by Thomas Moore
“It is now seven years since you and I met; — which time you have employed better for others and more honourably for yourself than I have done.
“In England you will find considerable changes, public and private, — you will see some of our old college contemporaries turned into lords of the Treasury, Admiralty, and the like, — others become reformers and orators, — many settled in life, as it is called, — and others settled in death; among the latter, (by the way, not our fellow collegians,) Sheridan, Curran, Lady Melbourne, Monk Lewis, Frederick Douglas, &c. &c. &c.; but you will still find Mr. * * living and all his family, as also * * * * *.
“Should you come up this way, and I am still here, you need not be assured how glad I shall be to see you; I long to hear some part from you, of that which I expect in no long time to see. At length you have had better fortune than any traveller of equal enterprise (except Humboldt), in returning safe; and after the fate of the Brownes, and the Parkes, and the Burckhardts, it is hardly less surprise than satisfaction to get you back again.
“Believe me ever
“And very affectionately yours,
“BYRON.”
LETTER 348. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Venice, December 4. 1819.
“You may do as you please, but you are about a hopeless experiment. Eldon will decide against you, were it only that my name is in the record. You will also recollect that if the publication is pronounced against, on the grounds you mention, as indecent and blasphemous, that I lose all right in my daughter’s guardianship and education, in short, all paternal authority, and every thing concerning her, except * * * * * * * * It was so decided in Shelley’s case, because he had written Queen Mab, &c. &c. However, you can ask the lawyers, and do as you like: I do not inhibit you trying the question; I merely state one of the consequences to me. With regard to the copyright, it is hard that you should pay for a nonentity: I will therefore refund it, which I can very well do, not having spent it, nor begun upon it; and so we will be quits on that score. It lies at my banker’s.
“Of the Chancellor’s law I am no judge; but take up Tom Jones, and read his Mrs. Waters and Molly Seagrim; or Prior’s Hans Carvel and Paulo Purganti: Smollett’s Roderick Random, the chapter of Lord Strutwell, and many others; Peregrine Pickle, the scene of the Beggar Girl; Johnson’s London, for coarse expressions; for instance, the words ‘* *,’ and ‘* *;’ Anstey’s Bath Guide, the ‘Hearken, Lady Betty, hearken;’ — take up, in short, Pope, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Fielding, Smollett, and let the counsel select passages, and what becomes of their copyright, if his Wat Tyler decision is to pass into a precedent? I have nothing more to say: you must judge for yourselves.
“I wrote to you some time ago. I have had a tertian ague; my daughter Allegra has been ill also, and I have been almost obliged to run away with a married woman; but with some difficulty, and many internal struggles, I reconciled the lady with her lord, and cured the fever of the child with bark, and my own with cold water. I think of setting out for England by the Tyrol in a few days, so that I could wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. Excuse my writing in great haste and late in the morning, or night, whichever you please to call it. The third Canto of ‘Don Juan’ is completed, in about two hundred stanzas; very decent, I believe, but do not know, and it is useless to discuss until it be ascertained if it may or may not be a property.
“My present determination to quit Italy was unlooked for; but I have explained the reasons in letters to my sister and Douglas Kinnaird, a week or two ago. My progress will depend upon the snows of the Tyrol, and the health of my child, who is at present quite recovered; but I hope to get on well, and am
“Yours ever and truly.
“P.S. Many thanks for your letters, to which you are not to consider this as an answer, but as an acknowledgment.”
The struggle which, at the time of my visit to him, I had found Lord Byron so well disposed to make towards averting, as far as now lay in his power, some of the mischievous consequences which, both to the object of his attachment and himself, were likely to result from their connection, had been brought, as the foregoing letters show, to a crisis soon after I left him. The Count Guiccioli, on his arrival at Venice, insisted, as we have seen, that his lady should return with him; and, after some conjugal negotiations, in which Lord Byron does not appear to have interfered, the young Contessa consented reluctantly to accompany her lord to Ravenna, it being first covenanted that, in future, all communication between her and her lover should cease.
“In a few days after this,” says Mr. Hoppner, in some notices of his noble friend with which he has favoured me, “he returned to Venice, very much out of spirits, owing to Madame Guiccioli’s departure, and out of humour with every body and every thing around him. We resumed our rides at the Lido; and I did my best not only to raise his spirits, but to make him forget his absent mistress, and to keep him to his purpose of returning to England. He went into no society; and having no longer any relish for his former occupation, his time, when he was not writing, hung heavy enough on hand.”
The promise given by the lovers not to correspond was, as all parties must have foreseen, soon violated; and the letters Lord Byron addressed to the lady, at this time, though written in a language not his own, are rendered frequently even eloquent by the mere force of the feeling that governed him — a feeling which could not have owed its fuel to fancy alone, since now that reality had been so long substituted, it still burned on. From one of these letters, dated November 25th, I shall so far presume upon the discretionary power vested in me, as to lay a short extract or two before the reader — not merely as matters of curiosity, but on account of the strong evidence they afford of the struggle between passion and a sense of right that now agitated him.
“You are,” he says, “and ever will be, my first thought. But, at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, not knowing which way to decide; — on the one hand, fearing that I should compromise you for ever, by my return to Ravenna and the consequences of such a step, and, on the other, dreading that I shall lose both you and myself, and all that I have ever known or tasted of happiness, by never seeing you more. I pray of you, I implore you to be comforted, and to believe that I cannot cease to love you but with my life.” In another part he says, “I go to save you, and leave a country insupportable to me without you. Your letters to F * * and myself do wrong to my motives — but you will yet see your injustice. It is not enough that I must leave you — from motives of which ere long you will be convinced — it is not enough that I must fly from Italy, with a heart deeply wounded, after having passed all my days in solitude since your departure, sick both in body and mind — but I must also have to endure your reproaches without answering and without deserving them. Farewell! in that one word is comprised the death of my happiness.”
He had now arranged every thing for his departure for England, and had even fixed the day, when accounts reached him from Ravenna that the Contessa was alarmingly ill; — her sorrow at their separation having so much preyed upon her mind, that even her own family, fearful of the consequences, had withdrawn all opposition to her wishes, and now, with the sanction of Count Guiccioli himself, entreated her lover to hasten to Ravenna. What was he, in this dilemma, to do? Already had he announced his coming to different friends in England, and every dictate, he felt, of prudence and manly fortitude urged his departure. While thus balancing between duty and inclination, the day appointed for his setting out arrived; and the following picture, from the life, of his irresolution on the occasion, is from a letter written by a female friend of Madame Guiccioli, who was present at the scene:— “He was ready dressed for the journey, his gloves and cap on, and even his little cane in his hand. Nothing was now waited for but his coming down stairs, — his boxes being already all on board the gondola. At this moment, my Lord, by way of pretext, declares, that if it should strike one o’clock before every thing was in order (his arms being the only thing not yet quite ready), he would not
go that day. The hour strikes, and he remains!”
The writer adds, “it is evident he has not the heart to go;” and the result proved that she had not judged him wrongly. The very next day’s tidings from Ravenna decided his fate, and he himself, in a letter to the Contessa, thus announces the triumph which she had achieved. “F * * * will already have told you, with her accustomed sublimity, that Love has gained the victory. I could not summon up resolution enough to leave the country where you are, without, at least, once more seeing you. On yourself, perhaps, it will depend, whether I ever again shall leave you. Of the rest we shall speak when we meet. You ought, by this time, to know which is most conducive to your welfare, my presence or my absence. For myself, I am a citizen of the world — all countries are alike to me. You have ever been, since our first acquaintance, the sole object of my thoughts. My opinion was, that the best course I could adopt, both for your peace and that of all your family, would have been to depart and go far, far away from you; — since to have been near and not approach you would have been, for me, impossible. You have however decided that I am to return to Ravenna. I shall accordingly return — and shall do — and be all that you wish. I cannot say more.
On quitting Venice he took leave of Mr. Hoppner in a short but cordial letter, which I cannot better introduce than by prefixing to it the few words of comment with which this excellent friend of the noble poet has himself accompanied it:— “I need not say with what painful feeling I witnessed the departure of a person who, from the first day of our acquaintance, had treated me with unvaried kindness, reposing a confidence in me which it was beyond the power of my utmost efforts to deserve; admitting me to an intimacy which I had no right to claim, and listening with patience, and the greatest good temper, to the remonstrances I ventured to make upon his conduct.”
LETTER 349. TO MR. HOPPNER.
“My dear Hoppner,
“Partings are but bitter work at best, so that I shall not venture on a second with you. Pray make my respects to Mrs. Hoppner, and assure her of my unalterable reverence for the singular goodness of her disposition, which is not without its reward even in this world — for those who are no great believers in human virtues would discover enough in her to give them a better opinion of their fellow-creatures and — what is still more difficult — of themselves, as being of the same species, however inferior in approaching its nobler models. Make, too, what excuses you can for my omission of the ceremony of leave-taking. If we all meet again, I will make my humblest apology; if not, recollect that I wished you all well; and, if you can, forget that I have given you a great deal of trouble.
“Yours,” &c. &c.
LETTER 350. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Venice, December 10. 1819.
“Since I last wrote, I have changed my mind, and shall not come to England. The more I contemplate, the more I dislike the place and the prospect. You may, therefore, address to me as usual here, though I mean to go to another city. I have finished the third Canto of Don Juan, but the things I have read and heard discourage all further publication — at least for the present. You may try the copy question, but you’ll lose it: the cry is up, and cant is up. I should have no objection to return the price of the copyright, and have written to Mr. Kinnaird by this post on the subject. Talk with him.
“I have not the patience, nor do I feel interest enough in the question, to contend with the fellows in their own slang; but I perceive Mr. Blackwood’s Magazine and one or two others of your missives have been hyperbolical in their praise, and diabolical in their abuse. I like and admire W * *n, and he should not have indulged himself in such outrageous licence. It is overdone and defeats itself. What would he say to the grossness without passion and the misanthropy without feeling of Gulliver’s Travels? — When he talks of Lady’s Byron’s business, he talks of what he knows nothing about; and you may tell him that no one can more desire a public investigation of that affair than I do.
“I sent home by Moore (for Moore only, who has my Journal also) my Memoir written up to 1816, and I gave him leave to show it to whom he pleased, but not to publish, on any account. You may read it, and you may let W * *n read it, if he likes — not for his public opinion, but his private; for I like the man, and care very little about his Magazine. And I could wish Lady B. herself to read it, that she may have it in her power to mark any thing mistaken or mis-stated; as it may probably appear after my extinction, and it would be but fair she should see it, — that is to say, herself willing.
“Perhaps I may take a journey to you in the spring; but I have been ill and am indolent and indecisive, because few things interest me. These fellows first abused me for being gloomy, and now they are wroth that I am, or attempted to be, facetious. I have got such a cold and headach that I can hardly see what I scrawl: — the winters here are as sharp as needles. Some time ago, I wrote to you rather fully about my Italian affairs; at present I can say no more except that you shall hear further by and by.
“Your Blackwood accuses me of treating women harshly: it may be so, but I have been their martyr; my whole life has been sacrificed to them and by them. I mean to leave Venice in a few days, but you will address your letters here as usual. When I fix elsewhere, you shall know.”
Soon after this letter to Mr. Murray he set out for Ravenna, from which place we shall find his correspondence for the next year and a half dated. For a short time after his arrival, he took up his residence at an inn; but the Count Guiccioli having allowed him to hire a suite of apartments in the Palazzo Guiccioli itself, he was once more lodged under the same roof with the Countess Guiccioli.
LETTER 351. TO MR. HOPPNER.
“Ravenna, Dec. 31. 1819.
“I have been here this week, and was obliged to put on my armour and go the night after my arrival to the Marquis Cavalli’s, where there were between two and three hundred of the best company I have seen in Italy, — more beauty, more youth, and more diamonds among the women than have been seen these fifty years in the Sea-Sodom. I never saw such a difference between two places of the same latitude, (or platitude, it is all one,) — music, dancing, and play, all in the same salle. The G.’s object appeared to be to parade her foreign friend as much as possible, and, faith, if she seemed to glory in so doing, it was not for me to be ashamed of it. Nobody seemed surprised; — all the women, on the contrary, were, as it were, delighted with the excellent example. The vice-legate, and all the other vices, were as polite as could be; — and I, who had acted on the reserve, was fairly obliged to take the lady under my arm, and look as much like a cicisbeo as I could on so short a notice, — to say nothing of the embarrassment of a cocked hat and sword, much more formidable to me than ever it will be to the enemy.
“I write in great haste — do you answer as hastily. I can understand nothing of all this; but it seems as if the G. had been presumed to be planted, and was determined to show that she was not, — plantation, in this hemisphere, being the greatest moral misfortune. But this is mere conjecture, for I know nothing about it — except that every body are very kind to her, and not discourteous to me. Fathers, and all relations, quite agreeable.
“Yours ever,
“B.
“P.S. Best respects to Mrs. H.
“I would send the compliments of the season; but the season itself is so complimentary with snow and rain that I wait for sunshine.”
LETTER 352. TO MR. MOORE.
“January 2. 1320.
“My dear Moore,
“‘To-day it is my wedding day; And all the folks would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.’
Or thus:
“Here’s a happy new year! but with reason, I beg you’ll permit me to say — Wish me many returns of the season, But as few as you please of the day.
“My this present writing is to direct you that, if she chooses, she may see the MS. Memoir in your possession. I wish her to have fair play, in all cases, even though it will not be published till after my decease. For
this purpose, it were but just that Lady B. should know what is there said of her and hers, that she may have full power to remark on or respond to any part or parts, as may seem fitting to herself. This is fair dealing, I presume, in all events.
“To change the subject, are you in England? I send you an epitaph for Castlereagh. * * * * * Another for Pitt: —
“With death doom’d to grapple Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel Now lies in the Abbey.
“The gods seem to have made me poetical this day: —
“In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, Will. Cobbett has done well: You visit him on earth again, He’ll visit you in hell.
Or,
“You come to him on earth again, He’ll go with you to hell.
“Pray let not these versiculi go forth with my name, except among the initiated, because my friend H. has foamed into a reformer, and, I greatly fear, will subside into Newgate; since the Honourable House, according to Galignani’s Reports of Parliamentary Debates, are menacing a prosecution to a pamphlet of his. I shall be very sorry to hear of any thing but good for him, particularly in these miserable squabbles; but these are the natural effects of taking a part in them.
“For my own part I had a sad scene since you went. Count Gu. came for his wife, and none of those consequences which Scott prophesied ensued. There was no damages, as in England, and so Scott lost his wager. But there was a great scene, for she would not, at first, go back with him — at least, she did go back with him; but he insisted, reasonably enough, that all communication should be broken off between her and me. So, finding Italy very dull, and having a fever tertian, I packed up my valise, and prepared to cross the Alps; but my daughter fell ill, and detained me.
