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

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30

Believe me, my dear H., yours most affectionately,

[Footnote 1: This was the inquiry into the charges made by Colonel
Gwyllym Wardle, M.P. for Okehampton (1807-12), against the Duke of York
and his mistress, Mary Ann Clarke. The inquiry began January 27, 1809,
and ended March 20, 1809, with the duke's resignation, the Commons
having previously (March 17) acquitted him of "personal connivance and
corruption."

The case has passed into literature. Wardle, the valorous Dowler, and
Lowten, Mr. Perker's clerk, had all figured in the trial before they
played their parts in 'Pickwick'. Wardle, who was a colonel of the Welsh
Fusiliers ("Wynne's Lambs") had fought at Vinegar Hill. After losing his
seat, he took a farm between Tunbridge Wells and Rochester, from which
he fled to escape his creditors, and died at Florence, November 30,
1834, aged seventy-two.]

[Footnote 2: Byron took his M.A. degree, July 4, 1808. In another letter
to Harness, dated February, 1809, he says,

"I do not know how you and Alma Mater agree. I was but an untoward
child myself, and I believe the good lady and her brat were equally
rejoiced when I was weaned, and if I obtained her benediction at
parting, it was, at best, equivocal."]

[Footnote 3: George Sanders (1774-1846) painted miniatures, made
watercolour copies of continental master-pieces, and afterwards became a
portrait-painter in oils. He painted several portraits of Byron, two of
which have been often engraved.]

119.--To William Bankes.

Twelve o'clock, Friday night.

My Dear Bankes,--I have just received your note; believe me I regret
most sincerely that I was not fortunate enough to see it before, as I
need not repeat to you that your conversation for half an hour would
have been much more agreeable to me than gambling [1] or drinking, or
any other fashionable mode of passing an evening abroad or at home.--I
really am very sorry that I went out previous to the arrival of your
despatch: in future pray let me hear from you before six, and whatever
my engagements may be, I will always postpone them.--Believe me, with
that deference which I have always from my childhood paid to your
_talents_, and with somewhat a better opinion of your heart than I
have hitherto entertained,

Yours ever, etc.

[Footnote 1:

"I learn with delight," writes Hobhouse from Cambridge, May 12, 1808,
"from Scrope Davies, that you have totally given up dice. To be sure
you must give it up; for you to be seen every night in the very vilest
company in town--could anything be more shocking, anything more unfit?
I speak feelingly on this occasion, 'non ignara mali miseris, &c'. I
know of nothing that should bribe me to be present once more at such
horrible scenes. Perhaps 'tis as well that we are both acquainted with
the extent of the evil, that we may be the more earnest in abstaining
from it. You shall henceforth be 'Diis animosus hostis'."

Moore quotes ('Life', p. 86) the following extract from Byron's
'Journal':--

"I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as many people, being
always _excited_. Women, wine, fame, the table,--even ambition,
_sate_ now and then; but every turn of the card and cast of the
dice keeps the gamester alive: besides, one can game ten times longer
than one can do any thing else. I was very fond of it when young, that
is to say, of hazard, for I hate all _card_ games,--even faro.
When macco (or whatever they spell it) was introduced, I gave up the
whole thing, for I loved and missed the _rattle_ and _dash_
of the box and dice, and the glorious uncertainty, not only of good
luck or bad luck, but of _any luck at all_, as one had sometimes
to throw _often_ to decide at all. I have thrown as many as
fourteen mains running, and carried off all the cash upon the table
occasionally; but I had no coolness, or judgment, or calculation. It
was the delight of the thing that pleased me. Upon the whole, I left
off in time, without being much a winner or loser. Since
one-and-twenty years of age I played but little, and then never above
a hundred, or two, or three."]

120.--To R. C. Dallas.

April 25, 1809.

Dear Sir,--I am just arrived at Batt's Hotel, Jermyn Street, St.
James's, from Newstead, and shall be very glad to see you when
convenient or agreeable. Hobhouse is on his way up to town, full of
printing resolution, [1] and proof against criticism.--Believe me,
with great sincerity,

Yours truly,

BYRON.

[Footnote 1: See page 163 [Letter 86], [Foot]note 1. Hobhouse's
miscellany was published in 1809, under the title of 'Imitations and
Translations from the Antient and Modern Classics: Together with
Original Poems never before published'.]

121.--To John Hanson.

Batt's Hotel, Jermyn Street, April 26th, 1809.

DEAR SIR,--I wish to know before I make my final effort elsewhere, if
you can or cannot assist me in raising a sum of money on fair and
equitable terms and immediately. [1] I called twice this morning, and
beg you will favour me with an answer when convenient. I hope all your
family are well. I should like to see them together before my
departure.

The Court of Chancery it seems will not pay the money, of which indeed
I do not know the precise amount; the Duke of Portland will not pay
his debt, and with the Rochdale property nothing is done.--My debts
are daily increasing, and it is with difficulty I can command a
shilling. As soon as possible I shall get quit of this country, but I
wish to do justice to my creditors (though I do not like their
importunity), and particularly to my securities, for their annuities
must be paid off soon, or the interest will swallow up everything.
Come what may, in every shape and in any shape, I can meet ruin, but I
will never sell Newstead; the Abbey and I shall stand or fall
together, and, were my head as grey and defenceless as the Arch of the
Priory, I would abide by this resolution. The whole of my wishes are
summed up in this; procure me, either of my own or borrowed of others,
three thousand pounds, and place two in Hammersley's hands for letters
of credit at Constantinople; if possible sell Rochdale in my absence,
pay off these annuities and my debts, and with the little that remains
do as you will, but allow me to depart from this cursed country, and I
promise to turn Mussulman, rather than return to it. Believe me to be,

Yours truly, BYRON.

P.S.--Is my will finished? I should like to sign it while I have
anything to leave.

[Footnote 1: Money was obtained, partly by means of a life insurance
effected with the Provident Institution. The medical report, signed by
Benjamin Hutchinson, F.R.C.S., London, states that Hutchinson had
attended Byron for the last four or five years; that he was, when last
seen by Hutchinson, in very good health; that he never was afflicted
with any serious malady; that he was sober and temperate; that he
"sometimes used much exercise, and at others was of a studious and
sedentary turn;" and thus concludes: "I do believe that he possesses an
unimpaired, healthy constitution, and I am not aware of any circumstance
which may be considered as tending to shorten his life."

Mrs. Byron (April 9, 1809) begs Hanson to see that Byron gave some
security for the thousand pounds for which she was bound. She adds:
"There is some Trades People at Nottingham that will be completely
ruined if he does not pay them, which I would not have happen for the
whole world." No security seems to have been given, and the tradesmen
remained unpaid. Mrs. Byron's death was doubtless accelerated by anxiety
from these causes.]

122.-To the Rev. R. Lowe. [1]

8, St. James Street, May 15, 1809.

MY DEAR SIR,--I have just been informed that a report is circulating
in Notts of an intention on my part to sell Newstead, which is rather
unfortunate, as I have just tied the property up in such a manner as
to prevent the practicability, even if my inclination led me to
dispose of it. But as such a report may render my tenants
uncomfortable, I will feel very much obliged if you will be good
enough to contradict the rumour, should it come to your ears, on my
authority. I rather conjecture it has arisen from the sale of some
copyholds of mine in Norfolk. [2] I sail for Gibraltar in June, and
thence to Malta when, of course, you shall have the promised detail. I
saw your friend Thornhill last night, who spoke of you as a friend
ought to do. Excuse this trouble, and believe me to be, with great
sincerity,

Yours affectionately, BYRON.

[Footnote 1. The Rev. Robert Lowe was some years older than Byron, and
had known him intimately at Southwell in his early youth. Miss Pigot was
a cousin of Mr. Lowe, as was also the Rev. J. T. Becher of Southwell.
Mrs. Chaworth Musters, who contributed this letter to 'The Life and
Letters of Viscount Sherbrooke' (vol. i. p. 46), adds that her
grandfather was, naturally, excessively annoyed at having been made the
mouthpiece of an untruth, and that the coolness which arose in
consequence lasted up to the end of Byron's life. There can, however, be
no doubt that Byron made the statement in all sincerity.]

[Footnote 2: At Wymondham.]

CHAPTER IV.

TRAVELS IN ALBANIA, GREECE, ETC.--DEATH OF MRS. BYRON.

1809-1811.

123.--To his Mother.

Falmouth, June 22, 1809.

DEAR MOTHER,--I am about to sail in a few days; probably before this
reaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, that I have continued him in my
service. If he does not behave well abroad, I will send him back in a
_transport_. I have a German servant (who has been with Mr. Wilbraham
in Persia before, and was strongly recommended to me by Dr. Butler, of
Harrow), Robert and William; [1] they constitute my whole suite. I
have letters in plenty:--you shall hear from me at the different ports
I touch upon; but you must not be alarmed if my letters miscarry. The
Continent is in a fine state--an insurrection has broken out at Paris,
and the Austrians are beating Buonaparte--the Tyrolese have risen.

There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down to Newstead soon. [2]
--I wish the Miss Pigots had something better to do than carry my
miniatures to Nottingham to copy. Now they have done it, you may ask
them to copy the others, which are greater favourites than my own. As
to money matters, I am ruined--at least till Rochdale is sold; and if
that does not turn out well, I shall enter into the Austrian or
Russian service--perhaps the Turkish, if I like their manners. The
world is all before me, and I leave England without regret, and
without a wish to revisit any thing it contains, except _yourself_,
and your present residence.

Believe me, yours ever sincerely.

P.S.--Pray tell Mr. Rushton his son is well, and doing well; so is
Murray, [3] indeed better than I ever saw him; he will be back in
about a month. I ought to add the leaving Murray to my few regrets, as
his age perhaps will prevent my seeing him again. Robert I take with
me; I like him, because, like myself, he seems a friendless animal.

[Footnote 1: Robert Rushton and William Fletcher, the "little page" and
"staunch yeoman" of Childe Harold's "Good Night," Canto I. stanza xiii.]

[Footnote 2: By George Sanders.]

[Footnote 3: "Joe" Murray was sent back from Gibraltar, and with him
returned the homesick Robert Rushton.

124.--To the Rev. Henry Drury.

Falmouth, June 28, 1809.

MY DEAR DRURY,--We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having been
detained till now by the lack of wind, and other necessaries. These
being at last procured, by this time tomorrow evening we shall be
embarked on the vide vorld of vaters, vor all the vorld like Robinson
Crusoe. The Malta vessel not sailing for some weeks, we have
determined to go by way of Lisbon, and, as my servants term it, to see
"that there "'Portingale'"--thence to Cadiz and Gibraltar, and so on
our old route to Malta and Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd,
our gallant, or rather gallows, commander, understands plain sailing
and Mercator, and takes us on a voyage all according to the chart.

Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the treasure of a servant,
Friese, the native of Prussia Proper, into my service from his
recommendation? He has been all among the Worshippers of Fire in
Persia, and has seen Persepolis and all that.

Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book on his return; 100
pens, two gallons of Japan Ink, and several volumes of best blank, is
no bad provision for a discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but
have promised to contribute a chapter on the state of morals, and a
further treatise on the same to be intituled "..., 'Simplified,... or
Proved to be Praiseworthy from Ancient Authors and Modern Practice.'"

Hobhouse further hopes to indemnify himself in Turkey for a life of
exemplary chastity at home. Pray buy his 'Missellingany', as the
Printer's Devil calls it. I suppose it is in print by this time.
Providence has interposed in our favour with a fair wind to carry us
out of its reach, or he would have hired a Faqui to translate it into
the Turcoman lingo.

"The cock is crowing,
I must be going,
And can no more."

'Ghost of Gaffer Thumb'. [1]
Adieu.--Believe me, etc., etc.

[Footnote 1: In Fielding's burlesque tragedy, 'The Tragedy of Tragedies;
or the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great'(1730), occur the lines--

"Arthur, beware; I must this moment hence,
Not frighted by your voice, but by the cock's."

The burlesque was altered by Kane O'Hara, and published as performed at
the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, in 1805. In this prompt-book version (act
i.) appear the lines quoted by Byron.

"'Ghost'. Grizzle's Rebellion,
What need I tell you on?
Or by a red cow
Tom Thumb devoured?
('cock crows') Hark the cock crowing!
I must be going:
I can no more {'vanishes'}."]

125.--To Francis Hodgson.

Falmouth, June 25, 1809.

MY DEAR HODGSON,--Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers'
wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto subalterns for the
troops, three Portuguese esquires and domestics, in all nineteen
souls, will have sailed in the Lisbon packet, with the noble Captain
Kidd, a gallant commander as ever smuggled an anker of right Nantz.

We are going to Lisbon first, because the Malta packet has sailed,
d'ye see?--from Lisbon to Gibraltar, Malta, Constantinople, and "all
that," as Orator Henley said, when he put the Church, and "all that,"
in danger. [1]

This town of Falmouth, as you will partly conjecture, is no great ways
from the sea. It is defended on the sea-side by tway castles, St. Maws
and Pendennis, extremely well calculated for annoying every body
except an enemy. St. Maws is garrisoned by an able-bodied person of
fourscore, a widower. He has the whole command and sole management of
six most unmanageable pieces of ordnance, admirably adapted for the
destruction of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the opposite
side of the Channel. We have seen St. Maws, but Pendennis they will
not let us behold, save at a distance, because Hobhouse and I are
suspected of having already taken St. Maws by a coup de main.

The town contains many Quakers and salt fish--the oysters have a taste
of copper, owing to the soil of a mining country--the women (blessed
be the Corporation therefor!) are flogged at the cart's tail when they
pick and steal, as happened to one of the fair sex yesterday noon. She
was pertinacious in her behaviour, and damned the mayor.

This is all I know of Falmouth. Nothing occurred of note in our way
down, except that on Hartford Bridge we changed horses at an inn,
where the great----, Beckford, [2] sojourned for the night. We tried
in vain to see the martyr of prejudice, but could not. What we thought
singular, though you perhaps will not, was that Ld Courtney [3]
travelled the same night on the same road, only one stage _behind_ him.

Hodgson, remember me to the Drury, and remember me to yourself when
drunk. I am not worth a sober thought. Look to my satire at
Cawthorn's, Cockspur Street, and look to the 'Miscellany' of the
Hobhouse. It has pleased Providence to interfere in behalf of a
suffering public by giving him a sprained wrist, so that he cannot
write, and there is a cessation of ink-shed.

I don't know when I can write again, because it depends on that
experienced navigator, Captain Kidd, and the "stormy winds that
(don't) blow" at this season. I leave England without regret--I shall
return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict
sentenced to transportation, but I have no Eve, and have eaten no
apple but what was sour as a crab;--and thus ends my first chapter.
Adieu. [4]

Yours, etc.

[Footnote 1: Henley, in one of his publications entitled 'Oratory
Transactions', engaged

"to execute singly what would sprain a dozen of modern doctors of the
tribe of Issachar--to write, read, and study twelve hours a day, and
yet appear as untouched by the yoke as if he never wore it--to teach
in one year what schools or universities teach in five;" and he
furthermore pledged himself to persevere in his bold scheme until he
had "put the church,--and all that--, in danger."

(Moore).]

[Footnote 2: William Beckford (1760-1844), son of Chatham's friend who
was twice Lord Mayor of London, at the age of eleven succeeded it is
said, to a million of ready money and a hundred thousand a year. Before
he was seventeen he wrote his 'Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary
Painters', designed as a satire on the 'Vies des Peintres Flamands',
('Memoirs of William Beckford', by Cyrus Redding, vol. i. p. 96.) His
travels (1777-82) in Switzerland, the Low Countries, and Italy are
described in his 'Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents, in a series of
letters from various parts of Europe', published anonymously in 1783,
and reprinted, with additions and omissions, in 1834 and 1840. In the
previous year he had written 'Vathek' in French, in "three days and two
nights," without, as he says, taking off his clothes; "the severe
application made me very ill." This statement, if made by Beckford, as
Redding implies, is untrue. Evidence exists to prove that 'Vathek' was a
careful and elaborate composition. The book was published with his name
in 1787; but a translation, made and printed without his leave, had
already (1784) appeared, and was often mistaken for the original. In
1783 he married Lady Margaret Gordon, with whom he lived in Switzerland
till her death in 1786. One of his two daughters--he had no son--became
Mrs. Orde, the other the Duchess of Hamilton. From 1787 to 1791, and
again from 1794 to 1796, he visited Portugal and Spain, and to this
period belong his 'Sketches of Spain and Portugal' (1834), and his
'Recollections of an Excursion to the 'Monasteries of Alobaca and
Batalha' (1835). Between his two visits to Portugal, on the last of
which he occupied the retreat at Cintra celebrated by Byron ('Childe
Harold', Canto I. stanzas xviii.-xxii.), he saw the destruction of the
Bastille, bought Gibbon's library at Lausanne (in 1796), and, shutting
himself up in it "for six weeks, from early in the morning until night,
only now and then taking "a ride," read himself "nearly blind" (Cyrus
Redding's "Recollections of the Author of Vathek," 'New Monthly
Magazine', vol. lxxi. p. 307). He also wrote two burlesque novels, to
ridicule, it is said, those written by his sister, Mrs. Henry: 'Azemia;
a Descriptive and Sentimental Novel. By Jacquetta Agneta Mariana Jenks
of Bellgrove Priory in Wales' (1796); and 'Modern Novel-Writing, or the
Elegant Enthusiast. By the Rt. Hon. Lady Harriet Marlow'(1797). He
represented Wells from 1784 to 1790, and Hindon from 1806 to 1820; but
took no part in political life. He was now settled at Fonthill
(1796-1822), absorbed in collecting books, pictures, and engravings,
laying out the grounds, indulging his architectural extravagances, and
shutting himself and his palace out from the world by a gigantic wall.
When Rogers visited him at Fonthill, and arrived at the gate, he was
told that neither his servant nor his horses could be admitted, but that
Mr. Beckford's attendants and horses would be at his service
('Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', p. 217). Beckford
had been taught music by Mozart, and Rogers says ('ibid'.) that "in the
evening Beckford would amuse us by reading one of his unpublished works;
or he would extemporize on the pianoforte, producing the most novel and
charming melodies."

In 1822 his gigantic fortune had dwindled; he was in embarrassed
circumstances; Fonthill and most of its contents were sold, and Beckford
settled in Lansdowne Terrace, Bath, where he still collected books and
works of art, laid out the grounds, and built the tower on Lansdowne
Hill, which are now the property of the city. At Bath he died in 1844.

'Vathek' is a masterpiece, which, as an Eastern tale, is unrivalled in
European literature.

"For correctness of costume," says Byron, in one of his diaries,
"beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all
European imitations; and bears such marks of originality, that those
who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to
be a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 'Rasselas' must bow before
it: his 'Happy Valley' will not bear a comparison with the Hall of
Eblis."

Beckford's letters are, in their way, equally masterpieces, and, like
'Vathek', have the appearance of being struck off without labour.
Reprinted, as their writer says (Preface to the edition of 1840),
because "some justly admired Authors... condescended to glean a few
stray thoughts from these letters," they suggest, in some respects,
comparison with Byron's own work. There is the same prodigality of
power, the same simple nervous style, the same vein of melancholy, the
same cynical contempt for mankind. In both writers there is a passionate
feeling for the grander aspects of nature, though Beckford was also
thrilled, as Byron was not, by the beauties of art. In both there are
similar inconsistencies and incongruities of temperament, and the same
vein of reckless self-indulgence appears to run by the side of nobler
enthusiasms. In both there is a taste for Oriental magnificence, which,
in Beckford, was to some degree corrected by his artistic perceptions.
Both, finally, described not so much the objects they saw, as the
impression which those objects produced on themselves, and thus steeped
their pictures, clear and vivid though they are, in an atmosphere of
their own personality.]

[Footnote 3: William, third Viscount Courtenay, died unmarried in 1835,
and with him the viscountcy became extinct. In 1831 he proved before
Parliament his title to the earldom of Devon, which passed at his death
to a cousin, William, tenth Earl of Devon (1777-1859).]

[Footnote 4: In this letter the following verses were enclosed:--
"Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

"Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired,
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the Custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient--push from shore.
'Have a care! that case holds liquor--
Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!'
'Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board.'
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax.
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
'Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in--
Who the deuce can harbour there?'
'Who, sir? plenty--
Nobles twenty--
Did at once my vessel fill'--
'Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still:
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket,
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.'

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls;
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth--and damns our souls.
'Here's a stanza
On Braganza--
Help!'--'A couplet?'--'No, a cup
Of warm water.'--
'What's the matter?'
'Zounds! my liver's coming up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.'

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30