The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals Volume II Part 96

Wrote to H.:--he has been telling that I------[3] I am sure, at least, _I_ did not mention it, and I wish he had not. He is a good fellow, and I obliged myself ten times more by being of use than I did him,--and there's an end on't.

Baldwin [4] is boring me to present their King's Bench pet.i.tion. I presented Cartwright's last year; and Stanhope and I stood against the whole House, and mouthed it valiantly--and had some fun and a little abuse for our opposition. But "I am not i' th' vein" [5] for this business. Now, had----been here, she would have _made_ me do it.

_There_ is a woman, who, amid all her fascination, always urged a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, she had been my tutelar genius.

Baldwin is very importunate--but, poor fellow, "I can't get out, I can't get out--said the starling." [6] Ah, I am as bad as that dog Sterne, who preferred whining over "a dead a.s.s to relieving a living mother"

[7]--villain--hypocrite--slave--sycophant! but _I_ am no better. Here I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for the sake of these unfortunates, and three words and half a smile of----had she been here to urge it (and urge it she infallibly would--at least she always pressed me on senatorial duties, and particularly in the cause of weakness) would have made me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on Rochefoucault for being always right! In him a lie were virtue,--or, at least, a comfort to his readers.

George Byron has not called to-day; I hope he will be an admiral, and, perhaps, Lord Byron into the bargain. If he would but marry, I would engage never to marry myself, or cut him out of the heirship. He would be happier, and I should like nephews better than sons.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty (January 22d., 1814). Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console us for not being always _twenty-five_?

"Oh Gioventu!

Oh Primavera! gioventu dell' anno.

Oh Gioventu! primavera della vita."

[Footnote 1:

"'Strato'.

For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death.

'Octavius'.

According to his virtue let us use him, With all respect and rites of burial."

'Julius Caesar', act v. sc. 5.]

[Footnote 2: In 'The Giaour' (lines 388-392) occurs the following pa.s.sage:

"As rising on its purple wing The insect-queen of Eastern spring O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near," etc.

To line 389 is appended this note:

"The blue-winged b.u.t.terfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species."]

[Footnote 3: See letter [Letter 365] to Francis Hodgson, p. 294.]

[Footnote 4: The letters which W.J. Baldwin, a debtor in the King's Bench prison, wrote to Byron are preserved. Byron seems to have refused to present the pet.i.tion from diffidence, but he interested himself in the subject, and probably induced Lord Holland to take up the question.

(See p. 318, 'note' 2 [Footnote 6 of the initial journal entry which forms the beginning of Chapter VIII.]) In the list of abuses enumerated by Baldwin is mentioned a "strong room," in which prisoners were confined, without fires or gla.s.s to the windows, in the depth of winter.]

[Footnote 5: 'Richard III'., act iv, sc. 2.]

[Footnote 6: 'Sentimental Journey' (ed. 1819), vol. ii. p. 379.]

[Footnote 7: 'Ibid.', vol. ii. p. 337.]

Sunday, December 5.

Dallas's nephew (son to the American Attorney-general) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas that my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These are the first tidings that have ever sounded like _Fame_ to my ears--to be redde on the banks of the Ohio! The greatest pleasure I ever derived, of this kind was from an extract, in Cooke the actor's life, from his journal [1], stating that in the reading-room at Albany, near Washington, he perused _English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers_. To be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of _posthumous feel_, very different from the ephemeral _eclat_ and fete-ing, buzzing and party-ing compliments of the well-dressed mult.i.tude. I can safely say that, during my _reign_ in the spring of 1812, I regretted nothing but its duration of six weeks instead of a fortnight, and was heartily glad to resign.

Last night I supped with Lewis; and, as usual, though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have been half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely destroyed by long abstinence, and the rest will probably follow. Let it--I only wish the _pain_ over. The "leap in the dark" is the least to be dreaded.

The Duke of----called. I have told them forty times that, except to half-a-dozen old and specified acquaintances, I am invisible. His Grace is a good, n.o.ble, ducal person; but I am content to think so at a distance, and so--I was not at home.

Galt called.--Mem.--to ask some one to speak to Raymond in favour of his play. We are old fellow-travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he has much strong sense, experience of the world, and is, as far as I have seen, a good-natured philosophical fellow. I showed him Sligo's letter on the reports of the Turkish girl's _aventure_ at Athens soon after it happened. He and Lord Holland, Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Melbourne have seen it. Murray has a copy. I thought it had been _unknown_, and wish it were; but Sligo arrived only some days after, and the _rumours_ are the subject of his letter. That I shall preserve,--_it is as well_. Lewis and Gait were both _horrified_; and L. wondered I did not introduce the situation into _The Giaour_. He _may_ wonder;--he might wonder more at that production's being written at all. But to describe the _feelings_ of _that situation_ were impossible--it is _icy_ even to recollect them.

The _Bride of Abydos_ was published on Thursday the second of December; but how it is liked or disliked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not is no fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most partial reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination--from selfish regrets to vivid recollections--and recalled me to a country replete with the _brightest_ and _darkest_, but always most _lively_ colours of my memory. Sharpe called, but was not let in, which I regret.

Saw [Rogers] yesterday. I have not kept my appointment at Middleton, which has not pleased him, perhaps; and my projected voyage with [Ward]

will, perhaps, please him less. But I wish to keep well with both. They are instruments that don't do in concert; but, surely, their separate tones are very musical, and I won't give up either.

It is well if I don't jar between these great discords. At present I stand tolerably well with all, but I cannot adopt their _dislikes_;--so many _sets_. Holland's is the first;--every thing _distingue_ is welcome there, and certainly the _ton_ of his society is the best. Then there is Madame de Stael's--there I never go, though I might, had I courted it.

It is composed of the----s and the----family, with a strange sprinkling,--orators, dandies, and all kinds of _Blue_, from the regular Grub Street uniform, down to the azure jacket of the _Litterateur_ [2]?

To see----and----sitting together, at dinner, always reminds me of the grave, where all distinctions of friend and foe are levelled; and they--the Reviewer and the Reviewee--the Rhinoceros and Elephant--the Mammoth and Megalonyx--all will lie quietly together. They now _sit_ together, as silent, but not so quiet, as if they were already immured.

I did not go to the Berrys' the other night. The elder is a woman of much talent, and both are handsome, and must have been beautiful.

To-night asked to Lord H.'s--shall I go? um!--perhaps.

Morning, two o'clock.

Went to Lord H.'s--party numerous--_mi_lady in perfect good humour, and consequently _perfect_. No one more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, when she will. Asked for Wednesday to dine and meet the Stael--asked particularly, I believe, out of mischief to see the first interview after the _note_, with which Corinne professes herself to be so much taken. I don't much like it; she always talks of _my_self or _her_self, and I am not (except in soliloquy, as now,) much enamoured of either subject--especially one's works. What the devil shall I say about _De l'Allemagne_? I like it prodigiously; but unless I can twist my admiration into some fantastical expression, she won't believe me; and I know, by experience, I shall be overwhelmed with fine things about rhyme, etc., etc. The lover, Mr.----[Rocca], was there to-night, and C----said "it was the only proof _he_ had seen of her good taste."

Monsieur L'Amant is remarkably handsome; but _I_ don't think more so than her book.

C----[Campbell] looks well,--seems pleased, and dressed to _sprucery_.

A blue coat becomes him,--so does his new wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birthday suit, or a wedding-garment, and was witty and lively. He abused Corinne's book, which I regret; because, firstly, he understands German, and is consequently a fair judge; and, secondly, he is _first-rate_, and, consequently, the best of judges. I reverence and admire him; but I won't give up my opinion--why should I? I read _her_ again and again, and there can be no affectation in this. I cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book I read and lay down, and take up again; and no book can be totally bad which finds _one_, even _one_ reader, who can say as much sincerely.