by Thomas Moore
“You shall have Lara and Jacque (both with some additions) when out; but I am still demurring and delaying, and in a fuss, and so is R. in his way.
“Newstead is to be mine again. Claughton forfeits twenty-five thousand pounds; but that don’t prevent me from being very prettily ruined. I mean to bury myself there — and let my beard grow — and hate you all.
“Oh! I have had the most amusing letter from Hogg, the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. He wants me to recommend him to Murray; and, speaking of his present bookseller, whose ‘bills’ are never ‘lifted,’ he adds, totidem verbis, ‘God d —— n him and them both.’ I laughed, and so would you too, at the way in which this execration is introduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but of great, though uncouth, powers. I think very highly of him, as a poet; but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake troubadours, are spoilt by living in little circles and petty societies. London and the world is the only place to take the conceit out of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, he says, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind; — during which wind, he affirms, the said Scott, ‘he is sure, is not at his ease, — to say the best of it.’ Lord, Lord, if these homekeeping minstrels had crossed your Atlantic or my Mediterranean, and tasted a little open boating in a white squall — or a gale in ‘the Gut’ — or the ‘Bay of Biscay,’ with no gale at all — how it would enliven and introduce them to a few of the sensations! — to say nothing of an illicit amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay upon the Passions, beginning with simple adultery, and compounding it as they went along.
“I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — by the way, you had addressed it to Miller. Pray write to me, and say what art thou doing? ‘Not finished!’ — Oons! how is this? — these ‘flaws and starts’ must be ‘authorised by your grandam,’ and are unbecoming of any other author. I was sorry to hear of your discrepancy with the * *s, or rather your abjuration of agreement. I don’t want to be impertinent, or buffoon on a serious subject, and am therefore at a loss what to say.
“I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the proper price of your poem, as long as there is a prospect of getting it. For my own part, I have seriously and not whiningly, (for that is not my way — at least, it used not to be,) neither hopes, nor prospects, and scarcely even wishes. I am, in some respects, happy, but not in a manner that can or ought to last, — but enough of that. The worst of it is, I feel quite enervated and indifferent. I really do not know, if Jupiter were to offer me my choice of the contents of his benevolent cask, what I would pick out of it. If I was born, as the nurses say, with a ‘silver spoon in my mouth,’ it has stuck in my throat, and spoiled my palate, so that nothing put into it is swallowed with much relish, — unless it be cayenne. However, I have grievances enough to occupy me that way too; — but for fear of adding to yours by this pestilent long diatribe, I postpone the reading of them, sine die.
“Ever, dear M., yours, &c.
“P.S. Don’t forget my godson. You could not have fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than me, being used to carry double without inconvenience.”
LETTER 193. TO MR. MURRAY.
“August 4. 1814.
“Not having received the slightest answer to my last three letters, nor the book (the last number of the Edinburgh Review) which they requested, I presume that you were the unfortunate person who perished in the pagoda on Monday last, and address this rather to your executors than yourself, regretting that you should have had the ill luck to be the sole victim on that joyous occasion.
“I beg leave, then, to inform these gentlemen (whoever they may be) that I am a little surprised at the previous neglect of the deceased, and also at observing an advertisement of an approaching publication on Saturday next, against the which I protested, and do protest for the present.
“Yours (or theirs), &c.
“B.”
LETTER 194. TO MR. MURRAY.
“August 5. 1814.
“The Edinburgh Review is arrived — thanks. I enclose Mr. Hobhouse’s letter, from which you will perceive the work you have made. However, I have done: you must send my rhymes to the devil your own way. It seems, also, that the ‘faithful and spirited likeness’ is another of your publications. I wish you joy of it; but it is no likeness — that is the point. Seriously, if I have delayed your journey to Scotland, I am sorry that you carried your complaisance so far; particularly as upon trifles you have a more summary method; — witness the grammar of Hobhouse’s ‘bit of prose,’ which has put him and me into a fever.
“Hogg must translate his own words: ‘lifting’ is a quotation from his letter, together with ‘God d —— n,’ &c., which I suppose requires no translation.
“I was unaware of the contents of Mr. Moore’s letter; I think your offer very handsome, but of that you and he must judge. If he can get more, you won’t wonder that he should accept it.
“Out with Lara, since it must be. The tome looks pretty enough — on the outside, I shall be in town next week, and in the mean time wish you a pleasant journey.
“Yours,” &c.
LETTER 195. TO MR. MOORE.
“August 12. 1814.
“I was not alone, nor will be while I can help it. Newstead is not yet decided. Claughton is to make a grand effort by Saturday week to complete, — if not, he must give up twenty-five thousand pounds and the estate, with expenses, &c. &c. If I resume the Abbacy, you shall have due notice, and a cell set apart for your reception, with a pious welcome. Rogers I have not seen, but Larry and Jacky came out a few days ago. Of their effect I know nothing.
“There is something very amusing in your being an Edinburgh Reviewer. You know, I suppose, that T * * is none of the placidest, and may possibly enact some tragedy on being told that he is only a fool. If, now, Jeffery were to be slain on account of an article of yours, there would be a fine conclusion. For my part, as Mrs. Winifred Jenkins says, ‘he has done the handsome thing by me,’ particularly in his last number; so, he is the best of men and the ablest of critics, and I won’t have him killed, — though I dare say many wish he were, for being so good-humoured.
“Before I left Hastings I got in a passion with an ink bottle, which I flung out of the window one night with a vengeance; — and what then? Why, next morning I was horrified by seeing that it had struck, and split upon, the petticoat of Euterpe’s graven image in the garden, and grimed her as if it were on purpose. Only think of my distress, — and the epigrams that might be engendered on the Muse and her misadventure.
“I had an adventure almost as ridiculous, at some private theatricals near Cambridge — though of a different description — since I saw you last. I quarrelled with a man in the dark for asking me who I was (insolently enough to be sure), and followed him into the green-room (a stable) in a rage, amongst a set of people I never saw before. He turned out to be a low comedian, engaged to act with the amateurs, and to be a civil-spoken man enough, when he found out that nothing very pleasant was to be got by rudeness. But you would have been amused with the row, and the dialogue, and the dress — or rather the undress — of the party, where I had introduced myself in a devil of a hurry, and the astonishment that ensued. I had gone out of the theatre, for coolness, into the garden; — there I had tumbled over some dogs, and, coming away from them in very ill humour, encountered the man in a worse, which produced all this confusion.
“Well — and why don’t you ‘launch?’ — Now is your time. The people are tolerably tired with me, and not very much enamoured of * *, who has just spawned a quarto of metaphysical blank verse, which is nevertheless only a part of a poem.
“Murray talks of divorcing Larry and Jacky — a bad sign for the authors, who, I suppose, will be divorced too, and throw the blame upon one another. Seriously, I don’t care a cigar about it, and I don’t see why Sam should.
“Let me hear from and of you and my godson. If a daughter, the name will do quite as well.
“Ever,” &c.
LETTER 196. TO MR. MOORE.
&
nbsp; “August 13. 1814.
“I wrote yesterday to Mayfield, and have just now enfranked your letter to mamma. My stay in town is so uncertain (not later than next week) that your packets for the north may not reach me; and as I know not exactly where I am going — however, Newstead is my most probable destination, and if you send your despatches before Tuesday, I can forward them to our new ally. But, after that day, you had better not trust to their arrival in time.
“* * has been exiled from Paris, on dit, for saying the Bourbons were old women. The Bourbons might have been content, I think, with returning the compliment.
“I told you all about Jacky and Larry yesterday; — they are to be separated, — at least, so says the grand M., and I know no more of the matter. Jeffrey has done me more than ‘justice;’ but as to tragedy — um! — I have no time for fiction at present. A man cannot paint a storm with the vessel under bare poles on a lee-shore. When I get to land, I will try what is to be done, and, if I founder, there be plenty of mine elders and betters to console Melpomene.
“When at Newstead, you must come over, if only for a day — should Mrs. M. be exigeante of your presence. The place is worth seeing, as a ruin, and I can assure you there was some fun there, even in my time; but that is past. The ghosts, however, and the gothics, and the waters, and the desolation, make it very lively still.
“Ever, dear Tom, yours,” &c.
LETTER 197. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Newstead Abbey, Septembers. 1814.
“I am obliged by what you have sent, but would rather not see any thing of the kind; we have had enough of these things already, good and bad, and next month you need not trouble yourself to collect even the higher generation — on my account. It gives me much pleasure to hear of Mr. Hobhouse’s and Mr. Merivale’s good entreatment by the journals you mention.
“I still think Mr. Hogg and yourself might make out an alliance. Dodsley’s was, I believe, the last decent thing of the kind, and his had great success in its day, and lasted several years; but then he had the double advantage of editing and publishing. The Spleen, and several of Gray’s odes, much of Shenstone, and many others of good repute, made their first appearance in his collection. Now, with the support of Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, &c., I see little reason why you should not do as well; and, if once fairly established, you would have assistance from the youngsters, I dare say. Stratford Canning (whose ‘Buonaparte’ is excellent), and many others, and Moore, and Hobhouse, and I, would try a fall now and then (if permitted), and you might coax Campbell, too, into it. By the by, he has an unpublished (though printed) poem on a scene in Germany, (Bavaria, I think,) which I saw last year, that is perfectly magnificent, and equal to himself. I wonder he don’t publish it.
“Oh! — do you recollect S * *, the engraver’s, mad letter about not engraving Phillips’s picture of Lord Foley? (as he blundered it;) well, I have traced it, I think. It seems, by the papers, a preacher of Johanna Southcote’s is named Foley; and I can no way account for the said S * *’s confusion of words and ideas, but by that of his head’s running on Johanna and her apostles. It was a mercy he did not say Lord Tozer. You know, of course, that S * * is a believer in this new (old) virgin of spiritual impregnation.
“I long to know what she will produce; her being with child at sixty-five is indeed a miracle, but her getting any one to beget it, a greater.
“If you were not going to Paris or Scotland, I could send you some game: if you remain, let me know.
“P.S. A word or two of ‘Lara,’ which your enclosure brings before me. It is of no great promise separately; but, as connected with the other tales, it will do very well for the volumes you mean to publish. I would recommend this arrangement — Childe Harold, the smaller Poems, Giaour, Bride, Corsair, Lara; the last completes the series, and its very likeness renders it necessary to the others. Cawthorne writes that they are publishing English Bards in Ireland: pray enquire into this; because it must be stopped.”
LETTER 198. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Newstead Abbey, September 7. 1814.
“I should think Mr. Hogg, for his own sake as well as yours, would be ‘critical’ as Iago himself in his editorial capacity; and that such a publication would answer his purpose, and yours too, with tolerable management. You should, however, have a good number to start with — I mean, good in quality; in these days, there can be little fear of not coming up to the mark in quantity. There must be many ‘fine things’ in Wordsworth; but I should think it difficult to make six quartos (the amount of the whole) all fine, particularly the pedler’s portion of the poem; but there can be no doubt of his powers to do almost any thing.
“I am ‘very idle.’ I have read the few books I had with me, and been forced to fish, for lack of argument. I have caught a great many perch and some carp, which is a comfort, as one would not lose one’s labour willingly.
“Pray, who corrects the press of your volumes? I hope ‘The Corsair’ is printed from the copy I corrected, with the additional lines in the first Canto, and some notes from Sismondi and Lavater, which I gave you to add thereto. The arrangement is very well.
“My cursed people have not sent my papers since Sunday, and I have lost Johanna’s divorce from Jupiter. Who hath gotten her with prophet? Is it Sharpe, and how? * * * I should like to buy one of her seals: if salvation can be had at half-a-guinea a head, the landlord of the Crown and Anchor should be ashamed of himself for charging double for tickets to a mere terrestrial banquet. I am afraid, seriously, that these matters will lend a sad handle to your profane scoffers, and give a loose to much damnable laughter.
“I have not seen Hunt’s Sonnets nor Descent of Liberty: he has chosen a pretty place wherein to compose the last. Let me hear from you before you embark. Ever,” &c.
LETTER 199. TO MR. MOORE.
“Newstead Abbey, September 15. 1814.
“This is the fourth letter I have begun to you within the month. Whether I shall finish or not, or burn it like the rest, I know not. When we meet, I will explain why I have not written — why I have not asked you here, as I wished — with a great many other whys and wherefores, which will keep cold. In short, you must excuse all my seeming omissions and commissions, and grant me more remission than St. Athanasius will to yourself, if you lop off a single shred of mystery from his pious puzzle. It is my creed (and it may be St. Athanasius’s too) that your article on T * * will get somebody killed, and that, on the Saints, get him d —— d afterwards, which will be quite enow for one number. Oons, Tom! you must not meddle just now with the incomprehensible; for if Johanna Southcote turns out to be * * *
“Now for a little egotism. My affairs stand thus. To-morrow, I shall know whether a circumstance of importance enough to change many of my plans will occur or not. If it does not, I am off for Italy next month, and London, in the mean time, next week. I have got back Newstead and twenty-five thousand pounds (out of twenty-eight paid already), — as a ‘sacrifice,’ the late purchaser calls it, and he may choose his own name. I have paid some of my debts, and contracted others; but I have a few thousand pounds, which I can’t spend after my own heart in this climate, and so, I shall go back to the south. Hobhouse, I think and hope, will go with me; but, whether he will or not, I shall. I want to see Venice, and the Alps, and Parmesan cheeses, and look at the coast of Greece, or rather Epirus, from Italy, as I once did — or fancied I did — that of Italy, when off Corfu. All this, however, depends upon an event, which may, or may not, happen. Whether it will, I shall know probably to-morrow, and, if it does, I can’t well go abroad at present.
“Pray pardon this parenthetical scrawl. You shall hear from me again soon; — I don’t call this an answer. Ever most affectionately,” &c.
The “circumstance of importance,” to which he alludes in this letter, was his second proposal for Miss Milbanke, of which he was now waiting the result. His own account, in his Memoranda, of the circumstances that led to this step is, in substance, as far as I can trust my recollection, as
follows. A person, who had for some time stood high in his affection and confidence, observing how cheerless and unsettled was the state both of his mind and prospects, advised him strenuously to marry; and, after much discussion, he consented. The next point for consideration was — who was to be the object of his choice; and while his friend mentioned one lady, he himself named Miss Milbanke. To this, however, his adviser strongly objected, — remarking to him, that Miss Milbanke had at present no fortune, and that his embarrassed affairs would not allow him to marry without one; that she was, moreover, a learned lady, which would not at all suit him. In consequence of these representations, he agreed that his friend should write a proposal for him to the other lady named, which was accordingly done; — and an answer, containing a refusal, arrived as they were, one morning, sitting together. “You see,” said Lord Byron, “that, after all, Miss Milbanke is to be the person; — I will write to her.” He accordingly wrote on the moment, and, as soon as he had finished, his friend, remonstrating still strongly against his choice, took up the letter, — but, on reading it over, observed, “Well, really, this is a very pretty letter; — it is a pity it should not go. I never read a prettier one.”— “Then it shall go,” said Lord Byron; and in so saying, sealed and sent off, on the instant, this fiat of his fate.
LETTER 200. TO MR. MOORE.
“Nd., September 15. 1814.
“I have written to you one letter to-night, but must send you this much more, as I have not franked my number, to say that I rejoice in my god-daughter, and will send her a coral and bells, which I hope she will accept, the moment I get back to London.
“My head is at this moment in a state of confusion, from various causes, which I can neither describe nor explain — but let that pass. My employments have been very rural — fishing, shooting, bathing, and boating. Books I have but few here, and those I have read ten times over, till sick of them. So, I have taken to breaking soda-water bottles with my pistols, and jumping into the water, and rowing over it, and firing at the fowls of the air. But why should I ‘monster my nothings’ to you, who are well employed, and happily too, I should hope? For my part, I am happy, too, in my way — but, as usual, have contrived to get into three or four perplexities, which I do not see my way through. But a few days, perhaps a day, will determine one of them.
