The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals Volume II Part 107

'Moniteur', 17 Mars, 1814.]

Albany, March 28.

This night got into my new apartments, [1] rented of Lord Althorpe, on a lease of seven years. s.p.a.cious, and room for my books and sabres. _In_ the _house_, too, another advantage. The last few days, or whole week, have been very abstemious, regular in exercise, and yet very _un_well.

Yesterday, dined _tete-a-tete_ at the Cocoa with Scrope Davies--sat from six till midnight--drank between us one bottle of champagne and six of claret, neither of which wines ever affect me. Offered to take Scrope home in my carriage; but he was tipsy and pious, and I was obliged to leave him on his knees praying to I know not what purpose or paG.o.d. No headach, nor sickness, that night nor to-day. Got up, if any thing, earlier than usual--sparred with Jackson _ad sudorem_, and have been much better in health than for many days. I have heard nothing more from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four thousand eight hundred pounds, a debt of some standing, and which I wished to have paid before. My mind is much relieved by the removal of that _debit_.

Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. I have refused _every_ body else, but I can't deny her any thing;--so I must e'en do it, though I had as lief "drink up Eisel--eat a crocodile." [2] Let me see--Ward, the Hollands, the Lambs, Rogers, etc., etc.,--every body, more or less, have been trying for the last two years to accommodate this _couplet_ quarrel, to no purpose. I shall laugh if Augusta succeeds.

Redde a little of many things--shall get in all my books to-morrow.

Luckily this room will hold them--with "ample room and verge, etc., the characters of h.e.l.l to trace." [3] I must set about some employment soon; my heart begins to eat _itself_ again.

[Footnote 1: In 1804 Albany House, in Piccadilly, long occupied by the Duke of York and Albany, was converted into sets of bachelor chambers, and the gardens behind were also built over with additional suites of rooms. Byron's were in the original house on the ground floor, No. 2.

Moore, writing to Rogers, April 12, 1814 ('Memoirs, etc'., vol. viii. p.

176), says,

"Lord Byron, as you know, has removed into Albany, and lives in an apartment, I should think thirty by forty feet."]

[Footnote 2: 'Hamlet', act v. sc. 1, line 299.]

[Footnote 3:

"Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of h.e.l.l to trace."

Gray, 'The Bard', lines 51, 52.]

April 8.

Out of town six days. On my return, found my poor little paG.o.d, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal;--the thieves are in Paris. It is his own fault. Like Milo, he would rend the oak; [1] but it closed again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts--lion, bear, down to the dirtiest jackal--may all tear him. That Muscovite winter _wedged_ his arms;--ever since, he has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may still leave their marks; and "I guess now" (as the Yankees say) that he will yet play them a pa.s.s. He is in their rear--between them and their homes.

Query--will they ever reach them?

[Footnote 1: He adopted this thought afterwards in his 'Ode to Napoleon', as well as most of the historical examples in the following paragraph:

"He who of old would rend the oak, Dream'd not of the rebound; Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-- Alone--how look'd he round?"]

Sat.u.r.day, April 9, 1814.

I mark this day!

Napoleon Buonaparte has abdicated the throne of the world. "Excellent well." Methinks Sylla did better; for he revenged and resigned in the height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his foes--the finest instance of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Dioclesian did well too--Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a dervise--Charles the Fifth but so so--but Napoleon, worst of all. What!

wait till they were in his capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up what is already gone!! "What whining monk art thou--what holy cheat?" [1] 'Sdeath!--Dionysius at Corinth was yet a king to this. The "Isle of Elba" to retire to!--Well--if it had been Caprea, I should have marvelled less. "I see men's minds are but a parcel of their fortunes."

[2] I am utterly bewildered and confounded.

I don't know--but I think _I_, even _I_ (an insect compared with this creature), have set my life on casts not a millionth part of this man's.

But, after all, a crown may be not worth dying for. Yet, to outlive _Lodi_ for this!!!

Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead! _Expende--quot libras in duce summo invenies_? [3] I knew they were light in the balance of mortality; but I thought their living dust weighed more _carats_. [4] Alas! this imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to stick in a glazier's pencil:--the pen of the historian won't rate it worth a ducat.

Psha! "something too much of this." [5] But I won't give him up even now; though all his admirers have, "like the thanes, fallen from him."

[6]

[Footnote 1: In Otway's 'Venice Preserved' (act iv. sc. 2), Pierre says to Jaffier, who had betrayed him:

"What whining monk art thou? What holy cheat?

That would'st encroach upon my credulous ears, And cant'st thus vilely! Hence! I know thee not!"]

[Footnote 2: