Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “Mem. I must get a toy to-morrow, for Eliza, and send the device for the seals of myself and * * * * * Mem. too, to call on the Staël and Lady Holland to-morrow, and on * *, who has advised me (without seeing it, by the by) not to publish ‘Zuleika;’ I believe he is right, but experience might have taught him that not to print is physically impossible. No one has seen it but Hodgson and Mr. Gifford. I never in my life read a composition, save to Hodgson, as he pays me in kind. It is a horrible thing to do too frequently; — better print, and they who like may read, and if they don’t like, you have the satisfaction of knowing that they have, at least, purchased the right of saying so.

  “I have declined presenting the Debtors’ Petition, being sick of parliamentary mummeries. I have spoken thrice; but I doubt my ever becoming an orator. My first was liked; the second and third — I don’t know whether they succeeded or not. I have never yet set to it con amore; — one must have some excuse to one’s self for laziness, or inability, or both, and this is mine. ‘Company, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me;’ — and then, I have ‘drunk medicines,’ not to make me love others, but certainly enough to hate myself.

  “Two nights ago I saw the tigers sup at Exeter ’Change. Except Veli Pacha’s lion in the Morea, — who followed the Arab keeper like a dog, — the fondness of the hyæna for her keeper amused me most. Such a conversazione! — There was a ‘hippopotamus,’ like Lord L —— l in the face; and the ‘Ursine Sloth’ hath the very voice and manner of my valet — but the tiger talked too much. The elephant took and gave me my money again — took off my hat — opened a door — trunked a whip — and behaved so well, that I wish he was my butler. The handsomest animal on earth is one of the panthers; but the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to see one here: — the sight of the camel made me pine again for Asia Minor. ‘Oh quando te aspiciam?’

  “November 16.

  “Went last night with Lewis to see the first of Antony and Cleopatra. It was admirably got up, and well acted — a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden, Cleopatra strikes me as the epitome of her sex — fond, lively, sad, tender, teasing, humble, haughty, beautiful, the devil! — coquettish to the last, as well with the ‘asp’ as with Antony. After doing all she can to persuade him that — but why do they abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero’s head? Did not Tully tell Brutus it was a pity to have spared Antony? and did he not speak the Philippics? and are not ‘words things?’ and such ‘words’ very pestilent ‘things’ too? If he had had a hundred heads, they deserved (from Antony) a rostrum (his was stuck up there) apiece — though, after all, he might as well have pardoned him, for the credit of the thing. But to resume — Cleopatra, after securing him, says, ‘yet go — it is your interest,’ &c. — how like the sex! and the questions about Octavia — it is woman all over.

  “To-day received Lord Jersey’s invitation to Middleton — to travel sixty miles to meet Madame * *! I once travelled three thousand to get among silent people; and this same lady writes octavos, and talks folios. I have read her books — like most of them, and delight in the last; so I won’t hear it, as well as read.

  “Read Burns to-day. What would he have been, if a patrician? We should have had more polish — less force — just as much verse, but no immortality — a divorce and a duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations must have been less spirituous, he might have lived as long as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. What a wreck is that man! and all from bad pilotage; for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a little too squally. Poor dear Sherry! I shall never forget the day he and Rogers and Moore and I passed together; when he talked, and we listened, without one yawn, from six till one in the morning.

  “Got my seals * * * * * * Have again forgot a plaything for ma petite cousine Eliza; but I must send for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her to me. I sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last ‘Giaour,’ and ‘The Bride of Abydos.’ He won’t like the latter, and I don’t think that I shall long. It was written in four nights to distract my dreams from * *. Were it not thus, it had never been composed; and had I not done something at that time, I must have gone mad, by eating my own heart, — bitter diet! — Hodgson likes it better than ‘The Giaour,’ but nobody else will, — and he never liked the Fragment. I am sure, had it not been for Murray, that would never have been published, though the circumstances which are the groundwork make it * * * heigh-ho!

  “To-night I saw both the sisters of * *; my God! the youngest so like! I thought I should have sprung across the house, and am so glad no one was with me in Lady H.’s box. I hate those likenesses — the mock-bird, but not the nightingale — so like as to remind, so different as to be painful. One quarrels equally with the points of resemblance and of distinction.

  “Nov. 17.

  “No letter from * *; but I must not complain. The respectable Job says, ‘Why should a living man complain?’ I really don’t know, except it be that a dead man can’t; and he, the said patriarch, did complain, nevertheless, till his friends were tired and his wife recommended that pious prologue, ‘Curse — and die;’ the only time, I suppose, when but little relief is to be found in swearing. I have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland on ‘The Bride of Abydos,’ which he likes, and so does Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from whom I don’t deserve any quarter. Yet I did think, at the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not been in such a hurry with that confounded satire, of which I would suppress even the memory; — but people, now they can’t get it, make a fuss, I verily believe, out of contradiction.

  “George Ellis and Murray have been talking something about Scott and me, George pro Scoto, — and very right too. If they want to depose him, I only wish they would not set me up as a competitor. Even if I had my choice, I would rather be the Earl of Warwick than all the kings he ever made! Jeffrey and Gifford I take to be the monarch-makers in poetry and prose. The British Critic, in their Rokeby Review, have presupposed a comparison, which I am sure my friends never thought of, and W. Scott’s subjects are injudicious in descending to. I like the man — and admire his works to what Mr. Braham calls Entusymusy. All such stuff can only vex him, and do me no good. Many hate his politics — (I hate all politics); and, here, a man’s politics are like the Greek soul — an ειδωλον, besides God knows what other soul; but their estimate of the two generally go together.

  “Harry has not brought ma petite cousine. I want us to go to the play together; — she has been but once. Another short note from Jersey, inviting Rogers and me on the 23d. I must see my agent to-night. I wonder when that Newstead business will be finished. It cost me more than words to part with it — and to have parted with it! What matters it what I do? or what becomes of me? — but let me remember Job’s saying, and console myself with being ‘a living man.’

  “I wish I could settle to reading again, — my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into reality; — a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne — the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women.

  “Not a word from * *. Have they set out from * *? or has my last precious epistle fallen into the lion’s jaws? If so — and this silence looks suspicious, I must clap on my ‘musty morion’ and ‘hold out my iron.’ I am out of practice — but I won’t begin again at Manton’s now. Besides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous wafer-splitter; but then the bullies of society made it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad cause to support, I have left off the exercise.

  “What strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy — Buonaparte! Ever since I defended my bust of him at Harrow against the rascally time-servers, when the war broke out in 1803, he has been a ‘Héros de Roman’ of mine — on
the Continent; I don’t want him here. But I don’t like those same flights — leaving of armies, &c. &c. I am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did not think he would run away from himself. But I should not wonder if he banged them yet. To be beat by men would be something; but by three stupid, legitimate-old-dynasty boobies of regular-bred sovereigns — O-hone-a-rie! — O-hone-a-rie! It must be, as Cobbett says, his marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed Autrichienne brood. He had better have kept to her who was kept by Barras. I never knew any good come of your young wife, and legal espousals, to any but your ‘sober-blooded boy’ who ‘eats fish’ and drinketh ‘no sack.’ Had he not the whole opera? all Paris? all France? But a mistress is just as perplexing — that is, one — two or more are manageable by division.

  “I have begun, or had begun, a song, and flung it into the fire. It was in remembrance of Mary Duff, my first of flames, before most people begin to burn. I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do nothing, and — fortunately there is nothing to do. It has lately been in my power to make two persons (and their connections) comfortable, pro tempore, and one happy, ex tempore, — I rejoice in the last particularly, as it is an excellent man. I wish there had been more inconvenience and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then there had been more merit. We are all selfish — and I believe, ye gods of Epicurus! I believe in Rochefoucault about men, and in Lucretius (not Busby’s translation) about yourselves. Your bard has made you very nonchalant and blest; but as he has excused us from damnation, I don’t envy you your blessedness much — a little, to be sure. I remember, last year, * * said to me, at * *, ‘Have we not passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius?’ And so we had. She is an adept in the text of the original (which I like too); and when that booby Bus. sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted him a subsequent answer, saying, that ‘after perusing it, her conscience would not permit her to allow her name to remain on the list of subscribblers.’ Last night, at Lord H.’s — Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puységur, &c. there — I was trying to recollect a quotation (as I think) of Staël’s, from some Teutonic sophist about architecture. ‘Architecture,’ says this Macoronico Tedescho, ‘reminds me of frozen music.’ It is somewhere — but where? — the demon of perplexity must know and won’t tell. I asked M., and he said it was not in her: but P —— r said it must be hers, it was so like. H. laughed, as he does at all ‘De l’Allemagne,’ — in which, however, I think he goes a little too far. B., I hear, condemns it too. But there are fine passages; — and, after all, what is a work — any — or every work — but a desert with fountains, and, perhaps, a grove or two, every day’s journey? To be sure, in Madame, what we often mistake, and ‘pant for,’ as the ‘cooling stream,’ turns out to be the ‘mirage’ (criticè verbiage); but we do, at last, get to something like the temple of Jove Ammon, and then the waste we have passed is only remembered to gladden the contrast.

  “Called on C * *, to explain * * *. She is very beautiful, to my taste, at least; for on coming home from abroad, I recollect being unable to look at any woman but her — they were so fair, and unmeaning, and blonde. The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me of my ‘Jannat al Aden.’ But this impression wore off; and now I can look at a fair woman, without longing for a Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every thing was explained.

  “To-day, great news— ‘the Dutch have taken Holland,’ — which, I suppose, will be succeeded by the actual explosion of the Thames. Five provinces have declared for young Stadt, and there will be inundation, conflagration, constupration, consternation, and every sort of nation and nations, fighting away, up to their knees, in the damnable quags of this will-o’-the-wisp abode of Boors. It is said Bernadotte is amongst them, too; and, as Orange will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince Stork and King Log in their Loggery at the same time. Two to one on the new dynasty!

  “Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for ‘The Giaour’ and ‘The Bride of Abydos.’ I won’t — it is too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the say of it. No bad price for a fortnight’s (a week each) what? — the gods know — it was intended to be called poetry.

  “I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time since Sunday last — this being Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea and dry biscuits — six per diem, I wish to God I had not dined now! — It kills me with heaviness, stupor, and horrible dreams; — and yet it was but a pint of bucellas, and fish. Meat I never touch, — nor much vegetable diet. I wish I were in the country, to take exercise, — instead of being obliged to cool by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should not so much mind a little accession of flesh, — my bones can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always came with it, — till I starved him out, — and I will not be the slave of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head — how it aches? — the horrors of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte’s dinner agrees with him?

  “Mem. I must write to-morrow to ‘Master Shallow, who owes me a thousand pounds,’ and seems, in his letter, afraid I should ask him for it; — as if I would! — I don’t want it (just now, at least,) to begin with; and though I have often wanted that sum, I never asked for the repayment of 10l. in my life — from a friend. His bond is not due this year, and I told him when it was, I should not enforce it. How often must he make me say the same thing?

  “I am wrong — I did once ask * * * to repay me. But it was under circumstances that excused me to him, and would to any one. I took no interest, nor required security. He paid me soon, — at least, his padre. My head! I believe it was given me to ache with. Good even.

  “Nov. 22. 1813.

  “‘Orange Boven!’ So the bees have expelled the bear that broke open their hive. Well, — if we are to have new De Witts and De Ruyters, God speed the little republic! I should like to see the Hague and the village of Brock, where they have such primitive habits. Yet, I don’t know, — their canals would cut a poor figure by the memory of the Bosphorus; and the Zuyder Zee look awkwardly after ‘Ak-Denizi.’ No matter, — the bluff burghers, puffing freedom out of their short tobacco-pipes, might be worth seeing; though I prefer a cigar or a hooka, with the rose-leaf mixed with the milder herb of the Levant. I don’t know what liberty means, — never having seen it, — but wealth is power all over the world; and as a shilling performs the duty of a pound (besides sun and sky and beauty for nothing) in the East, — that is the country. How I envy Herodes Atticus! — more than Pomponius. And yet a little tumult, now and then, is an agreeable quickener of sensation; such as a revolution, a battle, or an aventure of any lively description. I think I rather would have been Bonneval, Ripperda, Alberoni, Hayreddin, or Horuc Barbarossa, or even Wortley Montague, than Mahomet himself.

  “Rogers will be in town soon? — the 23d is fixed for our Middleton visit. Shall I go? umph! — In this island, where one can’t ride out without overtaking the sea, it don’t much matter where one goes.

  “I remember the effect of the first Edinburgh Review on me. I heard of it six weeks before, — read it the day of its denunciation, — dined and drank three bottles of claret, (with S.B. Davies, I think,) neither ate nor slept the less, but, nevertheless, was not easy till I had vented my wrath and my rhyme, in the same pages, against every thing and every body. Like George, in the Vicar of Wakefield, ‘the fate of my paradoxes’ would allow me to perceive no merit in another. I remembered only the maxim of my boxing-master, which, in my youth, was found useful in all general riots,— ‘Whoever is not for you is against you — mill away right and left,’ and so I did; — like Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all men’s anent me. I did wonder, to be sure, at my own success —

  “‘And marvels so much wit is all his own,’

  as Hobhouse sarcastically says of somebody (not unlikely myself, as we are old friends); — but were it to come over again, I would not. I have since redde the cause of my couple
ts, and it is not adequate to the effect. C * * told me that it was believed I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle’s nervous disorder in one of the lines. I thank Heaven I did not know it — and would not, could not, if I had. I must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects or maladies.

  “Rogers is silent, — and, it is said, severe. When he does talk, he talks well; and, on all subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his poetry. If you enter his house — his drawing-room — his library — you of yourself say, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor. But this very delicacy must be the misery of his existence. Oh the jarrings his disposition must have encountered through life!

  “Southey, I have not seen much of. His appearance is Epic; and he is the only existing entire man of letters. All the others have some pursuit annexed to their authorship. His manners are mild, but not those of a man of the world, and his talents of the first order. His prose is perfect. Of his poetry there are various opinions: there is, perhaps, too much of it for the present generation; — posterity will probably select. He has passages equal to any thing. At present, he has a party, but no public — except for his prose writings. The life of Nelson is beautiful.

  “* * is a Littérateur, the Oracle of the Coteries, of the * * s, L * W * (Sydney Smith’s ‘Tory Virgin’), Mrs. Wilmot, (she, at least, is a swan, and might frequent a purer stream,) Lady B * *, and all the Blues, with Lady C * * at their head — but I say nothing of her— ‘look in her face and you forget them all,’ and every thing else. Oh that face! — by ‘te, Diva potens Cypri,’ I would, to be beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy.