Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  Availing myself, with this latter qualification, of the greater latitude thus allowed me, I shall venture so far to depart from the plan hitherto pursued, as to give, with but little suppression, the noble poet’s letters relative to his Italian adventures. To throw a veil altogether over these irregularities of his private life would be to afford — were it even practicable — but a partial portraiture of his character; while, on the other hand, to rob him of the advantage of being himself the historian of his errors (where no injury to others can flow from the disclosure) would be to deprive him of whatever softening light can be thrown round such transgressions by the vivacity and fancy, the passionate love of beauty, and the strong yearning after affection which will be found to have, more or less, mingled with even the least refined of his attachments. Neither is any great danger to be apprehended from the sanction or seduction of such an example; as they who would dare to plead the authority of Lord Byron for their errors must first be able to trace them to the same palliating sources, — to that sensibility, whose very excesses showed its strength and depth, — that stretch of imagination, to the very verge, perhaps, of what reason can bear without giving way, — that whole combination, in short, of grand but disturbing powers, which alone could be allowed to extenuate such moral derangement, but which, even in him thus dangerously gifted, were insufficient to excuse it.

  Having premised these few observations, I shall now proceed, with less interruption, to lay his correspondence, during this and the two succeeding years, before the reader: —

  LETTER 252. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Venice, November 17. 1816.

  “I wrote to you from Verona the other day in my progress hither, which letter I hope you will receive. Some three years ago, or it may be more, I recollect your telling me that you had received a letter from our friend Sam, dated ‘On board his gondola.’ My gondola is, at this present, waiting for me on the canal; but I prefer writing to you in the house, it being autumn — and rather an English autumn than otherwise. It is my intention to remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it has always been (next to the East) the greenest island of my imagination. It has not disappointed me; though its evident decay would, perhaps, have that effect upon others. But I have been familiar with ruins too long to dislike desolation. Besides, I have fallen in love, which, next to falling into the canal, (which would be of no use, as I can swim,) is the best or the worst thing I could do. I have got some extremely good apartments in the house of a ‘Merchant of Venice,’ who is a good deal occupied with business, and has a wife in her twenty-second year. Marianna (that is her name) is in her appearance altogether like an antelope. She has the large, black, oriental eyes, with that peculiar expression in them which is seen rarely among Europeans — even the Italians — and which many of the Turkish women give themselves by tinging the eyelid, — an art not known out of that country, I believe. This expression she has naturally, — and something more than this. In short, I cannot describe the effect of this kind of eye, — at least upon me. Her features are regular, and rather aquiline — mouth small — skin clear and soft, with a kind of hectic colour — forehead remarkably good: her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of Lady J * *’s: her figure is light and pretty, and she is a famous songstress — scientifically so; her natural voice (in conversation, I mean) is very sweet; and the naïveté of the Venetian dialect is always pleasing in the mouth of a woman.

  “November 23.

  “You will perceive that my description, which was proceeding with the minuteness of a passport, has been interrupted for several days.

  “December 5.

  “Since my former dates, I do not know that I have much to add on the subject, and, luckily, nothing to take away; for I am more pleased than ever with my Venetian, and begin to feel very serious on that point — so much so, that I shall be silent.

  “By way of divertisement, I am studying daily, at an Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. I found that my mind wanted something craggy to break upon; and this — as the most difficult thing I could discover here for an amusement — I have chosen, to torture me into attention. It is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it. I try, and shall go on; — but I answer for nothing, least of all for my intentions or my success. There are some very curious MSS. in the monastery, as well as books; translations also from Greek originals, now lost, and from Persian and Syriac, &c.; besides works of their own people. Four years ago the French instituted an Armenian professorship. Twenty pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of noble ardour, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. They persevered, with a courage worthy of the nation and of universal conquest, till Thursday; when fifteen of the twenty succumbed to the six-and-twentieth letter of the alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an Alphabet — that must be said for them. But it is so like these fellows, to do by it as they did by their sovereigns — abandon both; to parody the old rhymes, ‘Take a thing and give a thing’— ‘Take a king and give a king.’ They are the worst of animals, except their conquerors.

  “I hear that H —— n is your neighbour, having a living in Derbyshire. You will find him an excellent-hearted fellow, as well as one of the cleverest; a little, perhaps, too much japanned by preferment in the church and the tuition of youth, as well as inoculated with the disease of domestic felicity, besides being over-run with fine feelings about woman and constancy (that small change of Love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal); but, otherwise, a very worthy man, who has lately got a pretty wife, and (I suppose) a child by this time. Pray remember me to him, and say that I know not which to envy most his neighbourhood — him, or you.

  “Of Venice I shall say little. You must have seen many descriptions; and they are most of them like. It is a poetical place; and classical, to us, from Shakspeare and Otway. I have not yet sinned against it in verse, nor do I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since I crossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the ‘estro.’ By the way, I suppose you have seen ‘Glenarvon.’ Madame de Staël lent it me to read from Copet last autumn. It seems to me that if the authoress had written the truth, and nothing but the truth — the whole truth — the romance would not only have been more romantic, but more entertaining. As for the likeness, the picture can’t be good — I did not sit long enough. When you have leisure, let me hear from and of you, believing me ever and truly yours most affectionately, B.

  “P.S. Oh! your poem — is it out? I hope Longman has paid his thousands: but don’t you do as H * * T * *’s father did, who, having made money by a quarto tour, became a vinegar merchant; when, lo! his vinegar turned sweet (and be d —— d to it) and ruined him. My last letter to you (from Verona) was enclosed to Murray — have you got it? Direct to me here, poste restante. There are no English here at present. There were several in Switzerland — some women; but, except Lady Dalrymple Hamilton, most of them as ugly as virtue — at least, those that I saw.”

  LETTER 253. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Venice, December 24. 1816.

  “I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends postage — once from Verona — once from Venice, and again from Venice — thrice that is. For this you may thank yourself, for I heard that you complained of my silence — so, here goes for garrulity.

  “I trust that you received my other twain of letters. My ‘way of life’ (or ‘May of life,’ which is it, according to the commentators?) — my ‘way of life’ is fallen into great regularity. In the mornings I go over in my gondola to babble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. Lazarus, and to help one of them in correcting the English of an English and Armenian grammar which he is publishing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings — either at the theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which are like our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semicircle by the lady of the mansion, and the men stand about the room. To be sure, there is one improvement upon ours
— instead of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff rum-punch — punch, by my palate; and this they think English. I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an error,— ‘no, not for Venice.’

  “Last night I was at the Count Governor’s, which, of course, comprises the best society, and is very much like other gregarious meetings in every country, — as in ours, — except that, instead of the Bishop of Winchester, you have the Patriarch of Venice, and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans, noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, you may be sure he is a Consul. Oh, by the way, I forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you that at Milan I met with a countryman of yours — a Colonel * * * *, a very excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows all about Milan, and is, as it were, a native there. He is particularly civil to strangers, and this is his history, — at least, an episode of it.

  “Six-and-twenty years ago, Col. * * * *, then an ensign, being in Italy, fell in love with the Marchesa * * * *, and she with him. The lady must be, at least, twenty years his senior. The war broke out; he returned to England, to serve — not his country, for that’s Ireland — but England, which is a different thing; and she — heaven knows what she did. In the year 1814, the first annunciation of the Definitive Treaty of Peace (and tyranny) was developed to the astonished Milanese by the arrival of Col. * * * *, who, flinging himself full length at the feet of Mad. * * * *, murmured forth, in half-forgotten Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelible constancy. The lady screamed, and exclaimed, ‘Who are you?’ The Colonel cried, ‘What! don’t you know me? I am so and so,’ &c. &c. &c.; till, at length, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence to reminiscence, through the lovers of the intermediate twenty-five years, arrived at last at the recollection of her povero sub-lieutenant. She then said, ‘Was there ever such virtue?’ (that was her very word) and, being now a widow, gave him apartments in her palace, reinstated him in all the rights of wrong, and held him up to the admiring world as a miracle of incontinent fidelity, and the unshaken Abdiel of absence.

  “Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of Marmontel’s. Here is another. The same lady, several years ago, made an escapade with a Swede, Count Fersen (the same whom the Stockholm mob quartered and lapidated not very long since), and they arrived at an Osteria on the road to Rome or thereabouts. It was a summer evening, and, while they were at supper, they were suddenly regaled by a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment, so prettily played, that, wishing to hear them more distinctly, the Count rose, and going into the musical society, said, ‘Gentlemen, I am sure that, as a company of gallant cavaliers, you will be delighted to show your skill to a lady, who feels anxious,’ &c. &c. The men of harmony were all acquiescence — every instrument was tuned and toned, and, striking up one of their most ambrosial airs, the whole band followed the Count to the lady’s apartment. At their head was the first fiddler, who, bowing and fiddling at the same moment, headed his troop and advanced up the room. Death and discord! — it was the Marquis himself, who was on a serenading party in the country, while his spouse had run away from town. The rest may be imagined — but, first of all, the lady tried to persuade him that she was there on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for an harmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which amused me when I heard it, and I send it to you, in the hope it may have the like effect. Now we’ll return to Venice.

  “The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being Christmas-day) the Carnival begins. I dine with the Countess Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera. On that day the Phenix, (not the Insurance Office, but) the theatre of that name, opens: I have got me a box there for the season, for two reasons, one of which is, that the music is remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, of whom I have made mention, is the De Staël of Venice, not young, but a very learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very polite to strangers, and, I believe, not at all dissolute, as most of the women are. She has written very well on the works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besides other printed matter. She is of Corfu, but married a dead Venetian — that is, dead since he married.

  “My flame (my ‘Donna’ whom I spoke of in my former epistle, my Marianna) is still my Marianna, and I, her — what she pleases. She is by far the prettiest woman I have seen here, and the most loveable I have met with any where — as well as one of the most singular. I believe I told you the rise and progress of our liaison in my former letter. Lest that should not have reached you, I will merely repeat, that she is a Venetian, two-and-twenty years old, married to a merchant well to do in the world, and that she has great black oriental eyes, and all the qualities which her eyes promise. Whether being in love with her has steeled me or not, I do not know; but I have not seen many other women who seem pretty. The nobility, in particular, are a sad-looking race — the gentry rather better. And now, what art thou doing?

  “What are you doing now, Oh Thomas Moore? What are you doing now, Oh Thomas Moore? Sighing or suing now, Rhyming or wooing now, Billing or cooing now, Which, Thomas Moore?

  Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there’s a row, but I’ll be among ye! How go on the weavers — the breakers of frames — the Lutherans of politics — the reformers?

  “As the Liberty lads o’er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Will die fighting, or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd!

  “When the web that we weave is complete, And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, We will fling the winding-sheet O’er the despot at our feet, And dye it deep in the gore he has pour’d.

  “Though black as his heart its hue, Since his veins are corrupted to mud, Yet this is the dew Which the tree shall renew Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

  “There’s an amiable chanson for you — all impromptu. I have written it principally to shock your neighbour * * * *, who is all clergy and loyalty — mirth and innocence — milk and water.

  “But the Carnival’s coming, Oh Thomas Moore, The Carnival’s coming, Oh Thomas Moore, Masking and humming, Fifing and drumming, Guitarring and strumming, Oh Thomas Moore.

  The other night I saw a new play, — and the author. The subject was the sacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, and they called for the author — according to continental custom — and he presented himself, a noble Venetian, Mali, or Malapiero, by name. Mala was his name, and pessima his production, — at least, I thought so, and I ought to know, having read more or less of five hundred Drury Lane offerings, during my coadjutorship with the sub-and-super Committee.

  “When does your poem of poems come out? I hear that the E.R. has cut up Coleridge’s Christabel, and declared against me for praising it. I praised it, firstly, because I thought well of it; secondly, because Coleridge was in great distress, and, after doing what little I could for him in essentials, I thought that the public avowal of my good opinion might help him further, at least with the booksellers. I am very sorry that J * * has attacked him, because, poor fellow, it will hurt him in mind and pocket. As for me, he’s welcome — I shall never think less of J * * for any thing he may say against me or mine in future.

  “I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send (for I do not know whether they are out or no) the poem, or poesies, of mine, of last summer. By the mass! they are sublime— ‘Ganion Coheriza’ — gainsay who dares! Pray, let me hear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me know that you have received these three letters. Direct, right here, poste restante.

  “Ever and ever, &c.

  “P.S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of a bookseller, who has published some d —— d nonsense, swearing the bastards to me, and saying he gave me five hundred guineas for them. He lies — never wrote such stuff, never saw the poems, nor the publisher of them, in my life, nor had any communication, directly or indirectly, with the fellow. Pray say as much for me, if need be. I have written to Murray, to make him contradict the impostor.”

  LETTER 254. TO MR. MURRAY.

  “Venice, November 25. 1816.

  “It is some
months since I have heard from or of you — I think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan I wrote once or twice; but have been here some little time, and intend to pass the winter without removing. I was much pleased with the Lago di Garda, and with Verona, particularly the amphitheatre, and a sarcophagus in a convent garden, which they show as Juliet’s: they insist on the truth of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady of the Austrian governor told me that between Verona and Vicenza there are still ruins of the castle of the Montecchi, and a chapel once appertaining to the Capulets. Romeo seems to have been of Vicenza by the tradition; but I was a good deal surprised to find so firm a faith in Bandello’s novel, which seems really to have been founded on a fact.

  “Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and I expected much. It is one of those places which I know before I see them, and has always haunted me the most after the East. I like the gloomy gaiety of their gondolas, and the silence of their canals. I do not even dislike the evident decay of the city, though I regret the singularity of its vanished costume; however, there is much left still; the Carnival, too, is coming.

  “St. Mark’s, and indeed Venice, is most alive at night. The theatres are not open till nine, and the society is proportionably late. All this is to my taste, but most of your countrymen miss and regret the rattle of hackney coaches, without which they can’t sleep.

  “I have got remarkably good apartments in a private house; I see something of the inhabitants (having had a good many letters to some of them); I have got my gondola; I read a little, and luckily could speak Italian (more fluently than correctly) long ago, I am studying, out of curiosity, the Venetian dialect, which is very naïve, and soft, and peculiar, though not at all classical; I go out frequently, and am in very good contentment.