by Thomas Moore
“It was a great fame to be named with Moore; greater to be compared with him; greatest — pleasure, at least — to be with him; and, surely, an odd coincidence, that we should be dining together while they were quarrelling about us beyond the equinoctial line.
“Well, the same evening, I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of Lord Grey’s daughters (a fine, tall, spirit-looking girl, with much of the patrician, thorough-bred look of her father, which I dote upon) play on the harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she looked music. Well, I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore and me put together.
“The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the way to pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, the better for the pleasure and for us too. It was, however, agreeable to have heard our fame before dinner, and a girl’s harp after.
“January 16. 1821.
“Read — rode — fired pistols — returned — dined — wrote — visited — heard music — talked nonsense — and went home.
“Wrote part of a Tragedy — advanced in Act 1st with ‘all deliberate speed.’ Bought a blanket. The weather is still muggy as a London May — mist, mizzle, the air replete with Scotticisms, which, though fine in the descriptions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome in real, prosaic perspective. Politics still mysterious.
“January 17. 1821.
“Rode i’ the forest — fired pistols — dined. Arrived a packet of books from England and Lombardy — English, Italian, French, and Latin. Read till eight — went out.
“January 18. 1821.
“To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. Read letters — only two gazettes instead of twelve now due. Made Lega write to that negligent Galignani, and added a postscript. Dined.
“At eight proposed to go out. Lega came in with a letter about a bill unpaid at Venice, which I thought paid months ago. I flew into a paroxysm of rage, which almost made me faint. I have not been well ever since. I deserve it for being such a fool — but it was provoking — a set of scoundrels! It is, however, but five and twenty pounds.
“January 19. 1821.
“Rode. Winter’s wind somewhat more unkind than ingratitude itself, though Shakspeare says otherwise. At least, I am so much more accustomed to meet with ingratitude than the north wind, that I thought the latter the sharper of the two. I had met with both in the course of the twenty-four hours, so could judge.
“Thought of a plan of education for my daughter Allegra, who ought to begin soon with her studies. Wrote a letter — afterwards a postscript. Rather in low spirits — certainly hippish — liver touched — will take a dose of salts.
“I have been reading the Life, by himself and daughter, of Mr. R.L. Edgeworth, the father of the Miss Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name. In 1813, I recollect to have met them in the fashionable world of London (of which I then formed an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of something) in the assemblies of the hour, and at a breakfast of Sir Humphry and Lady Davy’s, to which I was invited for the nonce. I had been the lion of 1812; Miss Edgeworth and Madame de Staël, with ‘the Cossack,’ towards the end of 1813, were the exhibitions of the succeeding year.
“I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a clarety, elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, and endless. He was seventy, but did not look fifty — no, nor forty-eight even. I had seen poor Fitzpatrick not very long before — a man of pleasure, wit, eloquence, all things. He tottered — but still talked like a gentleman, though feebly. Edgeworth bounced about, and talked loud and long; but he seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old.
“He began by telling ‘that he had given Dr. Parr a dressing, who had taken him for an Irish bog-trotter,’ &c. &c. Now I, who know Dr. Parr, and who know (not by experience — for I never should have presumed so far as to contend with him — but by hearing him with others, and of others) that it is not so easy a matter to ‘dress him,’ thought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what was not true. He could not have stood before Parr an instant. For the rest, he seemed intelligent, vehement, vivacious, and full of life. He bids fair for a hundred years.
“He was not much admired in London, and I remember a ‘ryghte merrie’ and conceited jest which was rife among the gallants of the day, — viz. a paper had been presented for the recall of Mrs. Siddons to the stage, (she having lately taken leave, to the loss of ages, — for nothing ever was, or can be, like her,) to which all men had been called to subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of profane and poetical memory, did propose that a similar paper should be subscribed and circumscribed ‘for the recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.’
“The fact was — every body cared more about her. She was a nice little unassuming ‘Jeanie Deans’-looking body,’ as we Scotch say — and, if not handsome, certainly not ill-looking. Her conversation was as quiet as herself. One would never have guessed she could write her name; whereas her father talked, not as if he could write nothing else, but as if nothing else was worth writing.
“As for Mrs. Edgeworth, I forget — except that I think she was the youngest of the party. Altogether, they were an excellent cage of the kind; and succeeded for two months, till the landing of Madame de Staël.
“To turn from them to their works, I admire them; but they excite no feeling, and they leave no love — except for some Irish steward or postilion. However, the impression of intellect and prudence is profound — and may be useful.
“January 20. 1821.
“Rode — fired pistols. Read from Grimm’s Correspondence. Dined — went out — heard music — returned — wrote a letter to the Lord Chamberlain to request him to prevent the theatres from representing the Doge, which the Italian papers say that they are going to act. This is pretty work — what! without asking my consent, and even in opposition to it!
January 21. 1821.
“Fine, clear frosty day — that is to say, an Italian frost, for their winters hardly get beyond snow; for which reason nobody knows how to skate (or skait) — a Dutch and English accomplishment. Rode out, as usual, and fired pistols. Good shooting — broke four common, and rather small, bottles, in four shots, at fourteen paces, with a common pair of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost as good wafering or shooting — considering the difference of powder and pistols — as when, in 1809, 1810, 1811, 1812, 1813, 1814, it was my luck to split walking-sticks, wafers, half-crowns, shillings, and even the eye of a walking-stick, at twelve paces, with a single bullet — and all by eye and calculation; for my hand is not steady, and apt to change with the very weather. To the prowess which I here note, Joe Manton and others can bear testimony! for the former taught, and the latter has seen me do, these feats.
“Dined — visited — came home — read. Remarked on an anecdote in Grimm’s Correspondence, which says that ‘Regnard et la plûpart des poëtes comiques étaient gens bilieux et mélancoliques; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est très gai, n’a jamais fait que des tragedies — et que la comedie gaie est le seul genre où il n’ait point réussi. C’est que celui qui rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes fort différens.’ — Vol. VI.
“At this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, the next to Molière, who has written some of the best comedies in any language, and who is supposed to have committed suicide,) and am not in spirits to continue my proposed tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have, for some days, ceased to compose.
“To-morrow is my birth-day — that is to say, at twelve o’ the clock, midnight, i.e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty and three years of age!!! — and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose.
“It is three minutes past twelve.— ’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,’ and I am now thirty-three!
“Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur anni; —
but I don’t regret them so much for what I have
done, as for what I might have done.
“Through life’s road, so dim and dirty, I have dragged to three-and-thirty. What have these years left to me? Nothing — except thirty-three.
“January 22. 1821.
“January 23. 1821.
“Fine day. Read — rode — fired pistols, and returned. Dined — read. Went out at eight — made the usual visit. Heard of nothing but war,— ‘the cry is still, They come.’ The Cari. seem to have no plan — nothing fixed among themselves, how, when, or what to do. In that case, they will make nothing of this project, so often postponed, and never put in action.
“Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in case of circumstances requiring a change of place. I shall act according to what may seem proper, when I hear decidedly what the Barbarians mean to do. At present, they are building a bridge of boats over the Po, which looks very warlike. A few days will probably show. I think of retiring towards Ancona, nearer the northern frontier; that is to say, if Teresa and her father are obliged to retire, which is most likely, as all the family are Liberals. If not, I shall stay. But my movements will depend upon the lady’s wishes — for myself, it is much the same.
“I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my little daughter, and my effects, which are of some quantity and value, — and neither of them do in the seat of war, where I think of going. But there is an elderly lady who will take charge of her, and T. says that the Marchese C. will undertake to hold the chattels in safe keeping. Half the city are getting their affairs in marching trim. A pretty Carnival! The blackguards might as well have waited till Lent.
“January 24. 1821.
“Returned — met some masques in the Corso— ‘Vive la bagatelle!’ — the Germans are on the Po, the Barbarians at the gate, and their masters in council at Leybach (or whatever the eructation of the sound may syllable into a human pronunciation), and lo! they dance and sing and make merry, ‘for to-morrow they may die.’ Who can say that the Arlequins are not right? Like the Lady Baussiere, and my old friend Burton — I ‘rode on.’
“Dined — (damn this pen!) — beef tough — there is no beef in Italy worth a curse; unless a man could eat an old ox with the hide on, singed in the sun.
“The principal persons in the events which may occur in a few days are gone out on a shooting party. If it were like a ‘highland hunting,’ a pretext of the chase for a grand re-union of counsellors and chiefs, it would be all very well. But it is nothing more or less than a real snivelling, popping, small-shot, water-hen waste of powder, ammunition, and shot, for their own special amusement: a rare set of fellows for ‘a man to risk his neck with,’ as ‘Marishall Wells’ says in the Black Dwarf.
“If they gather,— ‘whilk is to be doubted,’ — they will not muster a thousand men. The reason of this is, that the populace are not interested, — only the higher and middle orders. I wish that the peasantry were: they are a fine savage race of two-legged leopards. But the Bolognese won’t — the Romagnuoles can’t without them. Or, if they try — what then? They will try, and man can do no more — and, if he would but try his utmost, much might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against the Spaniards — then the tyrants of Europe, since, the slaves, and, lately, the freedmen.
“The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the individual me, whatever it may be for the nations. I lost a lawsuit, after two decisions in my favour. The project of lending money on an Irish mortgage was finally rejected by my wife’s trustee after a year’s hope and trouble. The Rochdale lawsuit had endured fifteen years, and always prospered till I married; since which, every thing has gone wrong — with me at least.
“In the same year, 1820, the Countess T.G. nata Ga. Gi. in despite of all I said and did to prevent it, would separate from her husband, Il Cavalier Commendatore Gi. &c. &c. &c. and all on the account of ‘P.P. clerk of this parish.’ The other little petty vexations of the year — overturns in carriages — the murder of people before one’s door, and dying in one’s beds — the cramp in swimming — colics — indigestions and bilious attacks, &c. &c. &c. —
“Many small articles make up a sum, And hey ho for Caleb Quotem, oh!
“January 25. 1821.
“Received a letter from Lord S.O. state secretary of the Seven Islands — a fine fellow — clever — dished in England five years ago, and came abroad to retrench and to renew. He wrote from Ancona, in his way back to Corfu, on some matters of our own. He is son of the late Duke of L. by a second marriage. He wants me to go to Corfu. Why not? — perhaps I may, next spring.
“Answered Murray’s letter — read — lounged. Scrawled this additional page of life’s log-book. One day more is over of it and of me: — but ‘which is best, life or death, the gods only know,’ as Socrates said to his judges, on the breaking up of the tribunal. Two thousand years since that sage’s declaration of ignorance have not enlightened us more upon this important point; for, according to the Christian dispensation, no one can know whether he is sure of salvation — even the most righteous — since a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, like a skaiter, while gliding smoothly to his paradise. Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in the facts may be, the certainty of the individual as to his happiness or misery is no greater than it was under Jupiter.
“It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a ‘grand peut-être’ — but still it is a grand one. Every body clings to it — the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
“January 26. 1821.
“Fine day — a few mares’ tails portending change, but the sky clear, upon the whole. Rode — fired pistols — good shooting. Coming back, met an old man. Charity — purchased a shilling’s worth of salvation. If that was to be bought, I have given more to my fellow-creatures in this life — sometimes for vice, but, if not more often, at least more considerably, for virtue — than I now possess. I never in my life gave a mistress so much as I have sometimes given a poor man in honest distress; but no matter. The scoundrels who have all along persecuted me (with the help of * * who has crowned their efforts) will triumph; — and, when justice is done to me, it will be when this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts which have stung me.
“Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an old woman. I asked her age — she said ‘Trecroci.’ I asked my groom (though myself a decent Italian) what the devil her three crosses meant. He said, ninety years, and that she had five years more to boot!! I repeated the same three times, not to mistake — ninety-five years!!! — and she was yet rather active — heard my question, for she answered it — saw me, for she advanced towards me; and did not appear at all decrepit, though certainly touched with years. Told her to come to-morrow, and will examine her myself. I love phenomena. If she is ninety-five years old, she must recollect the Cardinal Alberoni, who was legate here.
“On dismounting, found Lieutenant E. just arrived from Faenza. Invited him to dine with me to-morrow. Did not invite him for to-day, because there was a small turbot, (Friday, fast regularly and religiously,) which I wanted to eat all myself. Ate it.
“Went out — found T. as usual — music. The gentlemen, who make revolutions and are gone on a shooting, are not yet returned. They don’t return till Sunday — that is to say, they have been out for five days, buffooning, while the interests of a whole country are at stake, and even they themselves compromised.
“It is a difficult part to play amongst such a set of assassins and blockheads — but, when the scum is skimmed off, or has boiled over, good may come of it. If this country could but be freed, what would be too great for the accomplishment of that desire? for the extinction of that Sigh of Ages? Let us hope. They have hoped these thousand years. The very revolvement of the chances may bring it — it is upon the dice.
“If the Neapolitans have but a single Massaniello amongst them, they will beat the bloody butchers of the crown and sabre. Holland, in worse circumstances, beat the Spains and Philips; America beat the E
nglish; Greece beat Xerxes; and France beat Europe, till she took a tyrant; South America beats her old vultures out of their nest; and, if these men are but firm in themselves, there is nothing to shake them from without.
“January 28. 1821.
“Lugano Gazette did not come. Letters from Venice. It appears that the Austrian brutes have seized my three or four pounds of English powder. The scoundrels! — I hope to pay them in ball for that powder. Rode out till twilight.
“Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to be written (life and circumstances permitting), to wit, Sardanapalus, already begun; Cain, a metaphysical subject, something in the style of Manfred, but in five acts, perhaps, with the chorus; Francesca of Rimini, in five acts; and I am not sure that I would not try Tiberius. I think that I could extract a something, of my tragic, at least, out of the gloomy sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even out of his sojourn at Caprea — by softening the details, and exhibiting the despair which must have led to those very vicious pleasures. For none but a powerful and gloomy mind overthrown would have had recourse to such solitary horrors, — being also, at the same time, old, and the master of the world.
“Memoranda.
“What is Poetry? — The feeling of a Former world and Future.
“Thought Second.
“Why, at the very height of desire and human pleasure, — worldly, social, amorous, ambitious, or even avaricious, — does there mingle a certain sense of doubt and sorrow — a fear of what is to come — a doubt of what is — a retrospect to the past, leading to a prognostication of the future? (The best of Prophets of the future is the Past.) Why is this? or these? — I know not, except that on a pinnacle we are most susceptible of giddiness, and that we never fear falling except from a precipice — the higher, the more awful, and the more sublime; and, therefore, I am not sure that Fear is not a pleasurable sensation; at least, Hope is; and what Hope is there without a deep leaven of Fear? and what sensation is so delightful as Hope? and, if it were not for Hope, where would the Future be? — in hell. It is useless to say where the Present is, for most of us know; and as for the Past, what predominates in memory? — Hope baffled. Ergo, in all human affairs, it is Hope — Hope — Hope. I allow sixteen minutes, though I never counted them, to any given or supposed possession. From whatever place we commence, we know where it all must end. And yet, what good is there in knowing it? It does not make men better or wiser. During the greatest horrors of the greatest plagues, (Athens and Florence, for example — see Thucydides and Machiavelli,) men were more cruel and profligate than ever. It is all a mystery. I feel most things, but I know nothing, except
