The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals Volume II Part 97

Campbell talks of lecturing next spring; his last lectures were eminently successful. Moore thought of it, but gave it up,--I don't know why.----had been prating _dignity_ to him, and such stuff; as if a man disgraced himself by instructing and pleasing at the same time.

Introduced to Marquis Buckingham--saw Lord Gower [3]--he is going to Holland; Sir J. and Lady Mackintosh and Horner, G. Lamb [4], with I know not how many (Richard Wellesley, one--a clever man), grouped about the room. Little Henry Fox, a very fine boy, and very promising in mind and manner,--he went away to bed, before I had time to talk to him. I am sure I had rather hear him than all the _savans_.

[Footnote 1: In Dunlap's 'Memoirs of George Frederick Cooke' (vol. ii.

p. 313), the following pa.s.sage is quoted from the actor's journal:

"Read 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', by Lord Byron. It is well written. His Lords.h.i.+p is rather severe, perhaps justly so, on Walter Scott, and most a.s.suredly justly severe upon Monk Lewis."]

[Footnote 2: In Byron's 'Detached Thoughts' (1821) occurs this pa.s.sage:

"In general I do not draw well with literary men. Not that I dislike them, but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication. There are several exceptions, to be sure; but then they have always been men of the world, such as Scott and Moore, etc., or visionaries out of it, such as Sh.e.l.ley, etc. But your literary every-day man and I never went well in company, especially your foreigner, whom I never could abide,--except Giordani, and--and--and (I really can't name any other); I do not remember a man amongst them whom I ever wished to see twice, except, perhaps, Mezzophanti, who is a Monster of Languages, the Briareus of parts of speech, a walking Polyglott, and more--who ought to have existed at the time of the Tower of Babel as universal Interpreter. He is, indeed, a Marvel, --una.s.suming also. I tried him in all the tongues of which I have a single oath (or adjuration to the G.o.ds against Postboys, Savages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, pilots, Gondoliers, Muleteers, Cameldrivers, Vetturini, Postmasters, post-horses, post-houses, post-everything) and Egad! he astounded me even to my English."

On this pa.s.sage Sir Walter Scott makes the following note:

"I suspect Lord Byron of some self-deceit as to this matter. It appears that he liked extremely the only 'first-rate' men of letters into whose society he happened to be thrown in England. They happened to be men of the world, it is true; but how few men of very great eminence in literature, how few intellectually Lord B.'s peers, have 'not' been men of the world? Does any one doubt that the topics he had most pleasure in discussing with Scott or Moore were literary ones, or had at least some relation to literature?

"As for the foreign 'literati', pray what 'literati' anything like his own rank did he encounter abroad? I have no doubt he would have been as much at home with an Alfieri, a Schiller, or a Goethe, or a Voltaire, as he was with Scott or Moore, and yet two of these were very little of men of the world in the sense in which he uses that phrase.

"As to 'every-day men of letters,' pray who does like their company?

Would a clever man like a prosing 'captain, or colonel, or knight-in-arms' the 'better' for happening to be himself the Duke of Wellington?"]

[Footnote 3: George Granville Leveson Gower (1786-1861) succeeded his father in 1833 as second Duke of Sutherland.]

[Footnote 4: George Lamb (1784-1834), the fourth son of the first Lord Melbourne, married, in 1809, Caroline Rosalie St. Jules. As one of the early contributors to the 'Edinburgh Review', he was attacked by Byron in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 57 and 516 (see 'Poems', ed. 1898, vol. i. p. 301, 'note' I). A clever amateur actor, his comic opera 'Whistle for It' was produced at Covent Garden, April 10, 1807, and he was afterwards on the Drury Lane Committee of Management. His translation of the 'Poems of Catullus' was published in 1821. In 1819, as the representative of the official Whigs, he was elected for Westminster against Hobhouse; but was defeated at the next election (1820).]

Monday, Dec. 6.

Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the thing was called the _Bride_ of Abydos? It is a cursed awkward question, being unanswerable.

_She_ is not a _bride_, only about to be one; but for, etc., etc., etc.

I don't wonder at his finding out the _Bull_; but the detection----is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being an Irishman.

Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at something or other--I know not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composition similar to that which is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, "Here is some _incense_ for you." Campbell answered--"Carry it to Lord Byron, _he is used to it_."

Now, this comes of "bearing no brother near the throne." [1]

I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one _now_, whatever I may have done, am at perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity; or, at least, if I dislike any, it is not _poetically_, but _personally_.

Surely the field of thought is infinite; what does it signify who is before or behind in a race where there is no _goal_? The temple of fame is like that of the Persians, the universe; our altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally content with Mount Caucasus, or Mount Anything; and those who like it, may have Mount Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation.

I think I may _now_ speak thus; for I have just published a poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is _likely_ to be _liked_ or not. I have hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can _downright_ abuse it to one's face, except in print. It can't be good, or I should not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very t.i.tle.

But I began it with my heart full of----, and my head of oriental_ities_ (I can't call them _isms_), and wrote on rapidly.

This journal is a relief. When I am tired--as I generally am--out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and G.o.d knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.

Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the pet.i.tioner; I have neither head nor nerves to present it. That confounded supper at Lewis's has spoiled my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet of vinegar. Would I were an ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons,--or any thing that my gizzard could get the better of.

To-day saw Ward. His uncle [2] is dying, and W. don't much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided _l'oncle_ is not dined upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicures before that day. I wish he may recover--not for _our_ dinner's sake, but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles that may well wait, since they _will_ dine at last.

Gell called--he of Troy--after I was out. Mem.--to return his visit.

But my Mems. are the very landmarks of forgetfulness;--something like a light-house, with a s.h.i.+p wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to forget. Mem.--I have forgotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and suppose I shall be surcharged.

"An I do not turn rebel when thou art king "--oons! I believe my very biscuit is leavened with that impostor's imposts.

Lady Melbourne returns from Jersey's to-morrow;--I must call. A Mr.

Thomson has sent a song, which I must applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence;--and yet I hate _lettering_.

Saw Lord Glenbervie [3] and this Prospectus, at Murray's, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a man more useful than all the historians and rhymers ever planted. For, by preserving our woods and forests, he furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth reading, and all the odes worth nothing.

Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is crammed with the most useless lumber. It is odd that when I do read, I can only bear the chicken broth of--_any thing_ but Novels. It is many a year since I looked into one, (though they are sometimes ordered, by way of experiment, but never taken,) till I looked yesterday at the worst parts of the _Monk_. These descriptions ought to have been written by Tiberius at Caprea--they are forced--the _philtered_ ideas of a jaded voluptuary.

It is to me inconceivable how they could have been composed by a man of only twenty--his age when he wrote them. They have no nature--all the sour cream of cantharides. I should have suspected Buffon of writing them on the death-bed of his detestable dotage. I had never redde this edition, and merely looked at them from curiosity and recollection of the noise they made, and the name they had left to Lewis. But they could do no harm, except----.

Called this evening on my agent--my business as usual. Our strange adventures are the only inheritances of our family that have not diminished.

I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. The cigars don't keep well here. They get as old as a _donna di quaranti anni_ in the sun of Africa. The Havannah are the best;--but neither are so pleasant as a hooka or chiboque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, and their horses entire--two things as they should be. I am so far obliged to this Journal, that it preserves me from verse,--at least from keeping it. I have just thrown a poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my great comfort), and have smoked out of my head the plan of another. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, at least, the confusion of thought.

[Footnote 1: Pope's 'Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot', line 197.]

[Footnote 2: William Bosville (1745-1813), called colonel, but really only lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, was a noted 'bon vivant', whose maxim for life was "Better never than late." He was famous for his hospitality in Welbeck Street. A friend of Horne Tooke, he dined with him at Wimbledon every Sunday in the spring and autumn. See 'Diversions of Purley', ed. 1805, ii. 490:

"Your friend Bosville and I have entered into a strict engagement to belong for ever to the established government, to the Established Church, and to the established language of our country, because they are established."]

[Footnote 3: Sylvester Douglas (1743-1823), created in 1800 Baron Glenbervie, married, in September, 1789, Catherine, eldest daughter of Lord North, afterwards Earl of Guildford. He was educated at Leyden for the medical profession, a circ.u.mstance to which Sheridan alludes in the lines:

"Glenbervie, Glenbervie, What's good for the scurvy?

For ne'er be your old trade forgot."

Gibbon writes of him, October 4, 1788 ('Letters', vol. ii. p. 180),

"He has been curious, attentive, agreeable; and in every place where he has resided some days, he has left acquaintance who esteem and regret him; I never knew so clear and general an impression."

Glenbervie was Surveyor-General of Woods and Forests, 1803-1806, and again from 1807 to 1810. In that year he became First Commissioner of Land Revenue and Woods and Forests, and held the appointment till August, 1814.]