Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, for the real or supposed injury, to Colonel G.’s friend, and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord B. — begging them to recollect that, while they consider Colonel G.’s honour, Lord B. must also maintain his own. If the business can be settled amicably, Lord B. will do as much as can and ought to be done by a man of honour towards conciliation; — if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in the manner most conducive to his further wishes.”

  In the morning I received the letter, in its new form, from Mr. Leckie, with the annexed note.

  “My dear Sir,

  “I found my friend very ill in bed; he has, however, managed to copy the enclosed, with the alterations proposed. Perhaps you may wish to see me in the morning; I shall therefore be glad to see you any time till twelve o’clock. If you rather wish me to call on you, tell me, and I shall obey your summons. Yours, very truly,

  “G.T. LECKIE.”

  With such facilities towards pacification, it is almost needless to add that there was but little delay in settling the matter amicably.

  While upon this subject, I shall avail myself of the opportunity which it affords of extracting an amusing account given by Lord Byron himself of some affairs of this description, in which he was, at different times, employed as mediator.

  “I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have always contrived to settle the business without compromising the honour of the parties, or leading them to mortal consequences, and this, too, sometimes in very difficult and delicate circumstances, and having to deal with very hot and haughty spirits, — Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, captains, and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, of course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed company. I have had to carry challenges from gentlemen to noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to counsellors, and once from a clergyman to an officer in the Life Guards; but I found the latter by far the most difficult, —

  “‘to compose The bloody duel without blows,’ —

  the business being about a woman: I must add, too, that I never saw a woman behave so ill, like a cold-blooded, heartless b —— as she was, — but very handsome for all that. A certain Susan C * * was she called. I never saw her but once; and that was to induce her but to say two words (which in no degree compromised herself), and which would have had the effect of saving a priest or a lieutenant of cavalry. She would not say them, and neither N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E. N * *, and a friend to one of the parties,) could prevail upon her to say them, though both of us used to deal in some sort with womankind. At last I managed to quiet the combatants without her talisman, and, I believe, to her great disappointment: she was the damnedest b —— that I ever saw, and I have seen a great many. Though my clergyman was sure to lose either his life or his living, he was as warlike as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly be pacified; but then he was in love, and that is a martial passion.”

  However disagreeable it was to find the consequences of his Satire thus rising up against him in a hostile shape, he was far more embarrassed in those cases where the retribution took a friendly form. Being now daily in the habit of meeting and receiving kindnesses from persons who, either in themselves, or through their relatives, had been wounded by his pen, he felt every fresh instance of courtesy from such quarters to be, (as he sometimes, in the strong language of Scripture, expressed it,) like “heaping coals of fire upon his head.” He was, indeed, in a remarkable degree, sensitive to the kindness or displeasure of those he lived with; and had he passed a life subject to the immediate influence of society, it may be doubted whether he ever would have ventured upon those unbridled bursts of energy in which he at once demonstrated and abused his power. At the period when he ran riot in his Satire, society had not yet caught him within its pale; and in the time of his Cains and Don Juans, he had again broken loose from it. Hence, his instinct towards a life of solitude and independence, as the true element of his strength. In his own domain of imagination he could defy the whole world; while, in real life, a frown or smile could rule him. The facility with which he sacrificed his first volume, at the mere suggestion of his friend, Mr. Becher, is a strong proof of this pliableness; and in the instance of Childe Harold, such influence had the opinions of Mr. Gifford and Mr. Dallas on his mind, that he not only shrunk from his original design of identifying himself with his hero, but surrendered to them one of his most favourite stanzas, whose heterodoxy they had objected to; nor is it too much, perhaps, to conclude, that had a more extended force of such influence then acted upon him, he would have consented to omit the sceptical parts of his poem altogether. Certain it is that, during the remainder of his stay in England, no such doctrines were ever again obtruded on his readers; and in all those beautiful creations of his fancy, with which he brightened that whole period, keeping the public eye in one prolonged gaze of admiration, both the bitterness and the licence of his impetuous spirit were kept effectually under control. The world, indeed, had yet to witness what he was capable of, when emancipated from this restraint. For, graceful and powerful as were his flights while society had still a hold of him, it was not till let loose from the leash that he rose into the true region of his strength; and though almost in proportion to that strength was, too frequently, his abuse of it, yet so magnificent are the very excesses of such energy, that it is impossible, even while we condemn, not to admire.

  The occasion by which I have been led into these remarks, — namely, his sensitiveness on the subject of his Satire, — is one of those instances that show how easily his gigantic spirit could be, if not held down, at least entangled, by the small ties of society. The aggression of which he had been guilty was not only past, but, by many of those most injured, forgiven; and yet, — highly, it must be allowed, to the credit of his social feelings, — the idea of living familiarly and friendlily with persons, respecting whose character or talents there were such opinions of his on record, became, at length, insupportable to him; and, though far advanced in a fifth edition of “English Bards,” &c., he came to the resolution of suppressing the Satire altogether; and orders were sent to Cawthorn, the publisher, to commit the whole impression to the flames. At the same time, and from similar motives, — aided, I rather think, by a friendly remonstrance from Lord Elgin, or some of his connections, — the “Curse of Minerva,” a poem levelled against that nobleman, and already in progress towards publication, was also sacrificed; while the “Hints from Horace,” though containing far less personal satire than either of the others, shared their fate.

  To exemplify what I have said of his extreme sensibility, to the passing sunshine or clouds of the society in which he lived, I need but cite the following notes, addressed by him to his friend Mr. William Bankes, under the apprehension that this gentleman was, for some reason or other, displeased with him.

  LETTER 92. TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES.

  “April 20. 1812.

  “My dear Bankes,

  “I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech you made to me last night, and my hope is, that it was only one of your profane jests. I should be very sorry that any part of my behaviour should give you cause to suppose that I think higher of myself, or otherwise of you than I have always done. I can assure you that I am as much the humblest of your servants as at Trin. Coll.; and if I have not been at home when you favoured me with a call, the loss was more mine than yours. In the bustle of buzzing parties, there is, there can be, no rational conversation; but when I can enjoy it, there is nobody’s I can prefer to your own. Believe me ever faithfully and most affectionately yours,

  “BYRON.”

  LETTER 93. TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES.

  “My dear Bankes,

  “My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner might inadvertently be, the change was as unintentional as (if intended) it would have been ungrateful. I really was not aware that, while we were together, I had evinced such caprices;
that we were not so much in each other’s company as I could have wished, I well know, but I think so acute an observer as yourself must have perceived enough to explain this, without supposing any slight to one in whose society I have pride and pleasure. Recollect that I do not allude here to ‘extended’ or ‘extending’ acquaintances, but to circumstances you will understand, I think, on a little reflection.

  “And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, otherwise than I trust we have long thought. You told me not long ago that my temper was improved, and I should be sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your friendship is of more account to me than all those absurd vanities in which, I fear, you conceive me to take too much interest. I have never disputed your superiority, or doubted (seriously) your good will, and no one shall ever ‘make mischief between us’ without the sincere regret on the part of your ever affectionate, &c.

  “P.S. I shall see you, I hope, at Lady Jersey’s. Hobhouse goes also.”

  In the month of April he was again tempted to try his success in the House of Lords; and, on the motion of Lord Donoughmore for taking into consideration the claims of the Irish catholics, delivered his sentiments strongly in favour of the proposition. His display, on this occasion, seems to have been less promising than in his first essay. His delivery was thought mouthing and theatrical, being infected, I take for granted (having never heard him speak in Parliament), with the same chanting tone that disfigured his recitation of poetry, — a tone contracted at most of the public schools, but more particularly, perhaps, at Harrow, and encroaching just enough on the boundaries of song to offend those ears most by which song is best enjoyed and understood.

  On the subject of the negotiations for a change of ministry which took place during this session, I find the following anecdotes recorded in his notebook: —

  “At the opposition meeting of the peers in 1812, at Lord Grenville’s, when Lord Grey and he read to us the correspondence upon Moira’s negotiation, I sate next to the present Duke of Grafton, and said, ‘What is to be done next?’— ‘Wake the Duke of Norfolk’ (who was snoring away near us), replied he: ‘I don’t think the negotiators have left any thing else for us to do this turn.’

  “In the debate, or rather discussion, afterwards in the House of Lords upon that very question, I sate immediately behind Lord Moira, who was extremely annoyed at Grey’s speech upon the subject; and, while Grey was speaking, turned round to me repeatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward question to me who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to me, ‘It was not so, it was so and so,’ &c. I did not know very well what to think, but I sympathised with the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject.”

  The subject of the Catholic claims was, it is well known, brought forward a second time this session by Lord Wellesley, whose motion for a future consideration of the question was carried by a majority of one. In reference to this division, another rather amusing anecdote is thus related.

  “Lord * * affects an imitation of two very different Chancellors, Thurlow and Loughborough, and can indulge in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the Catholic question, when we were either equal or within one (I forget which), I had been sent for in great haste to a ball, which I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, to emancipate five millions of people. I came in late, and did not go immediately into the body of the House, but stood just behind the woolsack. * * turned round, and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer, (who had come to him for a few minutes on the woolsack, as is the custom of his friends,) ‘Damn them! they’ll have it now, — by G —— d! the vote that is just come in will give it them.’”

  During all this time, the impression which he had produced in society, both as a poet and a man, went on daily increasing; and the facility with which he gave himself up to the current of fashionable life, and mingled in all the gay scenes through which it led, showed that the novelty, at least, of this mode of existence had charms for him, however he might estimate its pleasures. That sort of vanity which is almost inseparable from genius, and which consists in an extreme sensitiveness on the subject of self, Lord Byron, I need not say, possessed in no ordinary degree; and never was there a career in which this sensibility to the opinions of others was exposed to more constant and various excitement than that on which he was now entered. I find in a note of my own to him, written at this period, some jesting allusions to the “circle of star-gazers” whom I had left around him at some party on the preceding night; — and such, in fact, was the flattering ordeal he had to undergo wherever he went. On these occasions, — particularly before the range of his acquaintance had become sufficiently extended to set him wholly at his ease, — his air and port were those of one whose better thoughts were elsewhere, and who looked with melancholy abstraction on the gay crowd around him. This deportment, so rare in such scenes, and so accordant with the romantic notions entertained of him, was the result partly of shyness, and partly, perhaps, of that love of effect and impression to which the poetical character of his mind naturally led. Nothing, indeed, could be more amusing and delightful than the contrast which his manners afterwards, when we were alone, presented to his proud reserve in the brilliant circle we had just left. It was like the bursting gaiety of a boy let loose from school, and seemed as if there was no extent of fun or tricks of which he was not capable. Finding him invariably thus lively when we were together, I often rallied him on the gloomy tone of his poetry, as assumed; but his constant answer was (and I soon ceased to doubt of its truth), that, though thus merry and full of laughter with those he liked, he was, at heart, one of the most melancholy wretches in existence.

  Among the numerous notes which I received from him at this time, — some of them relating to our joint engagements in society, and others to matters now better forgotten, — I shall select a few that (as showing his haunts and habits) may not, perhaps, be uninteresting.

  “March 25. 1812.

  “Know all men by these presents, that you, Thomas Moore, stand indicted — no — invited, by special and particular solicitation, to Lady C. L * *’s to-morrow evening, at half-past nine o’clock, where you will meet with a civil reception and decent entertainment. Pray, come — I was so examined after you this morning, that I entreat you to answer in person.

  “Believe me,” &c.

  “Friday noon.

  “I should have answered your note yesterday, but I hoped to have seen you this morning. I must consult with you about the day we dine with Sir Francis. I suppose we shall meet at Lady Spencer’s to-night. I did not know that you were at Miss Berry’s the other night, or I should have certainly gone there.

  “As usual, I am in all sorts of scrapes, though none, at present, of a martial description.

  “Believe me,” &c.

  “May 8. 1812.

  “I am too proud of being your friend to care with whom I am linked in your estimation, and, God knows, I want friends more at this time than at any other. I am ‘taking care of myself’ to no great purpose. If you knew my situation in every point of view you would excuse apparent and unintentional neglect. I shall leave town, I think; but do not you leave it without seeing me. I wish you, from my soul, every happiness you can wish yourself; and I think you have taken the road to secure it. Peace be with you! I fear she has abandoned me.

  “Ever,” &c.

  “May 20. 1812.

  “On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw Bellingham launched into eternity, and at three the same day I saw * * * launched into the country.

  “I believe, in the beginning of June, I shall be down for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat you up ‘en passant’ with Hobhouse, who is endeavouring, like you and every body else, to keep me out of scrapes.

  “I meant to have written you a long letter, but I find I cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you will hear it from me — if good; if bad, there are plenty to tell it. In the mean time, do you be happy.
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  “Ever yours, &c.

  “P.S. — My best wishes and respects to Mrs. * *; — she is beautiful. I may say so even to you, for I never was more struck with a countenance.”

  Among the tributes to his fame, this spring, it should have been mentioned that, at some evening party, he had the honour of being presented, at that royal personage’s own desire, to the Prince Regent. “The Regent,” says Mr. Dallas, “expressed his admiration of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and continued a conversation, which so fascinated the poet, that had it not been for an accidental deferring of the next levee, he bade fair to become a visiter at Carlton House, if not a complete courtier.”

  After this wise prognostic, the writer adds,— “I called on him on the morning for which the levee had been appointed, and found him in a full dress court suit of clothes, with his fine black hair in powder, which by no means suited his countenance. I was surprised, as he had not told me that he should go to court; and it seemed to me as if he thought it necessary to apologise for his intention, by his observing that he could not in decency but do it, as the Regent had done him the honour to say that he hoped to see him soon at Carlton House.”

  In the two letters that follow we find his own account of the introduction.

  LETTER 94. TO LORD HOLLAND.

  “June 25. 1812.

  “My dear Lord,

  “I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, been very negligent, but till last night I was not apprised of Lady Holland’s restoration, and I shall call to-morrow to have the satisfaction, I trust, of hearing that she is well — I hope that neither politics nor gout have assailed your Lordship since I last saw you, and that you also are ‘as well as could be expected.’