines the gloom of the grave!"
In his hours of rising and retiring to rest he was, like his mother, always very late; and this habit he never altered during the remainder of his life. The night, too, was at this period, as it continued afterwards, his favourite time for composition; and his first visit in the morning was generally paid to the fair friend who acted as his amanuensis, and to whom he then gave whatever new products of his brain the preceding night might have inspired. His next visit was usually to his friend Mr. Becher's, and from thence to one or two other houses on the Green, after which the rest of the day was devoted to his favourite exercises. The evenings he usually passed with the same family, among whom he began his morning, either in conversation, or in hearing Miss Pigot play upon the piano-forte, and singing over with her a certain set of songs which he admired,[59]—among which the "Maid of Lodi," (with the words, "My heart with love is beating,") and "When Time who steals our years away," were, it seems, his particular favourites. He appears, indeed, to have, even thus early, shown a decided taste for that sort of regular routine of life,—bringing round the same occupations at the stated periods,—which formed so much the system ofhis existence during the greater part of his residence abroad.
Those exercises, to which he flew for distraction in less happy days, formed his enjoyment now; and between swimming, sparring, firing at a mark, and riding,[60]the greater part of his time was passed. In the last of these accomplishments he was by no means very expert. As an instance of his little knowledge of horses, it is told, that, seeing a pair one day pass his window, he exclaimed, "What beautiful horses! I should like to buy them."—"Why, they are your own, my Lord," said his servant. Those who knew him, indeed, at that period, were rather surprised, in after-life, to hear so much of his riding;—and the truth is, I am inclined to think, that he was at no time a very adroit horse-man.
In swimming and diving we have already seen, by his own accounts, he excelled; and a lady in Southwell, among other precious relics of him, possesses a thimble which he borrowed of her one morning, when on his way to bathe in the Greet, and which, as was testified by her brother, who accompanied him, he brought up three times successively from the bottom of the river. His practice of firing at a mark was the occasion, once, of some alarm to avery beautiful young person, Miss H.,—one of that numerous list of fair ones by whom his imagination was dazzled while at Southwell. A poem relating to this occurrence, which may be found in his unpublished volume, is thus introduced:—"As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies, passing near the spot, were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them, to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning."
Such a passion, indeed, had he for arms of every description, that there generally lay a small sword by the side of his bed, with which he used to amuse himself, as he lay awake in the morning, by thrusting it through his bed-hangings. The person who purchased this bed at the sale of Mrs. Byron's furniture, on her removal to Newstead, gave out—with the view of attaching a stronger interest to the holes in the curtains—that they were pierced by the same sword with which the old lord had killed Mr. Chaworth, and which his descendant always kept as a memorial by his bedside. Such is the ready process by which fiction is often engrafted upon fact;—the sword in question being a most innocent and bloodless weapon, which Lord Byron, during his visits at Southwell, used to borrow of one of his neighbours.
His fondness for dogs—another fancy which accompanied him through life—may be judged from the anecdotes already given, in the account of his expedition to Harrowgate. Of his favourite dog Boatswain, whom he has immortalised in verse, andby whose side it was once his solemn purpose to be buried, some traits are told, indicative, not only of intelligence, but of a generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the affections of such a master as Byron. One of these I shall endeavour to relate as nearly as possible as it was told to me. Mrs. Byron had a fox-terrier, called Gilpin, with whom her son's dog, Boatswain, was perpetually at war,[61]taking every opportunity of attacking and worrying him so violently, that it was very much apprehended he would kill the animal. Mrs. Byron therefore sent off her terrier to a tenant at Newstead; and on the departure of Lord Byron for Cambridge, his "friend" Boatswain, with two other dogs, was intrusted to the care of a servant till his return. One morning the servant was much alarmed by the disappearance of Boatswain, and throughout the whole of the day he could hear no tidings of him. At last, towards evening, the stray dog arrived, accompanied by Gilpin, whom he led immediately to the kitchen fire, licking him and lavishing upon him every possible demonstration of joy. The fact was, he had been all the way to Newstead to fetch him; and having now established his former foe under the roof once more, agreed so perfectly well with him ever after, that he even protected him against theinsults of other dogs (a task which the quarrelsomeness of the little terrier rendered no sinecure), and, if he but heard Gilpin's voice in distress, would fly instantly to his rescue.
In addition to the natural tendency to superstition, which is usually found connected with the poetical temperament, Lord Byron had also the example and influence of his mother, acting upon him from infancy, to give his mind this tinge. Her implicit belief in the wonders of second sight, and the strange tales she told of this mysterious faculty, used to astonish not a little her sober English friends; and it will be seen, that, at so late a period as the death of his friend Shelley, the idea of fetches and forewarnings impressed upon him by his mother had not wholly lost possession of the poet's mind. As an instance of a more playful sort of superstition I may be allowed to mention a slight circumstance told me of him by one of his Southwell friends. This lady had a large agate bead with a wire through it, which had been taken out of a barrow, and lay always in her work-box. Lord Byron asking one day what it was, she told him that it had been given her as an amulet, and the charm was, that as long as she had this bead in her possession, she should never be in love. "Then give it to me," he cried, eagerly, "for that's just the thing I want." The young lady refused;—but it was not long before the bead disappeared. She taxed him with the theft, and he owned it; but said, she never should see her amulet again.
Of his charity and kind-heartedness he left behindhim at Southwell—as, indeed, at every place, throughout life, where he resided any time—the most cordial recollections. "He never," says a person, who knew him intimately at this period, "met with objects of distress without affording them succour." Among many little traits of this nature, which his friends delight to tell, I select the following,—less as a proof of his generosity, than from the interest which the simple incident itself, as connected with the name of Byron, presents. While yet a school-boy, he happened to be in a bookseller's shop at Southwell, when a poor woman came in to purchase a Bible. The price, she was told by the shopman, was eight shillings. "Ah, dear sir," she exclaimed, "I cannot pay such a price; I did not think it would cost half the money." The woman was then, with a look of disappointment, going away,—when young Byron called her back, and made her a present of the Bible.
In his attention to his person and dress, to the becoming arrangement of his hair, and to whatever might best show off the beauty with which nature had gifted him, he manifested, even thus early, his anxiety to make himself pleasing to that sex who were, from first to last, the ruling stars of his destiny. The fear of becoming, what he was naturally inclined to be, enormously fat, had induced him, from his first entrance at Cambridge, to adopt, for the purpose of reducing himself, a system of violent exercise and abstinence, together with the frequent use of warm baths. But the embittering circumstance of his life,—that, which haunted him like a curse, amidst thebuoyancy of youth, and the anticipations of fame and pleasure, was, strange to say, the trifling deformity of his foot. By that one slight blemish (as in his moments of melancholy he persuaded himself) all the blessings that nature had showered upon him were counterbalanced. His reverend friend, Mr. Becher, finding him one day unusually dejected, endeavoured to cheer and rouse him, by representing, in their brightest colours, all the various advantages with which Providence had endowed him,—and, among the greatest, that of "a mind which placed him above the rest of mankind."—"Ah, my dear friend," said Byron, mournfully,—"if this (laying his hand on his forehead) places me above the rest of mankind, that (pointing to his foot) places me far, far below them."
It sometimes, indeed, seemed as if his sensitiveness on this point led him to fancy that he was the only person in the world afflicted with such an infirmity. When that accomplished scholar and traveller, Mr. D. Baillie, who was at the same school with him at Aberdeen, met him afterwards at Cambridge, the young peer had then grown so fat that, though accosted by him familiarly as his school-fellow, it was not till he mentioned his name that Mr. Baillie could recognise him. "It is odd enough, too, that you shouldn't know me," said Byron—"I thought nature had set such a mark upon me, that I could never be forgot."
But, while this defect was such a source of mortification to his spirit, it was also, and in an equal degree, perhaps, a stimulus:—and more especiallyin whatever depended upon personal prowess or attractiveness, he seemed to feel himself piqued by this stigma, which nature, as he thought, had set upon him, to distinguish himself above those whom she had endowed with her more "fair proportion." In pursuits of gallantry he was, I have no doubt, a good deal actuated by this incentive; and the hope of astonishing the world, at some future period, as a chieftain and hero, mingled little less with his young dreams than the prospect of a poet's glory. "I will, some day or other," he used to say, when a boy, "raise a troop,—the men of which shall be dressed in black, and ride on black horses. They shall be called 'Byron's Blacks,' and you will hear of their performing prodigies of valour."
I have already adverted to the exceeding eagerness with which, while at Harrow, he devoured all sorts of learning,—excepting only that which, by the regimen of the school, was prescribed for him. The same rapid and multifarious course of study he pursued during the holidays; and, in order to deduct as little as possible from his hours of exercise, he had given himself the habit, while at home, of reading all dinner-time.[62]In a mind so versatile as his, every novelty, whether serious or light, whether lofty or ludicrous, found a welcome and an echo; and I can easily conceive the glee—as a friend of his once described it to me—with which he brought to her, one evening, a copy of Mother Goose's Tales,which he had bought from a hawker that morning, and read, for the first time, while he dined.
I shall now give, from a memorandum-book begun by him this year, the account, as I find it hastily and promiscuously scribbled out, of all the books in various departments of knowledge, which he had already perused at a period of life when few of his school-fellows had yet travelled beyond theirlongsandshorts. The list is, unquestionably, a remarkable one;—and when we recollect that the reader of all these volumes was, at the same time, the possessor of a most retentive memory, it may be doubted whether, among what are called the regularly educated, the contenders for scholastic honours and prizes, there could be found a single one who, at the same age, has possessed any thing like the same stock of useful knowledge.
"LIST OF HISTORICAL WRITERS WHOSE WORKS IHAVE PERUSED IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES.""History of England.—Hume, Rapin, Henry, Smollet, Tindal, Belsham, Bisset, Adolphus, Holinshed, Froissart's Chronicles (belonging properly to France)."Scotland.—Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in the Latin."Ireland.—Gordon."Rome.—Hooke, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, Ancient History by Rollin (including an account of the Carthaginians, &c.), besides Livy, Tacitus, Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, Julius Cæsar, Arrian. Sallust."Greece.—Mitford's Greece, Leland's Philip, Plutarch, Potter's Antiquities, Xenophon, Thucydides, Herodotus."France.—Mezeray, Voltaire."Spain.—I chiefly derived my knowledge of old Spanish History from a book called the Atlas, now obsolete. The modern history, from the intrigues of Alberoni down to the Prince of Peace, I learned from its connection with European politics."Portugal.—From Vertot; as also his account of the Siege of Rhodes,—though the last is his own invention, the real facts being totally different.—So much for his Knights of Malta."Turkey.—I have read Knolles, Sir Paul Rycaut, and Prince Cantemir, besides a more modern history, anonymous. Of the Ottoman History I know every event, from Tangralopi, and afterwards Othman I., to the peace of Passarowitz, in 1718,—the battle of Cutzka, in 1739, and the treaty between Russia and Turkey in 1790."Russia.—Tooke's Life of Catherine II., Voltaire's Czar Peter."Sweden.—Voltaire's Charles XII., also Norberg's Charles XII.—in my opinion the best of the two.—A translation of Schiller's Thirty Years' War, which contains the exploits of Gustavus Adolphus, besides Harte's Life of the same Prince. I have somewhere, too, read an account of Gustavus Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, but do not remember the author's name."Prussia.—I have seen, at least, twenty Lives of Frederick II., the only prince worth recording inPrussian annals. Gillies, his own Works, and Thiebault,—none very amusing. The last is paltry, but circumstantial."Denmark—I know little of. Of Norway I understand the natural history, but not the chronological."Germany.—I have read long histories of the house of Suabia, Wenceslaus, and, at length, Rodolph of Hapsburgh and histhick-lippedAustrian descendants."Switzerland.—Ah! William Tell, and the battle of Morgarten, where Burgundy was slain."Italy.—Davila, Guicciardini, the Guelphs and Ghibellines, the battle of Pavia, Massaniello, the revolutions of Naples, &c. &c."Hindostan—Orme and Cambridge."America.—Robertson, Andrews' American War."Africa—merely from travels, as Mungo Park, Bruce."BIOGRAPHY."Robertson's Charles V.—Cæsar, Sallust (Catiline and Jugurtha), Lives of Marlborough and Eugene, Tekeli, Bonnard, Buonaparte, all the British Poets, both by Johnson and Anderson, Rousseau's Confessions, Life of Cromwell, British Plutarch, British Nepos, Campbell's Lives of the Admirals, Charles XII., Czar Peter, Catherine II., Henry Lord Kaimes, Marmontel, Teignmouth's Sir William Jones, Life of Newton, Belisaire, with thousands not to be detailed."LAW."Blackstone, Montesquieu."PHILOSOPHY."Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley, Drummond, Beattie, and Bolingbroke. Hobbes I detest."GEOGRAPHY."Strabo, Cellarius, Adams, Pinkerton, and Guthrie."POETRY."All the British Classics as before detailed, with most of the living poets, Scott, Southey, &c.—Some French, in the original, of which the Cid is my favourite.—Little Italian.—Greek and Latin without number;—these last I shall give up in future.—I have translated a good deal from both languages, verse as well as prose."ELOQUENCE."Demosthenes, Cicero, Quintilian, Sheridan, Austin's Chironomia, and Parliamentary Debates from the Revolution to the year 1742."DIVINITY."Blair, Porteus, Tillotson, Hooker,—all very tiresome. I abhor books of religion, though I reverence and love my God, without the blasphemous notions of sectaries, or belief in their absurd and damnable heresies, mysteries, and Thirty-nine Articles."MISCELLANIES."Spectator, Rambler, World, &c. &c.—Novels by the thousand."All the books here enumerated I have taken down from memory. I recollect reading them, and can quote passages from any mentioned. I have, of course, omitted several in my catalogue; but the greater part of the above I perused before the ageof fifteen. Since I left Harrow, I have become idle and conceited, from scribbling rhyme and making love to women. B.—Nov. 30. 1807.
"LIST OF HISTORICAL WRITERS WHOSE WORKS IHAVE PERUSED IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES."
"History of England.—Hume, Rapin, Henry, Smollet, Tindal, Belsham, Bisset, Adolphus, Holinshed, Froissart's Chronicles (belonging properly to France).
"Scotland.—Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in the Latin.
"Ireland.—Gordon.
"Rome.—Hooke, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, Ancient History by Rollin (including an account of the Carthaginians, &c.), besides Livy, Tacitus, Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, Julius Cæsar, Arrian. Sallust.
"Greece.—Mitford's Greece, Leland's Philip, Plutarch, Potter's Antiquities, Xenophon, Thucydides, Herodotus.
"France.—Mezeray, Voltaire.
"Spain.—I chiefly derived my knowledge of old Spanish History from a book called the Atlas, now obsolete. The modern history, from the intrigues of Alberoni down to the Prince of Peace, I learned from its connection with European politics.
"Portugal.—From Vertot; as also his account of the Siege of Rhodes,—though the last is his own invention, the real facts being totally different.—So much for his Knights of Malta.
"Turkey.—I have read Knolles, Sir Paul Rycaut, and Prince Cantemir, besides a more modern history, anonymous. Of the Ottoman History I know every event, from Tangralopi, and afterwards Othman I., to the peace of Passarowitz, in 1718,—the battle of Cutzka, in 1739, and the treaty between Russia and Turkey in 1790.
"Russia.—Tooke's Life of Catherine II., Voltaire's Czar Peter.
"Sweden.—Voltaire's Charles XII., also Norberg's Charles XII.—in my opinion the best of the two.—A translation of Schiller's Thirty Years' War, which contains the exploits of Gustavus Adolphus, besides Harte's Life of the same Prince. I have somewhere, too, read an account of Gustavus Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, but do not remember the author's name.
"Prussia.—I have seen, at least, twenty Lives of Frederick II., the only prince worth recording inPrussian annals. Gillies, his own Works, and Thiebault,—none very amusing. The last is paltry, but circumstantial.
"Denmark—I know little of. Of Norway I understand the natural history, but not the chronological.
"Germany.—I have read long histories of the house of Suabia, Wenceslaus, and, at length, Rodolph of Hapsburgh and histhick-lippedAustrian descendants.
"Switzerland.—Ah! William Tell, and the battle of Morgarten, where Burgundy was slain.
"Italy.—Davila, Guicciardini, the Guelphs and Ghibellines, the battle of Pavia, Massaniello, the revolutions of Naples, &c. &c.
"Hindostan—Orme and Cambridge.
"America.—Robertson, Andrews' American War.
"Africa—merely from travels, as Mungo Park, Bruce.
"BIOGRAPHY.
"Robertson's Charles V.—Cæsar, Sallust (Catiline and Jugurtha), Lives of Marlborough and Eugene, Tekeli, Bonnard, Buonaparte, all the British Poets, both by Johnson and Anderson, Rousseau's Confessions, Life of Cromwell, British Plutarch, British Nepos, Campbell's Lives of the Admirals, Charles XII., Czar Peter, Catherine II., Henry Lord Kaimes, Marmontel, Teignmouth's Sir William Jones, Life of Newton, Belisaire, with thousands not to be detailed.
"LAW.
"Blackstone, Montesquieu.
"PHILOSOPHY.
"Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley, Drummond, Beattie, and Bolingbroke. Hobbes I detest.
"GEOGRAPHY.
"Strabo, Cellarius, Adams, Pinkerton, and Guthrie.
"POETRY.
"All the British Classics as before detailed, with most of the living poets, Scott, Southey, &c.—Some French, in the original, of which the Cid is my favourite.—Little Italian.—Greek and Latin without number;—these last I shall give up in future.—I have translated a good deal from both languages, verse as well as prose.
"ELOQUENCE.
"Demosthenes, Cicero, Quintilian, Sheridan, Austin's Chironomia, and Parliamentary Debates from the Revolution to the year 1742.
"DIVINITY.
"Blair, Porteus, Tillotson, Hooker,—all very tiresome. I abhor books of religion, though I reverence and love my God, without the blasphemous notions of sectaries, or belief in their absurd and damnable heresies, mysteries, and Thirty-nine Articles.
"MISCELLANIES.
"Spectator, Rambler, World, &c. &c.—Novels by the thousand.
"All the books here enumerated I have taken down from memory. I recollect reading them, and can quote passages from any mentioned. I have, of course, omitted several in my catalogue; but the greater part of the above I perused before the ageof fifteen. Since I left Harrow, I have become idle and conceited, from scribbling rhyme and making love to women. B.—Nov. 30. 1807.
"I have also read (to my regret at present) above four thousand novels, including the works of Cervantes, Fielding, Smollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, Sterne, Rabelais, and Rousseau, &c. &c. The book, in my opinion, most useful to a man who wishes to acquire the reputation of being well read, with the least trouble, is "Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy," the most amusing and instructive medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever perused. But a superficial reader must take care, or his intricacies will bewilder him. If, however, he has patience to go through his volumes, he will be more improved for literary conversation than by the perusal of any twenty other works with which I am acquainted,—at least, in the English language."
To this early and extensive study of English writers may be attributed that mastery over the resources of his own language with which Lord Byron came furnished into the field of literature, and which enabled him, as fast as his youthful fancies sprung up, to clothe them with a diction worthy of their strength and beauty. In general, the difficulty of young writers, at their commencement, lies far less in any lack of thoughts or images, than in that want of a fitting organ to give those conceptions vent, to which their unacquaintance with the great instrument of the man of genius, his native language, dooms them. It will be found, indeed, that the threemost remarkable examples of early authorship, which, in their respective lines, the history of literature affords—Pope, Congreve, and Chatterton—were all of them persons self-educated,[63]according to their own intellectual wants and tastes, and left, undistracted by the worse than useless pedantries of the schools, to seek, in the pure "well of English undefiled," those treasures of which they accordingly so very early and intimately possessed themselves.[64]To these three instances may now be added, virtually, that of Lord Byron, who, though a disciple of the schools, was, intellectually speaking,inthem, notofthem, and who, while his comrades were prying curiously into the graves of dead languages, betook himself to the fresh, living sources of his own,[65]andfrom thence drew those rich, varied stores of diction, which have placed his works, from the age of two-and-twenty upwards, among the most precious depositories of the strength and sweetness of the English language that our whole literature supplies.
In the same book that contains the above record of his studies, he has written out, also from memory, a "List of the different poets, dramatic or otherwise, who have distinguished their respective languages by their productions." After enumerating the various poets, both ancient and modern, of Europe, he thus proceeds with his catalogue through other quarters of the world:—
"Arabia.—Mahomet, whose Koran contains most sublime poetical passages, far surpassing European poetry."Persia.—Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, the Persian Iliad—Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal Hafiz, the oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced beyond any bard of ancient or modern times by the Persians, who resort to his tomb near Shiraz, to celebrate his memory. A splendid copy of his works is chained to his monument."America.—An epic poet has already appeared in that hemisphere, Barlow, author of the Columbiad,—not to be compared with the works of more polished nations."Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for their Skalds. Among these Lodburgh was one ofthe most distinguished. His Death Song breathes ferocious sentiments, but a glorious and impassioned strain of poetry."Hindostanis undistinguished by any great bard,—at least the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to Europeans, we know not what poetical relics may exist."The Birman Empire.—Here the natives are passionately fond of poetry, but their bards are unknown."China.—I never heard of any Chinese poet but the Emperor Kien Long, and his ode toTea. What a pity their philosopher Confucius did not write poetry, with his precepts of morality!"Africa.—In Africa some of the native melodies are plaintive, and the words simple and affecting; but whether their rude strains of nature can be classed with poetry, as the songs of the bards, the Skalds of Europe, &c. &c., I know not."This brief list of poets I have written down from memory, without any book of reference; consequently some errors may occur, but I think, if any, very trivial. The works of the European, and some of the Asiatic, I have perused, either in the original or translations. In my list of English, I have merely mentioned the greatest;—to enumerate the minor poets would be useless, as well as tedious. Perhaps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have been added, as worthy of mention, in acosmopoliteaccount. But as for the others, from Chaucer down to Churchill, they are 'voces et præterea nihil;'—sometimes spoken of, rarely read, and never withadvantage. Chaucer, notwithstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene and contemptible:—he owes his celebrity merely to his antiquity, which he does not deserve so well as Pierce Plowman, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living poets I have avoided mentioning;—we have none who will not survive their productions. Taste is over with us; and another century will sweep our empire, our literature, and our name, from all but a place in the annals of mankind."November 30. 1807.Byron."
"Arabia.—Mahomet, whose Koran contains most sublime poetical passages, far surpassing European poetry.
"Persia.—Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, the Persian Iliad—Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal Hafiz, the oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced beyond any bard of ancient or modern times by the Persians, who resort to his tomb near Shiraz, to celebrate his memory. A splendid copy of his works is chained to his monument.
"America.—An epic poet has already appeared in that hemisphere, Barlow, author of the Columbiad,—not to be compared with the works of more polished nations.
"Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for their Skalds. Among these Lodburgh was one ofthe most distinguished. His Death Song breathes ferocious sentiments, but a glorious and impassioned strain of poetry.
"Hindostanis undistinguished by any great bard,—at least the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to Europeans, we know not what poetical relics may exist.
"The Birman Empire.—Here the natives are passionately fond of poetry, but their bards are unknown.
"China.—I never heard of any Chinese poet but the Emperor Kien Long, and his ode toTea. What a pity their philosopher Confucius did not write poetry, with his precepts of morality!
"Africa.—In Africa some of the native melodies are plaintive, and the words simple and affecting; but whether their rude strains of nature can be classed with poetry, as the songs of the bards, the Skalds of Europe, &c. &c., I know not.
"This brief list of poets I have written down from memory, without any book of reference; consequently some errors may occur, but I think, if any, very trivial. The works of the European, and some of the Asiatic, I have perused, either in the original or translations. In my list of English, I have merely mentioned the greatest;—to enumerate the minor poets would be useless, as well as tedious. Perhaps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have been added, as worthy of mention, in acosmopoliteaccount. But as for the others, from Chaucer down to Churchill, they are 'voces et præterea nihil;'—sometimes spoken of, rarely read, and never withadvantage. Chaucer, notwithstanding the praises bestowed on him, I think obscene and contemptible:—he owes his celebrity merely to his antiquity, which he does not deserve so well as Pierce Plowman, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living poets I have avoided mentioning;—we have none who will not survive their productions. Taste is over with us; and another century will sweep our empire, our literature, and our name, from all but a place in the annals of mankind.
"November 30. 1807.
Byron."
Among the papers of his in my possession are several detached poems (in all nearly six hundred lines), which he wrote about this period, but never printed—having produced most of them after the publication of his "Hours of Idleness." The greater number of these have little, besides his name, to recommend them; but there are a few that, from the feelings and circumstances that gave rise to them, will, I have no doubt, be interesting to the reader. When he first went to Newstead, on his arrival from Aberdeen, he planted, it seems, a young oak in some part of the grounds, and had an idea that as it flourished so should he. Some six or seven years after, on revisiting the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed. In this circumstance, which happened soon after Lord Grey de Ruthen left Newstead, originated one of these poems, which consists of five stanzas, but of which the few opening lines will be a sufficient specimen:—
"Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground,I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine."Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years,On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride;They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,—Thy decay, not the weeds that surround thee can hide."I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire," &c. &c.
"Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground,I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.
"Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years,On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride;They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,—Thy decay, not the weeds that surround thee can hide.
"I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire," &c. &c.
The subject of the verses that follow is sufficiently explained by the notice which he has prefixed to them; and, as illustrative of the romantic and almost lovelike feeling which he threw into his school friendships, they appeared to me, though rather quaint and elaborate, to be worth preserving.
"Some years ago, when at H——, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left H——. On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas:—
"Here once engaged the stranger's viewYoung Friendship's record simply traced;Few were her words,—but yet though few,Resentment's hand the line defaced."Deeply she cut—but, not erased,The characters were still so plain,That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,—Till Memory hail'd the words again."Repentance placed them as before;Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;So fair the inscription seem'd once moreThat Friendship thought it still the same."Thus might the record now have been;But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,And blotted out the line for ever!"
"Here once engaged the stranger's viewYoung Friendship's record simply traced;Few were her words,—but yet though few,Resentment's hand the line defaced.
"Deeply she cut—but, not erased,The characters were still so plain,That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,—Till Memory hail'd the words again.
"Repentance placed them as before;Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;So fair the inscription seem'd once moreThat Friendship thought it still the same.
"Thus might the record now have been;But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,And blotted out the line for ever!"
The same romantic feeling of friendship breathes throughout another of these poems, in which he has taken for the subject the ingenious thought "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," and concludes every stanza with the words, "Friendship is Love without his wings." Of the nine stanzas of which this poem consists, the three following appear the most worthy of selection:—
"Why should my anxious breast repine,Because my youth is fled?Days of delight may still be mine,Affection isnotdead.In tracing back the years of youth,One firm record, one lasting truthCelestial consolation brings;Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,Where first my heart responsive beat,—'Friendship is Love without his wings!'"Seat of my youth! thy distant spireRecalls each scene of joy;My bosom glows with former fire,—In mind again a boy.Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,Thy every path delights me still,Each flower a double fragrance flings;Again, as once, in converse gay,Each dear associate seems to say,'Friendship is Love without his wings!'"My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep?Thy falling tears restrain;Affection for a time may sleep,But, oh, 'twill wake again.Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,Our long-wish'd intercourse, how sweet!From this my hope of rapture springs,While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,Absence, my friend, can only tell,'Friendship is Love without his wings!'"
"Why should my anxious breast repine,Because my youth is fled?Days of delight may still be mine,Affection isnotdead.In tracing back the years of youth,One firm record, one lasting truthCelestial consolation brings;Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,Where first my heart responsive beat,—'Friendship is Love without his wings!'
"Seat of my youth! thy distant spireRecalls each scene of joy;My bosom glows with former fire,—In mind again a boy.Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,Thy every path delights me still,Each flower a double fragrance flings;Again, as once, in converse gay,Each dear associate seems to say,'Friendship is Love without his wings!'
"My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep?Thy falling tears restrain;Affection for a time may sleep,But, oh, 'twill wake again.Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,Our long-wish'd intercourse, how sweet!From this my hope of rapture springs,While youthful hearts thus fondly swell,Absence, my friend, can only tell,'Friendship is Love without his wings!'"
Whether the verses I am now about to give are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as he was of recording every particular of his youth, such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him;—and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it.[66]On the other hand, so entirely was all that hewrote,—making allowance for the embellishments of fancy,—the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone.
"TO MY SON!"Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,Bright as thy mother's in their hue;Those rosy lips, whose dimples playAnd smile to steal the heart away,Recall a scene of former joy,And touch thy Father's heart, my Boy!"And thou canst lisp a father's name—Ah, William, were thine own the same,No self-reproach—but, let me cease—My care for thee shall purchase peace;Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,And pardon all the past, my Boy!"Her lowly grave the turf has prest,And thou hast known a stranger's breast.Derision sneers upon thy birth,And yields thee scarce a name on earth;Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!"Why, let the world unfeeling frown,Must I fond Nature's claim disown?Ah, no—though moralists reprove,I hail thee, dearest child of love,Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!"Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace,Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,Ere half my glass of life is run,At once a brother and a son;And all my wane of years employIn justice done to thee, my Boy!"Although so young thy heedless sire,Youth will not damp parental fire;And, wert thou still less dear to me,While Helen's form revives in thee,The breast, which beat to former joy,Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!"B——, 1807."[67]
"TO MY SON!
"Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,Bright as thy mother's in their hue;Those rosy lips, whose dimples playAnd smile to steal the heart away,Recall a scene of former joy,And touch thy Father's heart, my Boy!
"And thou canst lisp a father's name—Ah, William, were thine own the same,No self-reproach—but, let me cease—My care for thee shall purchase peace;Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,And pardon all the past, my Boy!
"Her lowly grave the turf has prest,And thou hast known a stranger's breast.Derision sneers upon thy birth,And yields thee scarce a name on earth;Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
"Why, let the world unfeeling frown,Must I fond Nature's claim disown?Ah, no—though moralists reprove,I hail thee, dearest child of love,Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
"Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace,Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,Ere half my glass of life is run,At once a brother and a son;And all my wane of years employIn justice done to thee, my Boy!
"Although so young thy heedless sire,Youth will not damp parental fire;And, wert thou still less dear to me,While Helen's form revives in thee,The breast, which beat to former joy,Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
"B——, 1807."[67]
But the most remarkable of these poems is one of a date prior to any I have given, being written in December, 1806, when he was not yet nineteen years old. It contains, as will be seen, his religious creed at that period, and shows how early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind.
"THE PRAYER OF NATURE."Father of Light! great God of Heaven!Hear'st thou the accents of despair?Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?Father of Light, on thee I call!Thou see'st my soul is dark within;Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,Avert from me the death of sin.No shrine I seek, to sects unknown,Oh point to me the path of truth!Thy dread omnipotence I own,Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,Let superstition hail the pile,Let priests, to spread their sable reign,With tales of mystic rites beguile.Shall man confine his Maker's swayTo Gothic domes of mouldering stone?Thy temple is the face of day;Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne.Shall man condemn his race to hellUnless they bend in pompous form;Tell us that all, for one who fell,Must perish in the mingling storm?Shall each pretend to reach the skies,Yet doom his brother to expire,Whose soul a different hope supplies,Or doctrines less severe inspire?Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground,Their great Creator's purpose know?Shall those who live for self alone,Whose years float on in daily crime—Shall they by Faith for guilt atone,And live beyond the bounds of Time?Father! no prophet's laws I seek,—Thylaws in Nature's works appear;—I own myself corrupt and weak,Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear!Thou, who canst guide the wandering starThrough trackless realms of Æther's space;Who calm'st the elemental war,Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence,Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,Extend to me thy wide defence.To Thee, my God, to Thee I call!Whatever weal or woe betide,By thy command I rise or fall,In thy protection I confide.If, when this dust to dust restored,My soul shall float on airy wing,How shall thy glorious name adored,Inspire her feeble voice to sing!But, if this fleeting spirit shareWith clay the grave's eternal bed,While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer,Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.To Thee I breathe my humble strain,Grateful for all thy mercies past,And hope, my God, to thee againThis erring life may fly at last."29th Dec. 1806.Byron."
"THE PRAYER OF NATURE.
"Father of Light! great God of Heaven!Hear'st thou the accents of despair?Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?Father of Light, on thee I call!Thou see'st my soul is dark within;Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,Avert from me the death of sin.No shrine I seek, to sects unknown,Oh point to me the path of truth!Thy dread omnipotence I own,Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,Let superstition hail the pile,Let priests, to spread their sable reign,With tales of mystic rites beguile.Shall man confine his Maker's swayTo Gothic domes of mouldering stone?Thy temple is the face of day;Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne.Shall man condemn his race to hellUnless they bend in pompous form;Tell us that all, for one who fell,Must perish in the mingling storm?Shall each pretend to reach the skies,Yet doom his brother to expire,Whose soul a different hope supplies,Or doctrines less severe inspire?Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground,Their great Creator's purpose know?Shall those who live for self alone,Whose years float on in daily crime—Shall they by Faith for guilt atone,And live beyond the bounds of Time?Father! no prophet's laws I seek,—Thylaws in Nature's works appear;—I own myself corrupt and weak,Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear!Thou, who canst guide the wandering starThrough trackless realms of Æther's space;Who calm'st the elemental war,Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence,Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,Extend to me thy wide defence.To Thee, my God, to Thee I call!Whatever weal or woe betide,By thy command I rise or fall,In thy protection I confide.If, when this dust to dust restored,My soul shall float on airy wing,How shall thy glorious name adored,Inspire her feeble voice to sing!But, if this fleeting spirit shareWith clay the grave's eternal bed,While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer,Though doom'd no more to quit the dead.To Thee I breathe my humble strain,Grateful for all thy mercies past,And hope, my God, to thee againThis erring life may fly at last.
"29th Dec. 1806.Byron."
In another of these poems, which extends to about a hundred lines, and which he wrote under the melancholy impression that he should soon die, we find him concluding with a prayer in somewhat the same spirit. After bidding adieu to all the favourite scenes of his youth,[68]he thus continues,—
"Forget this world, my restless sprite,Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heav'n:There must thou soon direct thy night,If errors are forgiven.To bigots and to sects unknown.Bow down beneath the Almighty's throne;—To him address thy trembling prayer;He, who is merciful and just,Will not reject a child of dust,Although his meanest care.Father of Light, to thee I call,My soul is dark within;Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall,Avert the death of sin.Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,Who calm'st the elemental war,Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;And, since I soon must cease to live,Instruct me how to die.
"Forget this world, my restless sprite,Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heav'n:There must thou soon direct thy night,If errors are forgiven.To bigots and to sects unknown.Bow down beneath the Almighty's throne;—To him address thy trembling prayer;He, who is merciful and just,Will not reject a child of dust,Although his meanest care.Father of Light, to thee I call,My soul is dark within;Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall,Avert the death of sin.Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,Who calm'st the elemental war,Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;And, since I soon must cease to live,Instruct me how to die.
1807."
We have seen, by a former letter, that the law proceedings for the recovery of his Rochdale property had been attended with success in some trial of the case at Lancaster. The following note to one of his Southwell friends, announcing a second triumph of the cause, shows how sanguinely and, as it turned out, erroneously, he calculated on the results.
"Feb. 9. 1807.
Dear ——,
"I have the pleasure to inform you we have gained the Rochdale cause a second time, by which I am, £60,000 plus. Yours ever,
"Byron."
In the month of April we find him still at Southwell, and addressing to his friend, Dr. Pigot, who was at Edinburgh, the following note[69]:—
"Southwell, April, 1807.
"My dear Pigot,
"Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your first examination—'Courage, mon ami.' The title of Doctor will do wonders with the damsels. I shall most probably be in Essex or London when you arrive at this d——d place, where I am detained by the publication of my rhymes.
"Adieu.—Believe me yours very truly,
"Byron.
"P.S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 14 stone 6 lb. to 12 stone 7 lb. In all I have lost 27 pounds. Bravo!—what say you?"
His movements and occupations for the remainder of this year will be best collected from a series of his own letters, which I am enabled, by the kindness of the lady to whom they were addressed, to give. Though these letters are boyishly[70]written, and a good deal of their pleasantry is of that conventional kind which depends more upon phrase than thought, they will yet, I think, be found curious and interesting, not only as enabling us to track him through this period of his life, but as throwing light upon various little traits of character, and laying open tous the first working of his hopes and fears while waiting, in suspense, the opinions that were to decide, as he thought, his future fame. The first of the series, which is without date, appears to have been written before he had left Southwell. The other letters, it will be seen, are dated from Cambridge and from London.
Letter12.
TO MISS ——.
"June 11. 1807.
"Dear Queen Bess,
"Savageought to beimmortal:—though not athorough-bred bull-dog, he is the finest puppy I eversaw, and will answer much better; in his great and manifold kindness he has already bitten my fingers, and disturbed thegravityof old Boatswain, who isgrievously discomposed. I wish to be informed what hecosts, hisexpenses, &c. &c., that I may indemnify Mr. G——. My thanks areallI can give for the trouble he has taken, make along speech, and conclude it with 1 2 3 4 5 6 7.[71]I am out of practice, sodeputizeyou as legate,—ambassadorwould not do in a matter concerning thePope, which I presume this must, as thewholeturns upon aBull.
"Yours,
"Byron.
"P.S. I write in bed."
Letter13.
TO MISS ——.
"Cambridge, June 30. 1807.
"'Better late than never, Pal,'" is a saying of which you know the origin, and as it is applicable on the present occasion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front of my epistle. I am almost superannuated here. My old friends (with the exception of a very few) all departed, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till Monday to be present at threeOratorios, twoConcerts, aFair, and a Ball. I find I am not onlythinnerbuttallerby an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell every body myname, nobody having the least recollection of myvisage, or person. Even the hero ofmy Cornelian(who is now sittingvis-à-vis, reading a volume of myPoetics) passed me in Trinity walks without recognising me in the least, and was thunderstruck at the alteration which had taken place in my countenance, &c. &c. Some say I lookbetter, othersworse, but all agree I amthinner—more I do not require. I have lost two pounds in my weight since I left yourcursed,detestable, andabhorredabode ofscandal,[72]where, excepting yourself and John Becher,I care not if the whole race were consigned to thePit of Acheron, which I would visit in person rather than contaminate mysandalswith the polluted dust of Southwell.Seriously, unless obliged by theemptinessof my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more.
"On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge with little regret, because oursetarevanished, and mymusical protégébefore mentioned has left the choir, and is stationed in a mercantile house of considerable eminence in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he is exactly to an hour two years younger than myself. I found him grown considerably, and, as you will suppose, very glad to see his formerPatron. He is nearly my height, verythin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know;—I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every body here conceives me to be aninvalid. The University at present is very gay from the fêtes of divers kinds. I supped out last night, but eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a bottle of claret, went to bed at two, and rose at eight. I have commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. The Masters and the Fellows all verypolite, but look a littleaskance—don't much admirelampoons—truth always disagreeable.
"Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of yourMenageriegoon, and if my publication goesoffwell: do the quadrupedsgrowl? Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased—'Flesh both of cur and man is grass.' Address your answer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be forwarded. Sad news just arrived—Russians beat—a bad set, eat nothing butoil, consequently must melt before ahard fire. I get awkward in my academic habiliments for want of practice. Got up in a window to hear the oratorio at St. Mary's, popped down in the middle of theMessiah, tore awoefulrent in the back of my best black silk gown, and damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem.—never tumbled from a church window during service. Adieu, dear ——! do not remember me to any body:—toforgetand be forgotten by the people of Southwell is all I aspire to."
Letter14.
TO MISS ——.
"Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5. 1807.
"Since my last letter I have determined to resideanother yearat Granta, as my rooms, &c. &c. are finished in great style, several old friends come up again, and many new acquaintances made; consequently my inclination leads me forward, and I shall return to college in October if stillalive. My life here has been one continued routine of dissipation—out at different places every day, engaged to more dinners, &c. &c. than mystaywould permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in myheadandtearsin myeyes; for I have just parted with my 'Cornelian,' who spent the eveningwith me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my engagement to devote the hours of theSabbathto friendship:—Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for London: you will address your answer to 'Gordon's Hotel, Albemarle Street,' where Isojournduring my visit to the metropolis.
"I rejoice to hear you are interested in myprotégé; he has been myalmost constantassociate since October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. Hisvoicefirst attracted my attention, hiscountenancefixed it, and hismannersattached me to him for ever. He departs for amercantile houseintownin October, and we shall probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall leave to his decision either entering as apartnerthrough my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his present frame of mind prefer thelatter, but he may alter his opinion previous to that period;—however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time nor distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. In short, we shall putLady E. ButlerandMiss Ponsonbyto the blush,PyladesandOrestesout of countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe likeNisusandEuryalus, to giveJonathanandDavidthe 'go by.'He certainly is perhaps more attached tomethan even I am in return. During the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and winter, without passingonetiresome moment, and separated each time with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see us together, he is the only being I esteem, though Ilikemany.[73]
"The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other day; I supped with him at his tutor's—entirely a Whig party. The opposition muster strong here now, and Lord Hartington, the Duke of Leinster, &c. &c. are to join us in October, so every thing will besplendid. Themusicis all over at present. Met with another 'accidency'—upset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady—look'd veryblue—spectatorsgrinned—'curse 'em!' Apropos, sorry to say, beendrunkevery day, and not quitesoberyet—however, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegetables, consequently it does me no harm—sad dogs all theCantabs. Mem.—we meanto reform next January. This place is amonotony of endless variety—like it—hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold well? or do the ancients demur? What ladies have bought?
"Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne ——, thought it was her—all in the wrong—the lady stared, so did I—Iblushed, so didnotthe lady,—sad thing—wish women hadmore modesty. Talking of women, puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny—how is she? Got a headache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. Myprotégébreakfasts with me; parting spoils my appetite—excepting from Southwell. Mem.I hate Southwell.
Yours, &c."
Letter15.
TO MISS ——.
"Gordon's Hotel, July 13, 1807.
"You write most excellent epistles—a fig for other correspondents, with their nonsensical apologies for'knowing nought about it,'—you send me a delightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of dissipation (very pleasant for all that), and, strange to tell, I get thinner, being now below eleven stone considerably. Stay in town amonth, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a favour,irradiateSouthwell for three days with the light of my countenance; but nothing shall ever make meresidethere again. I positively return to Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, or in truth I shouldcutthe University. An extraordinary circumstance occurred to me at Cambridge; a girl so very like —— made her appearance, that nothing but the mostminute inspectioncould have undeceived me. I wish I had asked ifshehad ever been at H——.
"What the devil would Ridge have? is not fifty in a fortnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient sale? I hear many of the London booksellers have them, and Crosby has sent copies to the principal watering places. Are they liked or not in Southwell?... I wish Boatswain hadswallowedDamon! How is Bran? by the immortal gods, Bran ought to be aCountof theHoly Roman Empire.
"The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to you, who have rusticated all your life—the annals of routs, riots, balls and boxing-matches, cards and crim. cons., parliamentary discussion, political details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle Street Institution and aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brookes's and Buonaparte, opera-singers andoratorios, wine, women, wax-work, and weather-cocks, can't accord with yourinsulatedideas of decorum and othersilly expressionsnot inserted inour vocabulary.
"Oh! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left thee, and how I curse the heavy hours I dragged along, for so many months, among the Mohawks who inhabit your kraals!—However, one thing I do not regret, which is havingpared offa sufficient quantity of flesh to enable me to slip into 'an eel skin,' and vie with theslimbeaux of modern times; though I am sorry to say, it seems to be the mode amongstgentlemento growfat, and I am told I am at least fourteen pound below the fashion. However, Idecreaseinstead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, asviolentexercise in London is impracticable; but I attribute the phenomenon to ourevening squeezesat public and private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning (the 14th, my letter was begun yesterday): he says the poems go on as well as can be wished; the seventy-five sent to town are circulated, and a demand for fifty more complied with, the day he dated his epistle, though the advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu.
"P.S. Lord Carlisle, on receiving my poems, sent, before he opened the book, a tolerably handsome letter:—I have not heard from him since. His opinions I neither know nor care about: if he is the least insolent, I shall enrol him withButler[74]and the other worthies. He is in Yorkshire, poor man! and very ill! He said he had not had time to read the contents, but thought it necessary to acknowledge the receipt of the volume immediately. Perhaps the Earl 'bears no brother near the throne,'—if so, I will make hissceptretotterin his hands.—Adieu!"
Letter16.
TO MISS ——.
"August 2. 1807.
"London begins to disgorge its contents—town is empty—consequently I can scribble at leisure, as occupations are less numerous. In a fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but expect two epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does not proceed rapidly in Notts—very possible. In town things wear a more promising aspect, and a man whose works are praised byreviewers, admired byduchesses, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not dedicate much consideration torustic readers. I have now a review before me, entitled 'Literary Recreations,' where myhardshipis applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but thinkhima very discerning gentleman, andmyselfa devilishcleverfellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just to give anagreeablerelishto the praise. You know I hate insipid, unqualified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the 13th Number of 'Literary Recreations' for the last month. I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the article—it is printed in a periodical publication—and though I have written a paper (a review of Wordsworth),[75]which appears in the same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it—even the editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he would introduce myPoeticalLordship to herHighness, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly, in common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claimher relationship with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an excursion for some days afterwards, and as the Duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction till the winter, when I shall favour the lady,whose taste I shall not dispute, with my most sublime and edifying conversation. She is now in the Highlands, and Alexander took his departure, a few days ago, for the sameblessedseat of'dark rolling winds.'
"Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for athird—at least so he says. In every bookseller's window I see myown name, andsay nothing, but enjoy my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more; and 'A Friend to the Cause of Literature' begs I willgratifythepublicwith some new work 'at no very distant period.' Who would not be a bard?—that is to say, if all critics would be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I doubt not, for thisgentleencouragement. If so, have at 'em? By the by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after two in the morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily got Hutton's account. I shall extend the poem to eight or ten books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be published or not must depend on circumstances. So much foregotism! Mylaurelshave turned my brain, but thecooling acidsof forthcoming criticisms will probably restore me tomodesty.
"Southwell is a damned place—I have donewith it—at least in all probability: excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts. You were my onlyrationalcompanion; and in plain truth, I had more respect for you than the wholebevy, with whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousanddollswould have done. Believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature inthis circle of sin, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince my gratitude. Adieu,
yours, &c.
"P.S. Remember me to Dr. P."
Letter17.
TO MISS ——.
"London, August 11, 1807.
"On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands.[76]A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in atandem(a species of open carriage) through the western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchaseshelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible tovehicular conveyances. On the coast we shall hire a vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides; and, if we have time and favourable weather,mean to sail as far as Iceland, only 300 miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to peep atHecla. This last intention you will keep a secret, as my nicemammawould imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the accustomedmaternal warwhoop.
"Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth through the two bridges, Westminster and Blackfriars, a distance, including the different turns and tacks made on the way, of three miles! You see I am in excellent training in case of asquallat sea. I mean to collect all the Erse traditions, poems, &c. &c., and translate, or expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring under the denomination of'The Highland Harp,' or some title equallypicturesque. Of Bosworth Field, one book is finished, another just began. It will be a work of three or four years, and most probably never conclude. What would you say to some stanzas on Mount Hecla? they would be written at least withfire. How is the immortal Bran? and the Phoenix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain? I have lately purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the coadjutor of the aforesaid celestials—his name isSmut!—'Bear it, ye breezes, on yourbalmywings.'
"Write to me before I set off, I conjure you, by the fifth rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with the books—I thought that worthy had not done much in the country. In town they have been very successful; Carpenter (Moore's publisher) told me a few days ago they sold all theirs immediately, and had several enquiries made since, which, from the books being gone, they could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness of Headfort, the Duchess of Gordon, &c. &c., were among the purchasers; and Crosby says, the circulation will be still more extensive in the winter, the summer season being very bad for a sale, as most people are absent from London. However, they have gone off extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on my journey through Newark, but cannot approach. Don't tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes I travel a different road. If you have a letter, order it to be left at Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, Newark, about six or eight in the evening. If your brother would ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him—he can return the same night, or sup with us and go home the next morning—the Kingston Arms is my inn.
"Adieu, yours ever,
"Byron."
Letter18.
TO MISS ——.
"Trinity College, Cambridge, October 26. 1807.
"My dear Elizabeth,
"Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning for the last two days at hazard,[77]I take up mypen to enquire how your highness and the rest of my female acquaintance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I know I deserve a scolding for my negligence in not writing more frequently; but racing up and down the country for these last three months, how was it possible to fulfil the duties of a correspondent? Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, asthinas ever (not having gained an ounce since my reduction), and rather in better humour;—but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence. Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it: I have been twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on myself tosuffocatein its heavy atmosphere. This place is wretched enough—a villanous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothing but hazard and burgundy, hunting, mathematics, and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of Southwell. Oh! the misery of doing nothing but make love, enemies, andverses.
"Next January, (but this isentre nous only, and pray let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be throwing her tomahawk at any of my curious projects,) I am going toseafor four or five months, with my cousin Capt. Bettesworth, who commands the Tartar, the finest frigate in the navy. I have seenmost scenes, and wish to look at a naval life. We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or—to the d——l; and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four and twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself.
"I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, atame bear. When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, 'he shouldsit for a fellowship.' Sherard will explain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This answer delighted them not. We have several parties here, and this evening a large assortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with me,—a precious mixture, but they go on well together; and for me, I am aspiceof every thing except a jockey; by the by, I was dismounted again the other day.
Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I have written 214 pages of a novel,—one poem of 380 lines,[78]to be published (without my name) in a few weeks, with notes,—560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to bepublished is a Satire.Apropos, I have been praised to the skies in the Critical Review,[79]and abused greatly in another publication.[80]So much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book: it keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, nor do the humblest escape;—so I bear it like a philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse, my censor only quotestwo linesfrom different poems, in support of his opinion. Now, the proper way tocut up, is to quote long passages, and make them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of praise, and more thanmy modestywill allow, said on the subject. Adieu.
"P.S. Write, write, write!!!"
It was at the beginning of the following year that an acquaintance commenced between Lord Byron and a gentleman, related to his family by marriage,Mr. Dallas,—the author of some novels, popular, I believe, in their day, and also of a sort of Memoir of the noble Poet, published soon after his death, which, from being founded chiefly on original correspondence, is the most authentic and trust-worthy of any that have yet appeared. In the letters addressed by Lord Byron to this gentleman, among many details, curious in a literary point of view, we find, what is much more important for our present purpose, some particulars illustrative of the opinions which he had formed, at this time of his life, on the two subjects most connected with the early formation of character—morals and religion.
It is but rarely that infidelity or scepticism finds an entrance into youthful minds. That readiness to take the future upon trust, which is the charm of this period of life, would naturally, indeed, make it the season of belief as well as of hope. There are also then, still fresh in the mind, the impressions of early religious culture, which, even in those who begin soonest to question their faith, give way but slowly to the encroachments of doubt, and, in the mean time, extend the benefit of their moral restraint over a portion of life when it is acknowledged such restraints are most necessary. If exemption from the checks of religion be, as infidels themselves allow,[81]a state of freedom from responsibilitydangerous at all times, it must be peculiarly so in that season of temptation, youth, when the passions are sufficiently disposed to usurp a latitude for themselves, without taking a licence also from infidelity to enlarge their range. It is, therefore, fortunate that, for the causes just stated, the inroads of scepticism and disbelief should be seldom felt in the mind till a period of life when the character, already formed, is out of the reach of their disturbing influence,—when, being the result, however erroneous, of thought and reasoning, they are likely to partake of the sobriety of the process by which they were acquired, and, being considered but as matters of pure speculation, to have as little share in determining the mind towards evil as, too often, the most orthodox creed has, at the same age, in influencing it towards good.