Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise, — in which, from the description, I see nothing very tempting. My restlessness tells me I have something within that ‘passeth show.’ It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celestial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement; but I see no such horror in a ‘dreamless sleep,’ and I have no conception of any existence which duration would not render tiresome. How else ‘fell the angels,’ even according to your creed? They were immortal, heavenly, and happy as their apostate Abdiel is now by his treachery. Time must decide; and eternity won’t be the less agreeable or more horrible because one did not expect it. In the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably patient under certain evils — grace à Dieu et mon bon tempérament.

  “Sunday, 28th.

  ——

  “Monday, 29th.

  ——

  “Tuesday, 30th.

  “Two days missed in my log-book; — hiatus haud deflendus. They were as little worth recollection as the rest; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from notching them.

  “Sunday, I dined with the Lord Holland in St. James’s Square. Large party — among them Sir S. Romilly and Lady Ry. — General Sir Somebody Bentham, a man of science and talent, I am told — Horner — the Horner, an Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the ‘Honourable House,’ very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in company, as far as I have seen — Sharpe — Phillips of Lancashire — Lord John Russell, and others, ‘good men and true.’ Holland’s society is very good; you always see some one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed myself with sturgeon, and exceeded in champagne and wine in general, but not to confusion of head. When I do dine, I gorge like an Arab or a Boa snake, on fish and vegetables, but no meat. I am always better, however, on my tea and biscuit than any other regimen, and even that sparingly.

  “Why does Lady H. always have that damned screen between the whole room and the fire? I, who bear cold no better than an antelope, and never yet found a sun quite done to my taste, was absolutely petrified, and could not even shiver. All the rest, too, looked as if they were just unpacked, like salmon from an ice-basket, and set down to table for that day only. When she retired, I watched their looks as I dismissed the screen, and every cheek thawed, and every nose reddened with the anticipated glow.

  “Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to Nourjahad; and, I believe, convinced him, by incessant yawning, that it was not mine. I wish the precious author would own it, and release me from his fame. The dresses are pretty, but not in costume; — Mrs. Horn’s, all but the turban, and the want of a small dagger (if she is a sultana), perfect. I never saw a Turkish woman with a turban in my life — nor did any one else. The sultanas have a small poniard at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy — the action heavy — the scenery fine — the actors tolerable. I can’t say much for their seraglio — Teresa, Phannio, or * * * *, were worth them all.

  “Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackintosh, who is a rare instance of the union of very transcendent talent and great good nature. To-day (Tuesday) a very pretty billet from M. la Baronne de Staël Holstein. She is pleased to be much pleased with my mention of her and her last work in my notes. I spoke as I thought. Her works are my delight, and so is she herself, for — half an hour. I don’t like her politics — at least, her having changed them; had she been qualis ab incepto, it were nothing. But she is a woman by herself, and has done more than all the rest of them together, intellectually; — she ought to have been a man. She flatters me very prettily in her note; — but I know it. The reason that adulation is not displeasing is, that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie, to make us their friend: — that is their concern.

  “* * is, I hear, thriving on the repute of a pun which was mine (at Mackintosh’s dinner some time back), on Ward, who was asking ‘how much it would take to re-whig him?’ I answered that, probably, ‘he must first, before he was re-whigged, be re-warded.’ This foolish quibble, before the Staël and Mackintosh, and a number of conversationers, has been mouthed about, and at last settled on the head of * *, where long may it remain!

  “George is returned from afloat to get a new ship. He looks thin, but better than I expected. I like George much more than most people like their heirs. He is a fine fellow, and every inch a sailor. I would do any thing, but apostatise, to get him on in his profession.

  “Lewis called. It is a good and good-humoured man, but pestilently prolix and paradoxical and personal. If he would but talk half, and reduce his visits to an hour, he would add to his popularity. As an author he is very good, and his vanity is ouverte, like Erskine’s, and yet not offending.

  “Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabella, which I answered. What an odd situation and friendship is ours! — without one spark of love on either side, and produced by circumstances which in general lead to coldness on one side, and aversion on the other. She is a very superior woman, and very little spoiled, which is strange in an heiress — girl of twenty — a peeress that is to be, in her own right — an only child, and a savante, who has always had her own way. She is a poetess — a mathematician — a metaphysician, and yet, withal, very kind, generous, and gentle, with very little pretension. Any other head would be turned with half her acquisitions, and a tenth of her advantages.

  “Wednesday, December 1. 1813.

  “To-day responded to La Baronne de Staël Holstein, and sent to Leigh Hunt (an acquisition to my acquaintance — through Moore — of last summer) a copy of the two Turkish tales. Hunt is an extraordinary character, and not exactly of the present age. He reminds me more of the Pym and Hampden times — much talent, great independence of spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, aspect. If he goes on qualis ab incepto, I know few men who will deserve more praise or obtain it. I must go and see him again; — the rapid succession of adventure, since last summer, added to some serious uneasiness and business, have interrupted our acquaintance; but he is a man worth knowing; and though, for his own sake, I wish him out of prison, I like to study character in such situations. He has been unshaken, and will continue so. I don’t think him deeply versed in life; — he is the bigot of virtue (not religion), and enamoured of the beauty of that ‘empty name,’ as the last breath of Brutus pronounced, and every day proves it. He is, perhaps, a little opiniated, as all men who are the centre of circles, wide or narrow — the Sir Oracles, in whose name two or three are gathered together — must be, and as even Johnson was; but, withal, a valuable man, and less vain than success and even the consciousness of preferring ‘the right to the expedient’ might excuse.

  “To-morrow there is a party of purple at the ‘blue’ Miss * * *’s. Shall I go? um! — I don’t much affect your blue-bottles; — but one ought to be civil. There will be, ‘I guess now’ (as the Americans say), the Staëls and Mackintoshes — good — the * * * s and * * * s — not so good — the * * * s, &c. &c. — good for nothing. Perhaps that blue-winged Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning, Lady * * * *, will be there. I hope so; it is a pleasure to look upon that most beautiful of faces.

  “Wrote to H.: — he has been telling that I —— . I am sure, at least, I did not mention it, and I wish he had not. He is a good fellow, and I obliged myself ten times more by being of use than I did him, — and there’s an end on ‘t.

  “Baldwin is boring me to present their King’s Bench petition. I presented Cartwright’s last year; and Stanhope and I stood against the whole House, and mouthed it valiantly — and had some fun and a little abuse for our opposition. But ‘I am not i’ th’ vein’ for this business. Now, had * * been here, she would have made me do it. There is a woman, who, amid all her fascination, always urged a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, she had been my tutelar genius.

  “Baldwin is very importunate — but, poor fellow, ‘I can’t get out, I can’t get out — said the starling.’ Ah, I am as bad as that dog Ster
ne, who preferred whining over ‘a dead ass to relieving a living mother’ — villain — hypocrite — slave — sycophant! but I am no better. Here I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for the sake of these unfortunates, and three words and half a smile of * * had she been here to urge it, (and urge it she infallibly would — at least she always pressed me on senatorial duties, and particularly in the cause of weakness,) would have made me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on Rochefoucault for being always right! In him a lie were virtue, — or, at least, a comfort to his readers.

  “George Byron has not called to-day; I hope he will be an admiral, and, perhaps, Lord Byron into the bargain. If he would but marry, I would engage never to marry myself, or cut him out of the heirship. He would be happier, and I should like nephews better than sons.

  “I shall soon be six-and-twenty (January 22d, 1814). Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

  “Oh Gioventu! Oh Primavera! gioventu dell’ anno. Oh Gioventu! primavera della vita.

  “Sunday, December 5.

  “Dallas’s nephew (son to the American Attorney-general) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas that my rhymes are very popular in the United States. These are the first tidings that have ever sounded like Fame to my ears — to be redde on the banks of the Ohio! The greatest pleasure I ever derived, of this kind, was from an extract, in Cooke the actor’s life, from his Journal, stating that in the reading-room at Albany, near Washington, he perused English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. To be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of posthumous feel, very different from the ephemeral éclat and fête-ing, buzzing and party-ing compliments of the well-dressed multitude. I can safely say that, during my reign in the spring of 1812, I regretted nothing but its duration of six weeks instead of a fortnight, and was heartily glad to resign.

  “Last night I supped with Lewis; — and, as usual, though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have been half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely destroyed by long abstinence, and the rest will probably follow. Let it — I only wish the pain over. The ‘leap in the dark’ is the least to be dreaded.

  “The Duke of * * called. I have told them forty times that, except to half-a-dozen old and specified acquaintances, I am invisible. His Grace is a good, noble, ducal person; but I am content to think so at a distance, and so — I was not at home.

  “Galt called. — Mem. — to ask some one to speak to Raymond in favour of his play. We are old fellow-travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he has much strong sense, experience of the world, and is, as far as I have seen, a good-natured philosophical fellow. I showed him Sligo’s letter on the reports of the Turkish girl’s aventure at Athens soon after it happened. He and Lord Holland, Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Melbourne have seen it. Murray has a copy. I thought it had been unknown, and wish it were; but Sligo arrived only some days after, and the rumours are the subject of his letter. That I shall preserve, — it is as well. Lewis and Galt were both horrified; and L. wondered I did not introduce the situation into ‘The Giaour.’ He may wonder; — he might wonder more at that production’s being written at all. But to describe the feelings of that situation were impossible — it is icy even to recollect them.

  “The Bride of Abydos was published on Thursday the second of December; but how it is liked or disliked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not is no fault of the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to the most partial reader; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to imagination — from selfish regrets to vivid recollections — and recalled me to a country replete with the brightest and darkest, but always most lively colours of my memory. Sharpe called, but was not let in — which I regret.

  “Saw * * yesterday. I have not kept my appointment at Middleton, which has not pleased him, perhaps; and my projected voyage with * * will, perhaps, please him less. But I wish to keep well with both. They are instruments that don’t do, in concert; but, surely, their separate tones are very musical, and I won’t give up either.

  “It is well if I don’t jar between these great discords. At present I stand tolerably well with all, but I cannot adopt their dislikes; — so many sets. Holland’s is the first; — every thing distingué is welcome there, and certainly the ton of his society is the best. Then there is Mde. de Staël’s — there I never go, though I might, had I courted it. It is composed of the * *’s and the * * family, with a strange sprinkling, — orators, dandies, and all kinds of Blue, from the regular Grub Street uniform, down to the azure jacket of the Littérateur. To see * * and * * sitting together, at dinner, always reminds me of the grave, where all distinctions of friend and foe are levelled; and they — the Reviewer and Reviewée — the Rhinoceros and Elephant — the Mammoth and Megalonyx — all will lie quietly together. They now sit together, as silent, but not so quiet, as if they were already immured.

  “I did not go to the Berrys’ the other night. The elder is a woman of much talent, and both are handsome, and must have been beautiful. To-night asked to Lord H.’s — shall I go? um! — perhaps.

  “Morning, two o’clock.

  “Went to Lord H.’s — party numerous — milady in perfect good humour, and consequently perfect. No one more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, when she will. Asked for Wednesday to dine and meet the Staël — asked particularly, I believe, out of mischief, to see the first interview after the note, with which Corinne professes herself to be so much taken. I don’t much like it; she always talks of myself or herself, and I am not (except in soliloquy, as now,) much enamoured of either subject — especially one’s works. What the devil shall I say about ‘De l’Allemagne?’ I like it prodigiously; but unless I can twist my admiration into some fantastical expression, she won’t believe me; and I know, by experience, I shall be overwhelmed with fine things about rhyme, &c. &c. The lover, Mr. * *, was there to-night, and C * * said ‘it was the only proof he had seen of her good taste.’ Monsieur L’Amant is remarkably handsome; but I don’t think more so than her book.

  “C * * looks well, — seems pleased, and dressed to sprucery. A blue coat becomes him, — so does his new wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birthday suit, or a wedding-garment, and was witty and lively. He abused Corinne’s book, which I regret; because, firstly, he understands German, and is consequently a fair judge; and, secondly, he is first-rate, and, consequently, the best of judges. I reverence and admire him; but I won’t give up my opinion — why should I? I read her again and again, and there can be no affectation in this. I cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book I read and lay down, and take up again; and no book can be totally bad which finds one, even one reader, who can say as much sincerely.

  “C. talks of lecturing next spring; his last lectures were eminently successful. Moore thought of it, but gave it up, — I don’t know why. * * had been prating dignity to him, and such stuff; as if a man disgraced himself by instructing and pleasing at the same time.

  “Introduced to Marquis Buckingham — saw Lord Gower — he is going to Holland; Sir J. and Lady Mackintosh and Homer, G. Lamb, with I know not how many (R. Wellesley, one — a clever man) grouped about the room. Little Henry Fox, a very fine boy, and very promising in mind and manner, — he went away to bed, before I had time to talk to him. I am sure I had rather hear him than all the savans.

  “Monday, Dec. 6.

  “Murray tells me that C —— r asked him why the thing was called the Bride of Abydos? It is a cursed awkward question, being unanswerable. She is not a bride, only about to be one; but for, &c. &c. &c.

  “I don’t wonder at his finding out the Bull; but the detection * * * is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being an Irishman.

  “C —— l last night seemed a little nettled at something or other — I know not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composit
ion similar to that which is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, ‘Here is some incense for you.’ C —— l answered— ‘Carry it to Lord Byron, he is used to it.’

  “Now, this comes of ‘bearing no brother near the throne.’ I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one now, whatever I may have done, am at perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity: or, at least, if I dislike any, it is not poetically, but personally. Surely the field of thought is infinite; what does it signify who is before or behind in a race where there is no goal? The temple of fame is like that of the Persians, the universe; our altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally content with Mount Caucasus, or Mount Anything; and those who like it, may have Mount Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation.

  “I think I may now speak thus; for I have just published a poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is likely to be liked or not. I have hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can downright abuse it to one’s face, except in print. It can’t be good, or I should not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very title. But I began it with my heart full of * * *, and my head of orientalities (I can’t call them isms), and wrote on rapidly.

  “This journal is a relief. When I am tired — as I generally am — out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can’t read it over; and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one’s self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.

  “Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner; I have neither head nor nerves to present it. That confounded supper at Lewis’s has spoiled my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet of vinegar. Would I were an ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons, — or any thing that my gizzard could get the better of.