Life of Lord Byron Volume II Part 9

"To-day is the Sabbath,--a day I never pa.s.s pleasantly, but at Cambridge; and, even there, the organ is a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant enough in town,--as long as they don't retrograde, 'tis all very well. H * * writes and writes and writes, and is an author. I do nothing but eschew tobacco. I wish parliament were a.s.sembled, that I may hear, and perhaps some day be heard;--but on this point I am not very sanguine. I have many plans;--sometimes I think of the East again, and dearly beloved Greece. I am well, but weakly.--Yesterday Kinnaird told me I looked very ill, and sent me home happy.

* * * * * "Is Scrope still interesting and invalid? And how does Hinde with his cursed chemistry? To Harness I have written, and he has written, and we have all written, and have nothing now to do but write again, till death splits up the pen and the scribbler.

"The Alfred has three hundred and fifty-four candidates for six vacancies. The cook has run away and left us liable, which makes our committee very plaintive. Master Brook, our head serving-man, has the gout, and our new cook is none of the best. I speak from report,--for what is cookery to a leguminous-eating ascetic? So now you know as much of the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still there, and they may dress their dishes in their own way for me. Let me know your determination as to Newstead, and believe me,

"Yours ever, [Greek: Mpairon]."

[Footnote 37: This poem is now printed in Lord Byron's Works.]

LETTER 80. TO MR. HODGSON.

"8. St. James's Street, Dec. 12. 1811.

"Why, Hodgson! I fear you have left off wine and me at the same time,--I have written and written and written, and no answer! My dear Sir Edgar, water disagrees with you,--drink sack and write.

Bland did not come to his appointment, being unwell, but M * * e supplied all other vacancies most delectably. I have hopes of his joining us at Newstead. I am sure you would like him more and more as he developes,--at least I do.

"How Miller and Bland go on, I don't know. Cawthorne talks of being in treaty for a novel of Me. D'Arblay's, and if he obtains it (at 1500 gs.!!) wishes me to see the MS. This I should read with pleasure,--not that I should ever dare to venture a criticism on her whose writings Dr. Johnson once revised, but for the pleasure of the thing. If my worthy publisher wanted a sound opinion, I should send the MS. to Rogers and M * * e, as men most alive to true taste. I have had frequent letters from Wm. Harness, and _you_ are silent; certes, you are not a schoolboy. However, I have the consolation of knowing that you are better employed, viz.

reviewing. You don't deserve that I should add another syllable, and I won't. Yours, &c.

"P.S.--I only wait for your answer to fix our meeting."

LETTER 81. TO MR. HARNESS.

"8. St. James's Street, Dec. 15. 1811.

"I wrote you an answer to your last, which, on reflection, pleases me as little as it probably has pleased yourself. I will not wait for your rejoinder; but proceed to tell you, that I had just then been greeted with an epistle of * *'s, full of his petty grievances, and this at the moment when (from circ.u.mstances it is not necessary to enter upon) I was bearing up against recollections to which _his_ imaginary sufferings are as a scratch to a cancer.

These things combined, put me out of humour with him and all mankind. The latter part of my life has been a perpetual struggle against affections which embittered the earliest portion; and though I flatter myself I have in a great measure conquered them, yet there are moments (and this was one) when I am as foolish as formerly. I never said so much before, nor had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself of having been rather savage in my letter, and wish to inform you thus much of the cause. You know I am not one of your dolorous gentlemen: so now let us laugh again.

"Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to visit Campbell.[38] He was not visible, so we jogged homeward, merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with Rogers, and am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of rage at present. Last night I saw Kemble in Coriola.n.u.s;--he _was glorious_, and exerted himself wonderfully. By good luck I got an excellent place in the best part of the house, which was more than overflowing. Clare and Delawarre, who were there on the same speculation, were less fortunate. I saw them by accident,--we were not together. I wished for you, to gratify your love of Shakspeare and of fine acting to its fullest extent. Last week I saw an exhibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, at the Haymarket, who performed Lothario in a _d.a.m.ned_ and d.a.m.nable manner.

"I told you the fate of B. and H. in my last. So much for these sentimentalists, who console themselves in their stews for the loss--the never to be recovered loss--the despair of the refined attachment of a couple of drabs! You censure _my_ life, Harness,--when I compare myself with these men, my elders and my betters, I really begin to conceive myself a monument of prudence--a walking statue--without feeling or failing; and yet the world in general hath given me a proud pre-eminence over them in profligacy. Yet I like the men, and, G.o.d knows, ought not to condemn their aberrations. But I own I feel provoked when they dignify all this by the name of _love_--romantic attachments for things marketable for a dollar!

"Dec. 16th.--I have just received your letter;--I feel your kindness very deeply. The foregoing part of my letter, written yesterday, will, I hope, account for the tone of the former, though it cannot excuse it. I do _like_ to hear from you--more than _like_. Next to seeing you, I have no greater satisfaction. But you have other duties, and greater pleasures, and I should regret to take a moment from either. H * * was to call to-day, but I have not seen him. The circ.u.mstances you mention at the close of your letter is another proof in favour of my opinion of mankind. Such you will always find them--selfish and distrustful. I except none. The cause of this is the state of society. In the world, every one is to stir for himself--it is useless, perhaps selfish, to expect any thing from his neighbour. But I do not think we are born of this disposition; for you find _friends.h.i.+p_ as a schoolboy, and _love_ enough before twenty.

"I went to see * *; he keeps me in town, where I don't wish to be at present. He is a good man, but totally without conduct. And now, my dearest William, I must wish you good morrow, and remain ever, most sincerely and affectionately yours," &c.

[Footnote 38: On this occasion, another of the n.o.ble poet's peculiarities was, somewhat startlingly, introduced to my notice. When we were on the point of setting out from his lodgings in St. James's Street, it being then about mid-day, he said to the servant, who was shutting the door of the vis-a-vis, "Have you put in the pistols?" and was answered in the affirmative. It was difficult,--more especially, taking into account the circ.u.mstances under which we had just become acquainted,--to keep from smiling at this singular noon-day precaution.]

From the time of our first meeting, there seldom elapsed a day that Lord Byron and I did not see each other; and our acquaintance ripened into intimacy and friends.h.i.+p with a rapidity of which I have seldom known an example. I was, indeed, lucky in all the circ.u.mstances that attended my first introduction to him. In a generous nature like his, the pleasure of repairing an injustice would naturally give a zest to any partiality I might have inspired in his mind; while the manner in which I had sought this reparation, free as it was from resentment or defiance, left nothing painful to remember in the transaction between us,--no compromise or concession that could wound self-love, or take away from the grace of that frank friends.h.i.+p to which he at once, so cordially and so unhesitatingly, admitted me. I was also not a little fortunate in forming my acquaintance with him, before his success had yet reached its meridian burst,--before the triumphs that were in store for him had brought the world all in homage at his feet, and, among the splendid crowds that courted his society, even claims less humble than mine had but a feeble chance of fixing his regard. As it was, the new scene of life that opened upon him with his success, instead of detaching us from each other, only multiplied our opportunities of meeting, and increased our intimacy. In that society where his birth ent.i.tled him to move, circ.u.mstances had already placed me, notwithstanding mine; and when, after the appearance of "Childe Harold," he began to mingle with the world, the same persons, who had long been _my_ intimates and friends, became his; our visits were mostly to the same places, and, in the gay and giddy round of a London spring, we were generally (as in one of his own letters he expresses it) "embarked in the same s.h.i.+p of Fools together."

But, at the time when we first met, his position in the world was most solitary. Even those coffee-house companions who, before his departure from England, had served him as a sort of subst.i.tute for more worthy society, were either relinquished or had dispersed; and, with the exception of three or four a.s.sociates of his college days (to whom he appeared strongly attached), Mr. Dallas and his solicitor seemed to be the only persons whom, even in their very questionable degree, he could boast of as friends. Though too proud to complain of this loneliness, it was evident that he felt it; and that the state of cheerless isolation, "unguided and unfriended," to which, on entering into manhood, he had found himself abandoned, was one of the chief sources of that resentful disdain of mankind, which even their subsequent wors.h.i.+p of him came too late to remove. The effect, indeed, which his subsequent commerce with society had, for the short period it lasted, in softening and exhilarating his temper, showed how fit a soil his heart would have been for the growth of all the kindlier feelings, had but a portion of this suns.h.i.+ne of the world's smiles shone on him earlier.

At the same time, in all such speculations and conjectures as to what _might_ have been, under more favourable circ.u.mstances, his character, it is invariably to be borne in mind, that his very defects were among the elements of his greatness, and that it was out of the struggle between the good and evil principles of his nature that his mighty genius drew its strength. A more genial and fostering introduction into life, while it would doubtless have softened and disciplined his mind, might have impaired its vigour; and the same influences that would have diffused smoothness and happiness over his life might have been fatal to its glory. In a short poem of his[39], which appears to have been produced at Athens, (as I find it written on a leaf of the original MS.

of Childe Harold, and dated "Athens, 1811,") there are two lines which, though hardly intelligible as connected with the rest of the poem, may, taken separately, be interpreted as implying a sort of prophetic consciousness that it was out of the wreck and ruin of all his hopes the immortality of his name was to arise.

"Dear object of defeated care, Though now of love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair, Thine image and my tears are left.

'Tis said with sorrow Time can cope, But this, I feel, can ne'er be true; For, _by the death-blow of my hope, My Memory immortal grew!_"

We frequently, during the first months of our acquaintance, dined together alone; and as we had no club, in common, to resort to,--the Alfred being the only one to which he, at that period, belonged, and I being then a member of none but Watier's,--our dinners used to be either at the St. Alban's, or at his old haunt, Stevens's. Though at times he would drink freely enough of claret, he still adhered to his system of abstinence in food. He appeared, indeed, to have conceived a notion that animal food has some peculiar influence on the character; and I remember, one day, as I sat opposite to him, employed, I suppose, rather earnestly over a beef-steak, after watching me for a few seconds, he said, in a grave tone of enquiry,--"Moore, don't you find eating beef-steak makes you ferocious?"

Understanding me to have expressed a wish to become a member of the Alfred, he very good-naturedly lost no time in proposing me as a candidate; but as the resolution which I had then nearly formed of betaking myself to a country life rendered an additional club in London superfluous, I wrote to beg that he would, for the present, at least, withdraw my name: and his answer, though containing little, being the first familiar note he ever honoured me with, I may be excused for feeling a peculiar pleasure in inserting it.

[Footnote 39: "Written beneath the picture of ----"]

LETTER 82. TO MR. MOORE.

"December 11. 1811.

"My dear Moore,

"If you please, we will drop our former monosyllables, and adhere to the appellations sanctioned by our G.o.dfathers and G.o.dmothers. If you make it a point, I will withdraw your name; at the same time there is no occasion, as I have this day postponed your election 'sine die,' till it shall suit your wishes to be amongst us. I do not say this from any awkwardness the erasure of your proposal would occasion to _me_, but simply such is the state of the case; and, indeed, the longer your name is up, the stronger will become the probability of success, and your voters more numerous. Of course you will decide--your wish shall be my law. If my zeal has already outrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute my officiousness to an excusable motive.

"I wish you would go down with me to Newstead. Hodgson will be there, and a young friend, named Harness, the earliest and dearest I ever had from the third form at Harrow to this hour. I can promise you good wine, and, if you like shooting, a manor of 4000 acres, fires, books, your own free will, and my own very indifferent company. 'Balnea, vina * *.'

"Hodgson will plague you, I fear, with verse;--for my own part I will conclude, with Martial, 'nil recitabo tibi;' and surely the last inducement is not the least. Ponder on my proposition, and believe me, my dear Moore, yours ever,

"BYRON."

Among those acts of generosity and friends.h.i.+p by which every year of Lord Byron's life was signalised, there is none, perhaps, that, for its own peculiar seasonableness and delicacy, as well as for the perfect worthiness of the person who was the object of it, deserves more honourable mention than that which I am now about to record, and which took place nearly at the period of which I am speaking. The friend, whose good fortune it was to inspire the feeling thus testified, was Mr.

Hodgson, the gentleman to whom so many of the preceding letters are addressed; and as it would be unjust to rob him of the grace and honour of being, himself, the testimony of obligations so signal, I shall here lay before my readers an extract from the letter with which, in reference to a pa.s.sage in one of his n.o.ble friend's Journals, he has favoured me.

"I feel it inc.u.mbent upon me to explain the circ.u.mstances to which this pa.s.sage alludes, however private their nature. They are, indeed, calculated to do honour to the memory of my lamented friend. Having become involved, unfortunately, in difficulties and embarra.s.sments, I received from Lord Byron (besides former pecuniary obligations) a.s.sistance, at the time in question, to the amount of a thousand pounds.

Aid of such magnitude was equally unsolicited and unexpected on my part; but it was a long-cherished, though secret, purpose of my friend to afford that aid; and he only waited for the period when he thought it would be of most service. His own words were, on the occasion of conferring this overwhelming favour, '_I always intended to do it_.'"

During all this time, and through the months of January and February, his poem of "Childe Harold" was in its progress through the press; and to the changes and additions which he made in the course of printing, some of the most beautiful pa.s.sages of the work owe their existence. On comparing, indeed, his rough draft of the two Cantos with the finished form in which they exist at present, we are made sensible of the power which the man of genius possesses, not only of surpa.s.sing others, but of improving on himself. Originally, the "little Page" and "Yeoman" of the Childe were introduced to the reader's notice in the following tame stanzas, by expanding the substance of which into their present light, lyric shape, it is almost needless to remark how much the poet has gained in variety and dramatic effect:--

"And of his train there was a henchman page, A peasant boy, who serv'd his master well; And often would his pranksome prate engage Childe Burun's[40] ear, when his proud heart did swell With sullen thoughts that he disdain'd to tell.

Then would he smile on him, and Alwin[41] smiled, When aught that from his young lips archly fell, The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled....

"Him and one yeoman only did he take To travel eastward to a far countrie; And, though the boy was grieved to leave the lake, On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, Eftsoons his little heart beat merrily, With hope of foreign nations to behold, And many things right marvellous to see, Of which our vaunting travellers oft have told, From Mandeville....[42]"

In place of that mournful song "To Ines," in the first Canto, which contains some of the dreariest touches of sadness that even his pen ever let fall, he had, in the original construction of the poem, been so little fastidious as to content himself with such ordinary sing-song as the following:--

"Oh never tell again to me Of Northern climes and British ladies, It has not been your lot to see, Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz, Although her eye be not of blue, Nor fair her locks, like English la.s.ses," &c. &c.

There were also, originally, several stanzas full of direct personality, and some that degenerated into a style still more familiar and ludicrous than that of the description of a London Sunday, which still disfigures the poem. In thus mixing up the light with the solemn, it was the intention of the poet to imitate Ariosto. But it is far easier to rise, with grace, from the level of a strain generally familiar, into an occasional short burst of pathos or splendour, than to interrupt thus a prolonged tone of solemnity by any descent into the ludicrous or burlesque.[43] In the former case, the transition may have the effect of softening or elevating, while, in the latter, it almost invariably shocks;--for the same reason, perhaps, that a trait of pathos or high feeling, in comedy, has a peculiar charm; while the intrusion of comic scenes into tragedy, however sanctioned among us by habit and authority, rarely fails to offend. The n.o.ble poet was, himself, convinced of the failure of the experiment, and in none of the succeeding Cantos of Childe Harold repeated it.

Of the satiric parts, some verses on the well-known traveller, Sir John Carr, may supply us with, at least, a harmless specimen:--