Footnote 7:
Henry IV.
, Part I. act in. sc. 3.
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List of Journal EntriesContents
Went
last night with Lewis to see the first of
Antony and Cleopatra
1
. It was admirably got up, and well acted —a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. Cleopatra strikes me as the epitome of her sex—fond, lively, sad, tender, teasing, humble, haughty, beautiful, the devil!—coquettish to the last, as well with the "asp" as with Antony. After doing all she can to persuade him that—but why do they abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero's head?
Did
not Tully tell Brutus it was a pity to have spared Antony? and did he not speak the Philippics? and are not "
words things
?"
2
and such "
words
" very pestilent "
things
" too? If he had had a hundred heads, they deserved (from Antony) a rostrum (his was stuck up there) apiece—though, after all, he might as well have pardoned him, for the credit of the thing. But to resume—Cleopatra, after securing him, says, "yet go—it is your interest," etc.—how like the sex! and the questions about Octavia—it is woman all over.
To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Middleton —to travel sixty miles to meet Madame De Stael! I once travelled three thousand to get among silent people; and this same lady writes octavos, and
talks
folios. I have read her books—like most of them, and delight in the last; so I won't hear it, as well as read.
Read Burns to-day. What would he have been, if a patrician? We should have had more polish—less force—just as much verse, but no immortality—a divorce and a duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations must have been less spirituous, he might have lived as long as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. What a wreck is that man! and all from bad pilotage; for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a little too squally. Poor dear Sherry! I shall never forget the day he and Rogers and Moore and I passed together; when
he
talked, and
we
listened, without one yawn, from six till one in the morning.
Got my seals ——. Have again forgot a play-thing for
ma petite cousine
Eliza; but I must send for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her to me. I sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last "
Giaour
" and "
The Bride of Abydos
" He won't like the latter, and I don't think that I shall long. It was written in four nights to distract my dreams from ——. Were it not thus, it had never been composed; and had I not done something at that time, I must have gone mad, by eating my own heart,—bitter diet;—Hodgson likes it better than "
The Giaour
" but nobody else will,—and he never liked the Fragment. I am sure, had it not been for Murray,
that
would never have been published, though the circumstances which are the ground-work make it —— heigh-ho!
To-night I saw both the sisters of ——; my God! the youngest so like! I thought I should have sprung across the house, and am so glad no one was with me in Lady H.'s box. I
hate
those likenesses—the mock-bird, but not the nightingale—so like as to remind, so different as to be painful
3
.
One quarrels equally with the points of resemblance and of distinction.
Footnote 1:
Antony and Cleopatra
was revived at Covent Garden, November 15, 1813, with additions from Dryden's
All for Love, or the World Well Lost
(1678). "Cleopatra" was acted by Mrs. Fawcit; "Marc Antony" by Young. (See for the allusions, act v. se. 2, and act i. sc. 3.)
return to footnote mark
Footnote 2:
"But words are things; and a small drop of ink,Falling, like dew, upon a thought, producesThat which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think."
Don Juan
, Canto III. stanza lxxxviii.
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Footnote 3:
"——-my weal, my woe,My hope on high—my all below;Earth holds no other like to thee,Or, if it doth, in vain for me:For worlds I dare not view the dameResembling thee, yet not the same."
The Giaour
.
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List of Journal EntriesContents
No letter from ——; but I must not complain.
The
respectable Job says, "Why should a
living man
complain?"
1
I really don't know, except it be that a
dead man
can't; and he, the said patriarch,
did
complain, nevertheless, till his friends were tired and his wife recommended that pious prologue,"Curse—and die;" the only time, I suppose, when but little relief is to be found in swearing. I have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland on "
The Bride of Abydos
," which he likes, and so does Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from whom I don't deserve any quarter. Yet I
did
think, at the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not been in such a hurry with that confounded satire, of which I would suppress even the memory;—but people, now they can't get it, make a fuss, I verily believe, out of contradiction.
George
Ellis
2
and Murray have been talking something about Scott and me, George
pro Scoto
,—and very right too. If they want to depose him, I only wish they would not set me up as a competitor. Even if I had my choice, I would rather be the Earl of Warwick than all the
kings
he ever made! Jeffrey and Gifford I take to be the monarch-makers in poetry and prose. The
British Critic
, in their Rokeby Review, have presupposed a comparison which I am sure my friends never thought of, and W. Scott's subjects are injudicious in descending to. I like the man—and admire his works to what Mr. Braham calls
Entusymusy
. All such stuff can only vex him, and do me no good. Many hate his politics—(I hate all politics); and, here, a man's politics are like the Greek
soul
—an
Greek: eidolon
, besides God knows what
other soul
; but their estimate of the two generally go together.
Harry has not brought
ma petite cousine
. I want us to go to the play together;—she has been but once. Another short note from Jersey, inviting Rogers and me on the 23d. I must see my agent to-night. I wonder when that Newstead business will be finished. It cost me more than words to part with it—and to
have
parted with it! What matters it what I do? or what becomes of me?—but let me remember Job's saying, and console myself with being "a living man."
I wish I could settle to reading again,—my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into
reality
;—a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne—the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women.
Not a word from ——[Lady F. W. Webster], Have they set out from ——? or has my last precious epistle fallen into the lion's jaws?
If
so—and this silence looks suspicious—I must clap on my "musty morion" and "hold out my iron."
3
I am out of practice—but I won't begin again at Manton's now. Besides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous wafer-splitter; but then the bullies of society made it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad cause to support, I have left off the exercise.
What
strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy—Buonaparte
4
!
Ever since I defended my bust of him at Harrow against the rascally time-servers, when the war broke out in 1803, he has been a
Héros de Roman
of mine—on the Continent; I don't want him here. But I don't like those same flights—leaving of armies, etc., etc. I am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did not think he would run away from himself. But I should not wonder if he banged them yet. To be beat by men would be something; but by three stupid, legitimate-old-dynasty boobies of regular-bred sovereigns—O-hone-a-rie!—O-hone-a-rie! It must be, as Cobbett says, his marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed
Autrichienne
brood. He had better have kept to her who was kept by Barras. I
never
knew any good come of your young wife, and legal espousals, to any but your "sober-blooded boy" who "eats fish" and drinketh "no sack."
5
Had he not the whole opera? all Paris? all France? But a mistress is just as perplexing—that is,
one
—two or more are manageable by division.
I have begun, or had begun, a song, and flung it into the fire.
It
was in remembrance of Mary Duff
6
, my first of flames, before most people begin to burn. I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do nothing, and—fortunately there is nothing to do. It
has
lately been in my power to make two persons (and their connections) comfortable,
pro tempore
, and one happy,
ex tempore
,—I rejoice in the last particularly, as it is an excellent man
7
. I wish there had been more convenience and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then there had been more merit. We are all selfish—and I believe, ye gods of Epicurus! I
believe
in Rochefoucault about
men
, and in Lucretius (not Busby's translation) about yourselves
8
. Your bard has made you very
nonchalant
and blest; but as he has excused
us
from damnation, I don't envy you your blessedness much—a little, to be sure. I remember, last year, —— [Lady Oxford] said to me, at —— [Eywood], "Have we not passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius?" And so we had. She is an adept in the text of the original (which I like too); and when that booby Bus. sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted him a subsequent answer, saying, that "after perusing it, her conscience would not permit her to allow her name to remain on the list of subscribblers."
Last
night, at Lord H.'s—Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puységur
9
, etc., there—I was trying to recollect a quotation (as
I
think) of Stael's, from some Teutonic sophist about architecture. "Architecture," says this Macoronico Tedescho, "reminds me of frozen music." It is somewhere—but where?—the demon of perplexity must know and won't tell. I asked M., and he said it was not in her: but Puységur said it must be
hers
, it was so
like
. H. laughed, as he does at all "
De l'Allemagne
"—in which, however, I think he goes a little too far. B., I hear, contemns it too. But there are fine passages;—and, after all, what is a work—any—or every work—but a desert with fountains, and, perhaps, a grove or two, every day's journey? To be sure, in Madame, what we often mistake, and "pant for," as the "cooling stream," turns out to be the "
mirage
" (criticè
verbiage
); but we do, at last, get to something like the temple of Jove Ammon, and then the waste we have passed is only remembered to gladden the contrast.
Called on C—, to explain ——. She is very beautiful, to my taste, at least; for on coming home from abroad, I recollect being unable to look at any woman but her—they were so fair, and unmeaning, and
blonde
. The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me of my "Jannat al Aden." But this impression wore off; and now I can look at a fair woman, without longing for a Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every thing was explained.
To-day, great news—"the Dutch have taken Holland,"—which, I suppose, will be succeeded by the actual explosion of the Thames. Five provinces have declared for young Stadt, and there will be inundation, conflagration, constupration, consternation, and every sort of nation and nations, fighting away, up to their knees, in the damnable quags of this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It is said Bernadotte is amongst them, too; and, as Orange will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince Stork and King Log in their Loggery at the same time. Two to one on the new dynasty!
Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for
The Giaour
and
The Bride of Abydos
. I won't—it is too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the
say
of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) what?—the gods know—it was intended to be called poetry.
I
have
dined regularly to-day, for the first time since Sunday last—this being Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea and dry biscuits—six
per diem
. I wish to God I had not dined now!—It kills me with heaviness, stupor, and horrible dreams; and yet it was but a pint of Bucellas, and fish
10
. Meat I never touch,—nor much vegetable diet. I wish I were in the country, to take exercise,—instead of being obliged to
cool
by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should not so much mind a little accession of flesh,—my bones can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always came with it,—till I starved him out,—and I will
not
be the slave of
any
appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head—how it aches?—the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner agrees with him?
Mem
. I must write to-morrow to "Master Shallow, who owes me a thousand pounds,"
11
and seems, in his letter, afraid I should ask him for it
12
;—as if I would!—I don't want it (just now, at least,) to begin with; and though I have often wanted that sum, I never asked for the repayment of £10 in my life—from a friend. His bond is not due this year, and I told him when it was, I should not enforce it. How often must he make me say the same thing?
I
am
wrong—I did once ask ——
13
to repay me. But it was under circumstances that excused me
to him
, and would to any one. I took no interest, nor required security. He paid me soon,—at least, his
padre
. My head! I believe it was given me to ache with. Good even.
Footnote 1:
"Wherefore doth a living man complain?"
(
Lam
. iii. 39).
return to footnote mark
Footnote 2:
George Ellis (1753-1815), a contributor to the
Rolliad
and the
Anti-Jacobin
, and "the first converser" Walter Scott "ever knew."
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Footnote 3:
"I dare not fight; but I will wink, and hold out mine iron."
Henry V
., act ii. sc. I.
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Footnote 4:
Byron was not always, even at Harrow, attached to Buonaparte, for, if we may trust Harness, he "roared out" at a Buonapartist schoolfellow:
"Bold Robert Speer was Bony's bad precursor.Bob was a bloody dog, but Bonaparte a worser."
His feeling for him was probably that which is expressed in the following passage from an undated letter, written to him by Moore:
"We owe great gratitude to this thunderstorm of a fellow for clearing the air of all the old legitimate fogs that have settled upon us, and I sincerely trust his task is not yet over."
Ticknor (
Life
, vol. i. p. 60) describes Byron's reception of the news of the battle of Waterloo:
"After an instant's pause, Lord Byron replied, 'I am damned sorry for it;' and then, after another slight pause, he added, 'I didn't know but I might live to see Lord Castlereagh's head on a pole. But I suppose I shan't now.'"
Byron's liking for Buonaparte was probably increased by his dislike of Wellington and Blucher. The following passages are taken from the
Detached Thoughts
(1821):
"The vanity of Victories is considerable. Of all who fell at Waterloo or Trafalgar, ask any man in company toname you ten off hand. They will stick at Nelson: the other will survive himself.Nelson wasa hero, the other is a mere Corporal, dividing with Prussians and Spaniards the luck which he never deserved. He even—but I hate the fool, and will be silent.""The Miscreant Wellington is the Cub of Fortune, but she will never lick him into shape. If he lives, he will be beaten; that's certain. Victory was never before wasted upon such an unprofitable soil as this dunghill of Tyranny, whence nothing springs but Viper's eggs.""I remember seeing Blucher in the London Assemblies, and never saw anything of his age less venerable. With the voice and manners of a recruiting Sergeant, he pretended to the honours of a hero; just as if a stone could be worshipped because a man stumbled over it."
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Footnote 5:
Henry IV
., Part II. act iv. se. 3.
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Footnote 6:
Mary Duff, his distant cousin, who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" of Aberdeen, in Byron's childhood. She married Mr. Robert Cockburn, a wine-merchant in Edinburgh and London.
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Footnote 7:
The first is, perhaps, Dallas; the second probably is Francis Hodgson, to whom he gave, from first to last, £1500.
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Footnote 8:
"L'intérêt est l'ame de l'amour-propre, de sorte que comme le corps, privé de son ame, est sans vue, sans ouïe, sans connoissance, sans sentiment, et sans mouvement; de même l'amour-propre, séparé, s'il le faut dire ainsi, de son intérêt, ne voit, n'entend, ne sent, et ne se remue plus," etc., etc.
(Rochefoucault, Lettre à Madame Sablé). The passage in Lucretius probably is
De Rerum Naturâ
, i. 57-62.
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Footnote 9:
"Monsieur de Puységur," says Lady H. Leveson Gower (Letters of Harriet, Countess of Granville, vol. i. p. 23), "is reallyconcentréinto one wrinkle. It is the oldest, gayest, thinnest, most withered, and most brilliant thing one can meet with. When there are so many young, fat fools going about the world, I wish for the transmigration of souls. Puységur might animate a whole family."
The phrase, of which Byron was in search, is Goethe's,
eine erstarrte Musik
(Stevens's
Life of Madame de Staël
, vol. ii. p. 195).
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Footnote 10:
That the poet sometimes dined seems evident from the annexed bill: