Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “Pray, is your Ionian friend in town? You have promised me an introduction. — You mention having consulted some friend on the MSS. — Is not this contrary to our usual way? Instruct Mr. Murray not to allow his shopman to call the work ‘Child of Harrow’s Pilgrimage!!!!!’ as he has done to some of my astonished friends, who wrote to enquire after my sanity on the occasion, as well they might. I have heard nothing of Murray, whom I scolded heartily. Must I write more notes? — Are there not enough? — Cawthorn must be kept back with the ‘Hints.’ — I hope he is getting on with Hobhouse’s quarto. Good evening. Yours ever,” &c.

  Of the same date with this melancholy letter are the following verses, never before printed, which he wrote in answer to some lines received from a friend, exhorting him to be cheerful, and to “banish care.” They will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, he reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to come.

  “Newstead Abbey, October 11. 1811.

  “‘Oh! banish care’ — such ever be The motto of thy revelry! Perchance of mine, when wassail nights Renew those riotous delights, Wherewith the children of Despair Lull the lone heart, and ‘banish care.’ But not in morn’s reflecting hour, When present, past, and future lower, When all I loved is changed or gone, Mock with such taunts the woes of one, Whose every thought — but let them pass — Thou know’st I am not what I was. But, above all, if thou wouldst hold Place in a heart that ne’er was cold, By all the powers that men revere, By all unto thy bosom dear, Thy joys below, thy hopes above, Speak — speak of any thing but love.

  “‘Twere long to tell, and vain to hear The tale of one who scorns a tear; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail. But mine has suffer’d more than well ’Twould suit Philosophy to tell. I’ve seen my bride another’s bride, — Have seen her seated by his side, — Have seen the infant which she bore, Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, When she and I in youth have smiled As fond and faultless as her child; — Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, Ask if I felt no secret pain. And I have acted well my part, And made my cheek belie my heart, Return’d the freezing glance she gave, Yet felt the while that woman’s slave; — Have kiss’d, as if without design, The babe which ought to have been mine, And show’d, alas! in each caress Time had not made me love the less.

  “But let this pass — I’ll whine no more. Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain, — I’ll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain’s ‘May is in the sere,’ Thou hear’st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times, Of one, whom Love nor Pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men’s praise, One, who in stern Ambition’s pride, Perchance not Blood shall turn aside, One rank’d in some recording page With the worst anarchs of the age, Him wilt thou know — and, knowing, pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause.”

  The anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark “sublime he drew,” and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he could not find, in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil.

  It was about the time when he was thus bitterly feeling and expressing the blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on the death of an imaginary one, “Thyrza,” were written; — nor is it any wonder, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under which these beautiful effusions flowed from his fancy, that of all his strains of pathos, they should be the most touching and most pure. They were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs; — a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in their passage through his fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feeling. In retracing the happy hours he had known with the friends now lost, all the ardent tenderness of his youth came back upon him. His school-sports with the favourites of his boyhood, Wingfield and Tattersall, — his summer days with Long, and those evenings of music and romance which he had dreamed away in the society of his adopted brother, Eddlestone, — all these recollections of the young and dead now came to mingle themselves in his mind with the image of her who, though living, was, for him, as much lost as they, and diffused that general feeling of sadness and fondness through his soul, which found a vent in these poems. No friendship, however warm, could have inspired sorrow so passionate; as no love, however pure, could have kept passion so chastened. It was the blending of the two affections, in his memory and imagination, that thus gave birth to an ideal object combining the best features of both, and drew from him these saddest and tenderest of love-poems, in which we find all the depth and intensity of real feeling touched over with such a light as no reality ever wore.

  The following letter gives some further account of the course of his thoughts and pursuits at this period: —

  LETTER 72. TO MR. HODGSON.

  “Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13. 1811.

  “You will begin to deem me a most liberal correspondent; but as my letters are free, you will overlook their frequency. I have sent you answers in prose and verse to all your late communications, and though I am invading your ease again, I don’t know why, or what to put down that you are not acquainted with already. I am growing nervous (how you will laugh!) — but it is true, — really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless; I have very seldom any society, and when I have, I run out of it. At ‘this present writing,’ there are in the next room three ladies, and I have stolen away to write this grumbling letter. — I don’t know that I sha’n’t end with insanity, for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely; but this looks more like silliness than madness, as Scrope Davies would facetiously remark in his consoling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your company; and a session of Parliament would suit me well, — any thing to cure me of conjugating the accursed verb ‘ennuyer.’

  “When shall you be at Cambridge? You have hinted, I think, that your friend Bland is returned from Holland. I have always had a great respect for his talents, and for all that I have heard of his character; but of me, I believe he knows nothing, except that he heard my sixth form repetitions ten months together, at the average of two lines a morning, and those never perfect. I remembered him and his ‘Slaves’ as I passed between Capes Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of Ceriga, and I always bewailed the absence of the Anthology. I suppose he will now translate Vondel, the Dutch Shakspeare, and ‘Gysbert van Amstel’ will easily be accommodated to our stage in its present state; and I presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the love of Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the passion of Christ; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, and other varieties of Low Country literature. No doubt you will think me crazed to talk of such things, but they are all in black and white and good repute on the banks of every canal from Amsterdam to Alkmaar.

  “Yours ever, B.”

  “My poesy is in the hands of its various publishers; but the ‘Hints from Horace,’ (to which I have subjoined some savage lines on Methodism, and ferocious notes on the vanity of the triple Editory of the Edin. Annual Register,) my ‘Hints,’ I say, stand still, and why? — I have not a friend in the world (but you and Drury) who can construe Horace’s Latin or my English well enough to adjust them for the press, or to correct the proofs in a grammatical way. So that, unless you have bowels when you return to town (I am too far off to do it for myself), this ineffable work will be lost to the world for — I don’t know how
many weeks.

  “‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’ must wait till Murray’s is finished. He is making a tour in Middlesex, and is to return soon, when high matter may be expected. He wants to have it in quarto, which is a cursed unsaleable size; but it is pestilent long, and one must obey one’s bookseller. I trust Murray will pass the Paddington Canal without being seduced by Payne and Mackinlay’s example, — I say Payne and Mackinlay, supposing that the partnership held good. Drury, the villain, has not written to me; ‘I am never (as Mrs. Lumpkin says to Tony) to be gratified with the monster’s dear wild notes.’

  “So you are going (going indeed!) into orders. You must make your peace with the Eclectic Reviewers — they accuse you of impiety, I fear, with injustice. Demetrius, the ‘Sieger of Cities,’ is here, with ‘Gilpin Homer.’ The painter is not necessary, as the portraits he already painted are (by anticipation) very like the new animals. — Write, and send me your ‘Love Song’ — but I want ‘paulo majora’ from you. Make a dash before you are a deacon, and try a dry publisher.

  “Yours always, B.”

  It was at this period that I first had the happiness of seeing and becoming acquainted with Lord Byron. The correspondence in which our acquaintance originated is, in a high degree, illustrative of the frank manliness of his character; and as it was begun on my side, some egotism must be tolerated in the detail which I have to give of the circumstances that led to it. So far back as the year 1806, on the occasion of a meeting which took place at Chalk Farm between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, a good deal of ridicule and raillery, founded on a false representation of what occurred before the magistrates at Bow Street, appeared in almost all the public prints. In consequence of this, I was induced to address a letter to the Editor of one of the Journals, contradicting the falsehood that had been circulated, and stating briefly the real circumstances of the case. For some time my letter seemed to produce the intended effect, — but, unluckily, the original story was too tempting a theme for humour and sarcasm to be so easily superseded by mere matter of fact. Accordingly, after a little time, whenever the subject was publicly alluded to, — more especially by those who were at all “willing to wound,” — the old falsehood was, for the sake of its ready sting, revived.

  In the year 1809, on the first appearance of “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” I found the author, who was then generally understood to be Lord Byron, not only jesting on the subject — and with sufficiently provoking pleasantry and cleverness — in his verse, but giving also, in the more responsible form of a note, an outline of the transaction in accordance with the original misreport, and, therefore, in direct contradiction to my published statement. Still, as the Satire was anonymous and unacknowledged, I did not feel that I was, in any way, called upon to notice it, and therefore dismissed the matter entirely from my mind. In the summer of the same year appeared the Second Edition of the work, with Lord Byron’s name prefixed to it. I was, at the time, in Ireland, and but little in the way of literary society; and it so happened that some months passed away before the appearance of this new edition was known to me. Immediately on being apprised of it, — the offence now assuming a different form, — I addressed the following letter to Lord Byron, and, transmitting it to a friend in London, requested that he would have it delivered into his Lordship’s hands.

  “Dublin, January 1. 1810.

  “My Lord,

  “Having just seen the name of ‘Lord Byron’ prefixed to a work entitled ‘English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,’ in which, as it appears to me, the lie is given to a public statement of mine, respecting an affair with Mr. Jeffrey some years since, I beg you will have the goodness to inform me whether I may consider your Lordship as the author of this publication.

  “I shall not, I fear, be able to return to London for a week or two; but, in the mean time, I trust your Lordship will not deny me the satisfaction of knowing whether you avow the insult contained in the passages alluded to.

  “It is needless to suggest to your Lordship the propriety of keeping our correspondence secret.

  “I have the honour to be

  “Your Lordship’s very humble servant,

  “THOMAS MOORE.

  “22. Molesworth Street.”

  In the course of a week, the friend to whom I intrusted this letter wrote to inform me that Lord Byron had, as he learned on enquiring of his publisher, gone abroad immediately on the publication of his Second Edition; but that my letter had been placed in the hands of a gentleman, named Hodgson, who had undertaken to forward it carefully to his Lordship. Though the latter step was not exactly what I could have wished, I thought it as well, on the whole, to let my letter take its chance, and again postponed all consideration of the matter.

  During the interval of a year and a half which elapsed before Lord Byron’s return, I had taken upon myself obligations, both as husband and father, which make most men, — and especially those who have nothing to bequeath, — less willing to expose themselves unnecessarily to danger. On hearing, therefore, of the arrival of the noble traveller from Greece, though still thinking it due to myself to follow up my first request of an explanation, I resolved, in prosecuting that object, to adopt such a tone of conciliation as should not only prove my sincere desire of a pacific result, but show the entire freedom from any angry or resentful feeling with which I took the step. The death of Mrs. Byron, for some time, delayed my purpose. But as soon after that event as was consistent with decorum, I addressed a letter to Lord Byron, in which, referring to my former communication, and expressing some doubts as to its having ever reached him, I re-stated, in pretty nearly the same words, the nature of the insult, which, as it appeared to me, the passage in his note was calculated to convey. “It is now useless,” I continued, “to speak of the steps with which it was my intention to follow up that letter. The time which has elapsed since then, though it has done away neither the injury nor the feeling of it, has, in many respects, materially altered my situation; and the only object which I have now in writing to your Lordship is to preserve some consistency with that former letter, and to prove to you that the injured feeling still exists, however circumstances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates, at present. When I say ‘injured feeling,’ let me assure your Lordship, that there is not a single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. I mean but to express that uneasiness, under (what I consider to be) a charge of falsehood, which must haunt a man of any feeling to his grave, unless the insult be retracted or atoned for; and which, if I did not feel, I should, indeed, deserve far worse than your Lordship’s satire could inflict upon me.” In conclusion I added, that so far from being influenced by any angry or resentful feeling towards him, it would give me sincere pleasure if, by any satisfactory explanation, he would enable me to seek the honour of being henceforward ranked among his acquaintance.

  To this letter, Lord Byron returned the following answer: —

  LETTER 73. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Cambridge, October 27. 1811.

  “Sir,

  “Your letter followed me from Notts, to this place, which will account for the delay of my reply. Your former letter I never had the honour to receive; — be assured, in whatever part of the world it had found me, I should have deemed it my duty to return and answer it in person.

  “The advertisement you mention, I know nothing of. — At the time of your meeting with Mr. Jeffrey, I had recently entered College, and remember to have heard and read a number of squibs on the occasion; and from the recollection of these I derived all my knowledge on the subject, without the slightest idea of ‘giving the lie’ to an address which I never beheld. When I put my name to the production, which has occasioned this correspondence, I became responsible to all whom it might concern, — to explain where it requires explanation, and, where insufficiently, or too sufficiently explicit, at all events to satisfy. My situation leaves me no choice; it rests with the injured and the angry to obtain reparation in their own way.

  “With regard to the
passage in question, you were certainly not the person towards whom I felt personally hostile. On the contrary, my whole thoughts were engrossed by one, whom I had reason to consider as my worst literary enemy, nor could I foresee that his former antagonist was about to become his champion. You do not specify what you would wish to have done: I can neither retract nor apologise for a charge of falsehood which I never advanced.

  “In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 8. St. James’s Street. — Neither the letter nor the friend to whom you stated your intention ever made their appearance.

  “Your friend, Mr. Rogers, or any other gentleman delegated by you, will find me most ready to adopt any conciliatory proposition which shall not compromise my own honour, — or, failing in that, to make the atonement you deem it necessary to require.

  “I have the honour to be, Sir,

  “Your most obedient, humble servant,

  “BYRON.”

  In my reply to this, I commenced by saying that his Lordship’s letter was, upon the whole, as satisfactory as I could expect. It contained all that, in the strict diplomatique of explanation, could be required, namely, — that he had never seen the statement which I supposed him wilfully to have contradicted, — that he had no intention of bringing against me any charge of falsehood, and that the objectionable passage of his work was not levelled personally at me. This, I added, was all the explanation I had a right to expect, and I was, of course, satisfied with it.

  I then entered into some detail relative to the transmission of my first letter from Dublin, — giving, as my reason for descending to these minute particulars, that I did not, I must confess, feel quite easy under the manner in which his Lordship had noticed the miscarriage of that first application to him.