The Works Of Lord Byron, Letters and Journals, Vol. 1 by Lord Byron, Edited by Rowland E. Prothero

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I rejoice to hear you are interested in my _protégé_; he has been my
_almost constant_ associate since October, 1805, when I entered
Trinity College. His _voice_ first attracted my attention, his
_countenance_ fixed it, and his _manners_ attached me to him for ever.
He departs for a _mercantile house_ in _town_ in October, and we shall
probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall
leave to his decision either entering as a _partner_ through my
interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his
present frame of mind prefer the _latter_, 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, put _Lady E. Butler_ and _Miss
Ponsonby_ [1] to the blush, _Pylades_ and _Orestes_ out of
countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe like _Nisus_ and
_Euryalus_, to give _Jonathan_ and _David_ the "go by." He certainly
is perhaps more attached to _me_ than even I am in return. During the
whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and
winter, without passing _one_ tiresome 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 I _like_ many.

The Marquis of Tavistock [2] 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, etc., etc., are
to join us in October, so every thing will be _splendid_. The _music_
is all over at present. Met with another "_accidency_"--upset a
butter-boat in the lap of a lady--look'd very _blue_--_spectators_
grinned--"curse 'em!" Apropos, sorry to say, been _drunk_ every day,
and not quite _sober_ yet--however, touch no meat, nothing but fish,
soup, and vegetables, consequently it does me no harm--sad dogs all
the _Cantabs_. Mem.--_we mean_ to reform next January. This place is a
_monotony 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----, [3] thought it was
her--all in the wrong--the lady stared, so did I--I _blushed_, so did
_not_ the lady,--sad thing--wish women had _more 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. My
_protégé_ breakfasts with me; parting spoils my appetite--excepting
from Southwell. Mem. _I hate Southwell_.

Yours, etc.

[Footnote 1: Lady Eleanor Butler (c. 1745-1829), sister of the
seventeenth Earl of Ormonde, and Sarah Ponsonby (circ. 1755-1831),
cousin of the Earl of Bessborough, were the two "Ladies of the Vale," or
"Ladies of Llangollen." About the year 1779 they settled in a cottage at
Plasnewydd, in the Vale of Llangollen, where they lived, with their
maidservant, Mary Caryll, for upwards of half a century. They are
buried, with their servant, in the churchyard of Plasnewydd, under a
triangular pyramid. Though they had withdrawn from the world, they
watched its proceedings with the keenest interest.

"If," writes Mrs. Piozzi, from Brynbella, July 9, 1796, "Mr. Bunbury's
'Little Gray Man' is printed, do send it hither; the ladies at
Llangollen are dying for it. They like those old Scandinavian tales
and the imitations of them exceedingly; and tell me about the prince
and princess of 'this' loyal country, one province of which alone had
disgraced itself"

('Life and Writings of Mrs. Piozzi', vol. ii. p. 234). Nor did they
despise the theatre. Charles Mathews ('Memoirs', vol. iii. pp. 150,
151), writing from Oswestry, September 4, 1820, says,

"The dear inseparable inimitables, Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby, were
in the boxes here on Friday. They came twelve miles from Llangollen,
and returned, as they never sleep from home. Oh, such curiosities! I
was nearly convulsed.... As they are seated, there is not one point to
distinguish them from men; the dressing and powdering of the hair;
their well-starched neckcloths; the upper part of their habits, which
they always wear, even at a dinner-party, made precisely like men's
coats; and regular black beaver men's hats. They looked exactly like
two respectable superannuated old clergymen.... I was highly
flattered, as they never were in the theatre before."

Among the many people who visited them in their retreat, and have left
descriptions of them, are Madame de Genlis, De Quincey, Prince
Pückler-Muskau. Their friendships were sung by Sotheby and Anne Seward,
and their cottage was depicted by Pennant.

"It is very singular," writes John Murray, August 24, 1829, to his son
('Memoir of John Murray', vol. ii. p. 304),

"that the ladies, intending to 'retire' from the world, absolutely
brought all the world to visit them, for after a few years of
seclusion their strange story was the universal subject of
conversation, and there has been no person of rank, talent, and
importance in any way who did not procure introductions to them."

[Footnote 2: Lord Tavistock's experience at Cambridge resembled that of
Byron. He had received only a "pretended education," and the Duke of
Bedford had come to the conclusion that "nothing was learned at English
Universities." "Tavistock left Cambridge in May," Lord J. Russell notes
in his Diary for 1808, "having been there in supposition two years"
(Walpole's 'Life of Lord John Russell', vol. i. pp. 44 and 35).]

[Footnote 3: Probably Miss Anne Houson, daughter of the Rev. Henry
Houson of Southwell. She married the Rev. Luke Jackson, died December
25, 1821, and is buried at Hucknall Torkard. (For verses addressed to
her, see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 70-2, 244-45, 246-47, 251-52, 253.)]

76.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

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 a
_month_, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a favour,
_irradiate_ Southwell for three days with the light of my countenance;
but nothing shall ever make me _reside_ there again. I positively
return to Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, or in
truth I should _cut_ the University. An extraordinary circumstance
occurred to me at Cambridge; a girl so very like----made her
appearance, that nothing but the most _minute inspection_ could have
undeceived me. I wish I had asked if _she_ had ever been at H----

What the devil would Ridge have? is not fifty in a fortnight, before
the advertisements, a sufficient sale? [1] I hear many of the London
booksellers have them, and Crosby [2] has sent copies to the principal
watering places. Are they liked or not in Southwell? ... I wish
Boatswain had _swallowed_ Damon! How is Bran? by the immortal gods,
Bran ought to be a _Count_ of the _Holy 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 and oratorios, wine, women, wax-work, and weathercocks,
can't accord with your _insulated_ ideas of decorum and other _silly
expressions_ not inserted in _our 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 having _pared off_ a sufficient quantity of flesh to enable
me to slip into "an eel-skin," and vie with the _slim_ beaux of modern
times; though I am sorry to say, it seems to be the mode amongst
_gentlemen_ to grow _fat_, and I am told I am at least fourteen pound
below the fashion. However, I _decrease_ instead of enlarging, which
is extraordinary, as _violent_ exercise in London is impracticable;
but I attribute the _phenomenon_ to our _evening squeezes_ at 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:[1]--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 with _Butler_ 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 his _sceptre_ totter _in his
hands_.--Adieu!

[Footnote 1: This is probably the third collection of early verse,
'Hours of Idleness', the first collection published with Byron's name
(see page 104 [Letter 53], [Foot]note 1).]

[Footnote 2: B. Crosby & Co., of Stationers' Court, were the London
agents of Ridge, the Newark bookseller. Crosby was also the publisher of
a magazine called 'Monthly Literary Recreations', in which (July, 1807)
appeared a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of Idleness', and Byron's
review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' (2 vols. 1807. See Appendix I.), and his
"Stanzas to Jessy" (see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 234-236). These lines were
enclosed with the following letter, addressed to "Mr. Crosby,
Stationers' Court:"--

"July 21, 1807.

Sir,--I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas for
'Literary Recreations'. The insertion I leave to the option of the
Editors. They have never appeared before. I should wish to
know whether they are admitted or not, and when the work will
appear, as I am desirous of a copy.

Etc., etc.,

BYRON.

P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."]

[Footnote 3:

"My Dear Lord,--Your letter of yesterday found me an invalid, and
unable to do justice to your poems by a dilligent ['sic'] perusal of
them. In the meantime I take the first occasion to thank you for
sending them to me, and to express a sincere satisfaction in finding
you employ your leisure in such occupations. Be not disconcerted if
the reception of your works should not be that you may have a right to
look for from the public. Persevere, whatever that reception may be,
and tho' the Public maybe found very fastidious, ... you will stand
better with the world than others who only pursue their studies in
Bond St. or at Tatershall's.

Believe me to be, yours most sincerely,

CARLISLE.

July 8th, 1807."]

77.--To John Hanson.

July 20th, 1807.

Sir,--Your proposal to make Mrs. Byron my _Treasurer_ is very kind,
but does not meet with my approbation. Mrs. Byron has already made
more _free_ with my _funds_ than suits my convenience & I do not chuse
to expose her to the Danger of Temptation.

Things will therefore stand as they are; the remedy would be worse
than the Disease.

I wish you would order your Drafts payable to me and not Mrs. B. This
is worse than Hannibal Higgins; [1] who the Devil could suppose that
any Body would have mistaken him for a _real personage?_ & what
earthly consequence could it be whether the Blank in the Draft was
filled up with _Wilkins, Tomkyns, Simkins, Wiggins, Spriggins,
Jiggins_, or _Higgins?_ If I had put in _James Johnson_ you would not
have demurred, & why object to Hannibal Higgins? particularly after
his _respectable Endorsements_. As to Business, I make no pretensions
to a Knowledge of any thing but a Greek Grammer or a Racing Calendar;
but if the _Quintessence_ of information on that head consists in
unnecessary & unpleasant delays, explanations, rebuffs, retorts,
repartees, & recriminations, the House of H.& B. stands pre-eminent in
the profession, as from the Bottom of his Soul testifies

Yours, etc., etc.,

BYRON.

P.S--Will you dine with me on Sunday Tête a Tête at six o'clock? I
should be happy to see you before, but my Engagements will not permit
me, as on Wednesday I go to the House. I shall have Hargreaves & his
Brother on some day after you; I don't like to annoy Children with the
_formal_ Faces of _legal_ papas.

[Footnote 1: The point of the allusion is that Byron had endorsed one of
Hanson's drafts with the name of "Hannibal Higgins," and had been
solemnly warned of the consequences of so tampering with the dignity of
the law.]

78.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

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 by _reviewers_, admired by
_duchesses_, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not
dedicate much consideration to _rustic readers_. I have now a review
before me, entitled _Literary Recreations_ [1] where my _hardship_ is
applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but
think _him_ a very discerning gentleman, and _myself_ a devilish
_clever_ fellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is
of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just
to give an agreeable _relish_ to 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), 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, [2] requested he would introduce my _Poetical_ Lordship to her
_Highness_, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly, in
common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim her
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 same _blessed_ seat of "_dark rolling winds_."

Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation,
and has sent to Ridge for a _third_--at least so he says. In every
bookseller's window I see my _own name_, and _say 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 will _gratify_ the _public_ with 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 this _gentle_ encouragement. 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. [3] 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 for _egotism!_
My _laurels_ have turned my brain, but the _cooling acids_ of
forthcoming criticism will probably restore me to _modesty_.

Southwell is a damned place--I have done with it--at least in all
probability; excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts.
You were my only _rational_ companion; and in plain truth, I had more
respect for you than the whole _bevy_, with whose foibles I amused
myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. You gave
yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousand
_dolls_ would have done.

Believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature in _this circle_ of
_sin_, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince my gratitude.
Adieu.

Yours, etc.

P.S.--Remember me to Dr. P.

[Footnote 1: See page 137 [Letter 76], [Foot]note 2.]

[Footnote 2: The Duchess of Gordon (1748-1812), 'née' Jean Maxwell of
Monreith, daughter of Sir W. Maxwell, Bart., married in 1767 the Duke of
Gordon. The most successful matchmaker of the age, she married three of
her daughters to three dukes--Manchester, Richmond, and Bedford. A
fourth daughter was Lady Mandalina Sinclair, afterwards, by a second
marriage, Lady Mandalina Palmer. A fifth was married to Lord Cornwallis
(see the extraordinary story told in the 'Recollections of Samuel
Rogers', pp. 145-146). According to Wraxall ('Posthumous Memoirs', vol.
ii. p. 319), she schemed to secure Pitt for her daughter Lady Charlotte,
and Eugène Beauharnais for Lady Georgiana, afterwards Duchess of
Bedford. Cyrus Redding ('Memoirs of William Beckford', vol. ii. pp.
337-339) describes her attack upon the owner of Fonthill, where she
stayed upwards of a week, magnificently entertained, without once seeing
the wary master of the house.

She was also the social leader of the Tories, and her house in Pall
Mall, rented from the Duke of Buckingham, was the meeting-place of the
party. Malcontents accused her of using her power tyrannically:--

"Not Gordon's broad and brawny Grace,
The last new Woman in the Place
With more contempt could blast."
'Pandolfo Attonito' (1800).

Lord Alexander Gordon died in 1808.]

[Footnote 3: William Hutton (1723-1815), a Birmingham bookseller, who
took to literature and became a voluminous writer of poems, and of
topographical works which still have their value. In his 'Trip to Redcar
and Coatham' (Preface, p. vi.) he says,

"I took up my pen at the advanced age of fifty-six ... I drove the
quill thirty years, during which time I wrote and published thirty
books."

'The Battle of Bosworth Field' was published in 1788. A new edition,
with additions by John Nichols, appeared in 1813. Byron's poem was never
published.]

79.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

London, August 11, 1807.

On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands. [1] A friend of mine
accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it,
and proceed in a _tandem_ (a species of open carriage) though the
western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase _shelties_, to
enable us to view places inaccessible to _vehicular 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 at _Hecla_. This last intention you will keep a
secret, as my nice _mamma_ would imagine I was on a Voyage of
_Discovery_, and raised the accustomed _maternal warwhoop_.

Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth through the two bridges,
Westminster and Blackfriars, a distance, including the different turns
and tracks made on the way, of three miles! [2] You see I am in
excellent training in case of a _squall_ at sea. I mean to collect all
the Erse traditions, poems, etc., etc., 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 equally
_picturesque_. 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 with _fire_. 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 is _Smut!_

"Bear it, ye breezes, on your _balmy_ wings."

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 their's 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, etc., etc.,
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.

[Footnote 1: This projected trip to the Highlands, mentioned in his
letter to Augusta Byron of August 30, 1805, seems to have become a joke
among Byron's friends. Moore quotes ('Life', p. 56) a letter written by
Miss Pigot to her brother:

"How can you ask if Lord B. is going to visit the Highlands in the
summer? Why, don't _you_ know that he never knows his own mind
for ten minutes together? I tell him he is as fickle as the winds, and
as uncertain as the waves."]

[Footnote 2:

"The first time I saw Lord Byron," says Leigh Hunt ('Lord Byron and
his Contemporaries', p. 1), "he was rehearsing the part of Leander,
under the auspices of Mr. Jackson the prize-fighter. It was in the
river Thames, before he went to Greece. I had been bathing, and was
standing on the floating machine adjusting my clothes, when I noticed
a respectable-looking manly person who was eyeing something at a
distance. This was Mr. Jackson waiting for his pupil. The latter was
swimming with somebody for a wager."

On this occasion, however, Hunt only saw "his Lordship's head bob up and
down in the water, like a "buoy."]

80.--To John Hanson.

Dorant's Hotel, October 19th, 1807.

Dear Hanson,--I will thank you to disburse the quarter due as soon as
possible, for I am at this moment contemplating with woeful visage,
one _solitary Guinea, two bad sixpences_ and a shilling, being _all_
the _cash_ at present in possession of

Yours very truly,

BYRON.

81.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

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, I take up my pen to inquire 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, as
_thin_ as 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 to
_suffocate_ in its heavy atmosphere. This place is wretched enough--a
villainous 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_, and _verses_.

Next January (but this is _entre 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 to _sea_ for four or five months, with
my cousin Captain Bettesworth, [1] who commands the _Tartar_, the
finest frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish to look
at a naval life. We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the
West Indies, or--to the devil; 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.

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