The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals Volume I Part 25

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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.s 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.

I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a _tame bear_. [2]

When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, "he should _sit for a fellowship._" Sherard will explain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This answer delighted them not. We have several parties here, and this evening a large a.s.sortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with me,--a precious mixture, but they go on well together; and for me, I am a _spice_ of every thing except a jockey; by the bye, I was dismounted again the other day.

Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I have written 214 pages of a novel--one poem of 380 lines, [3] to be published (without my name) in a few weeks, with notes,--560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. _Apropos_, I have been praised to the skies in the _Critical Review_, [4] and abused greatly in another publication. [5] So much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book: it keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, nor do the humblest escape;--so I bear it like a philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse, my censor only quotes _two lines_ from different poems, in support of his opinion. Now, the proper way to _cut up_, is to quote long pa.s.sages, and make them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of praise, and more than _my modesty_ will allow said on the subject.

Adieu.

P.S.--Write, write, write!!!

[Footnote 1: George Edmund Byron Bettesworth (1780-1808), as lieutenant of the 'Centaur', was wounded (1804) in the capture of the 'Curieux'. In command of the latter vessel he captured the 'Dame Ernouf' (1805), and was again wounded. He was made a post-captain in the latter year, when he brought home despatches from Nelson at Antigua, announcing Villeneuve's return to Europe. He was killed off Bergen in 1808, while in command of the 'Tartar'. Captain Bettesworth, whose father a.s.sumed the name of Bettesworth in addition to that of Trevanion, married, in 1807, Lady Alethea Grey, daughter of Earl Grey. Through his grandmother, Sophia Trevanion, Byron was Captain Bettesworth's cousin.]

[Footnote 2: See 'Poems', vol. i. p. 406. ]

[Footnote 3: This poem, printed in book form, but not published, under the t.i.tle of 'British Bards', is the foundation of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The MS. is in the possession of Mr. Murray.]

[Footnote 4: For September, 1807. In noticing the Elegy on Newstead Abbey, the writer says, "We could not but hail, with something of prophetic rapture, the hope conveyed in the closing stanza:--

"'Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray.'"]

[Footnote 5: The first number of 'The Satirist: A Monthly Meteor'

(October, 1807).]

82.--To J. Ridge.

Trinity College, Cambridge, November 20, 1807.

Sir,--I am happy to hear every thing goes on so well, and I presume you will soon commence, though I am still of opinion the first Edition had better be entirely sold, before you risk the printing of a second.

As Curly recommends fine wove Foolscap, let it be used, and I will order a design in London for a plate, my own portrait would perhaps be best, but as that would take up so long a time in completing we will subst.i.tute probably a view of Harrow, [1] or Newstead in its stead.

You will omit the poems mentioned below:

Stanzas on a view of Harrow.

To a Quaker.

The First Kiss of Love.

College Examinations.

Lines to the Rev. J. T. Becher.

To be inserted, not exactly in the place, but in different parts of the volume, I will send you five poems never yet published. Two of tolerable length, at least much longer than any of the above, which are ordered to be omitted.