by Thomas Moore
“In turning over Grimm’s Correspondence to-day, I found a thought of Tom Moore’s in a song of Maupertuis to a female Laplander.
“‘Et tous les lieux, Où sont ses yeux, Font la Zone brûlante.’
This is Moore’s,
“‘And those eyes make my climate, wherever I roam.’
But I am sure that Moore never saw it; for this was published in Grimm’s Correspondence in 1813, and I knew Moore’s by heart in 1812. There is also another, but an antithetical coincidence —
“‘Le soleil luit, Des jours sans nuit Bientôt il nous destine; Mais ces longs jours Seront trop courts, Passés près des Christine.’
This is the thought reversed, of the last stanza of the ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in Miss Seward’s Memoirs of Darwin, which is pretty — I quote from memory of these last fifteen years.
“‘For my first night I’ll go To those regions of snow Where the sun for six months never shines; And think, even then, He too soon came again, To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynes.’
“To-day I have had no communication with my Carbonari cronies; but, in the mean time, my lower apartments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and what not. I suppose that they consider me as a depôt, to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed. It is a grand object — the very poetry of politics. Only think — a free Italy!!! Why, there has been nothing like it since the days of Augustus. I reckon the times of Cæsar (Julius) free; because the commotions left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty equal at the set out. But, afterwards, it was all praetorian and legionary business — and since! — we shall see, or, at least, some will see, what card will turn up. It is best to hope, even of the hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows have to do, in the Seventy Years’ War.
“February 19. 1821.
“Came home solus — very high wind — lightning — moonshine — solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks — women in mask — white houses — clouds hurrying over the sky, like spilt milk blown out of the pail — altogether very poetical. It is still blowing hard — the tiles flying, and the house rocking — rain splashing — lightning flashing — quite a fine Swiss Alpine evening, and the sea roaring in the distance.
“Visited — conversazione. All the women frightened by the squall: they won’t go to the masquerade because it lightens — the pious reason!
“Still blowing away. A. has sent me some news to-day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh those scoundrel sovereigns! Let us but see them beaten — let the Neapolitans but have the pluck of the Dutch of old, or the Spaniards of now, or of the German Protestants, the Scotch Presbyterians, the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks under Themistocles — all small and solitary nations (except the Spaniards and German Lutherans), and there is yet a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world.
“February 20. 1821.
“The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans are full of energy. The public spirit here is certainly well kept up. The ‘Americani’ (a patriotic society here, an under branch of the ‘Carbonari’) give a dinner in the Forest in a few days, and have invited me, as one of the Ci. It is to be in the Forest of Boccacio’s and Dryden’s ‘Huntsman’s Ghost;’ and, even if I had not the same political feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, which every now and then revives,) I would go as a poet, or, at least, as a lover of poetry. I shall expect to see the spectre of ‘Ostasio degli Onesti’ (Dryden has turned him into Guido Cavalcanti — an essentially different person, as may be found in Dante) come ‘thundering for his prey’ in the midst of the festival. At any rate, whether he does or no. I will get as tipsy and patriotic as possible.
“Within these few days I have read, but not written.
“February 21, 1821.
“As usual, rode — visited, &c. Business begins to thicken. The Pope has printed a declaration against the patriots, who, he says, meditate a rising. The consequence of all this will be, that, in a fortnight, the whole country will be up. The proclamation is not yet published, but printed, ready for distribution. * * sent me a copy privately — a sign that he does not know what to think. When he wants to be well with the patriots, he sends to me some civil message or other.
“For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing but the most decided success of the Barbarians can prevent a general and immediate rise of the whole nation.
“February 23, 1821.
“Almost ditto with yesterday — rode, &c. — visited — wrote nothing — read Roman History.
“Had a curious letter from a fellow, who informs me that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards me. He is probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it so, even as he says. They cannot bestow their hostility on one who loathes and execrates them more than I do, or who will oppose their views with more zeal, when the opportunity offers.
“February 24, 1821.
“Rode, &c. as usual. The secret intelligence arrived this morning from the frontier to the Ci. is as bad as possible. The plan has missed — the Chiefs are betrayed, military, as well as civil — and the Neapolitans not only have not moved, but have declared to the P. government, and to the Barbarians, that they know nothing of the matter!!!
“Thus the world goes; and thus the Italians are always lost for lack of union among themselves. What is to be done here, between the two fires, and cut off from the Northern frontier, is not decided. My opinion was, — better to rise than be taken in detail; but how it will be settled now, I cannot tell. Messengers are despatched to the delegates of the other cities to learn their resolutions.
“I always had an idea that it would be bungled; but was willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever I can do by money, means, or person, I will venture freely for their freedom; and have so repeated to them (some of the Chiefs here) half an hour ago. I have two thousand five hundred scudi, better than five hundred pounds, in the house, which I offered to begin with.
“February 25. 1821.
“Came home — my head aches — plenty of news, but too tiresome to set down. I have neither read nor written, nor thought, but led a purely animal life all day. I mean to try to write a page or two before I go to bed. But, as Squire Sullen says, ‘My head aches consumedly: Scrub, bring me a dram!’ Drank some Imola wine, and some punch.
“Log-book continued.
“February 27. 1821.
“I have been a day without continuing the log, because I could not find a blank book. At length I recollected this.
“Rode, &c. — dined — wrote down an additional stanza for the 5th canto of D.J. which I had composed in bed this morning. Visited l’Amica. We are invited, on the night of the Veglione (next Domenica) with the Marchesa Clelia Cavalli and the Countess Spinelli Rusponi. I promised to go. Last night there was a row at the ball, of which I am a ‘socio.’ The Vice-legate had the imprudent insolence to introduce three of his servants in masque — without tickets, too! and in spite of remonstrances. The consequence was, that the young men of the ball took it up, and were near throwing the Vice-legate out of the window. His servants, seeing the scene, withdrew, and he after them. His reverence Monsignore ought to know, that these are not times for the predominance of priests over decorum. Two minutes more, two steps farther, and the whole city would have been in arms, and the government driven out of it.
“Such is the spirit of the day, and these fellows appear not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact went, the young men were right, servants being prohibited always at these festivals.
“Yesterday wrote two notes on the ‘Bowles and Pope’ controversy, and sent them off to Murray by the post. The old woman whom I relieved in the forest (she is ninety-four years of age) brought me two bunches of violets. ‘Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus,’ I was much pleased with the present. An English woman would have presented a pair of worsted stockings, at least, in the month of February. Both excellent things; but the former are more elegant. The present, a
t this season, reminds one of Gray’s stanza, omitted from his elegy: —
“‘Here scatter’d oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The red-breast loves to build and warble here, And little footsteps lightly print the ground.’
As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that he could have the heart to omit it.
“Last night I suffered horribly — from an indigestion, I believe. I never sup — that is, never at home. But, last night, I was prevailed upon by the Countess Gamba’s persuasion, and the strenuous example of her brother, to swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to dilute them, not reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When I came home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swallowed three or four glasses of spirits, which men (the venders) call brandy, rum, or hollands, but which Gods would entitle spirits of wine, coloured or sugared. All was pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat swollen, and considerably vertiginous. I got out, and mixing some soda-powders, drank them off. This brought on temporary relief. I returned to bed; but grew sick and sorry once and again. Took more soda-water. At last I fell into a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill all day, till I had galloped a few miles. Query — was it the cockles, or what I took to correct them, that caused the commotion? I think both. I remarked in my illness the complete inertion, inaction, and destruction of my chief mental faculties. I tried to rouse them, and yet could not — and this is the Soul!!! I should believe that it was married to the body, if they did not sympathise so much with each other. If the one rose, when the other fell, it would be a sign that they longed for the natural state of divorce. But as it is, they seem to draw together like post-horses.
“Let us hope the best — it is the grand possession.”
During the two months comprised in this Journal, some of the Letters of the following series were written. The reader must, therefore, be prepared to find in them occasional notices of the same train of events.
LETTER 404. TO MR. MOORE.
“Ravenna, January 2. 1821.
“Your entering into my project for the Memoir is pleasant to me. But I doubt (contrary to my dear Made Mac F * *, whom I always loved, and always shall — not only because I really did feel attached to her personally, but because she and about a dozen others of that sex were all who stuck by me in the grand conflict of 1815) — but I doubt, I say, whether the Memoir could appear in my lifetime; — and, indeed, I had rather it did not; for a man always looks dead after his Life has appeared, and I should certes not survive the appearance of mine. The first part I cannot consent to alter, even although Made. de S.’s opinion of B.C. and my remarks upon Lady C.’s beauty (which is surely great, and I suppose that I have said so — at least, I ought) should go down to our grandchildren in unsophisticated nakedness.
“As to Madame de S * *, I am by no means bound to be her beadsman — she was always more civil to me in person than during my absence. Our dear defunct friend, M * * L * *, who was too great a bore ever to lie, assured me upon his tiresome word of honour, that, at Florence, the said Madame de S * * was open-mouthed against me; and when asked, in Switzerland, why she had changed her opinion, replied, with laudable sincerity, that I had named her in a sonnet with Voltaire, Rousseau, &c. &c. and that she could not help it through decency. Now, I have not forgotten this, but I have been generous, — as mine acquaintance, the late Captain Whitby, of the navy, used to say to his seamen (when ‘married to the gunner’s daughter’)— ‘two dozen, and let you off easy.’ The ‘two dozen’ were with the cat-o’-nine tails; — the ‘let you off easy’ was rather his own opinion than that of the patient.
“My acquaintance with these terms and practices arises from my having been much conversant with ships of war and naval heroes in the year of my voyages in the Mediterranean. Whitby was in the gallant action off Lissa in 1811. He was brave, but a disciplinarian. When he left his frigate, he left a parrot, which was taught by the crew the following sounds — (it must be remarked that Captain Whitby was the image of Fawcett the actor, in voice, face, and figure, and that he squinted).
“The Parrot loquitur.
“‘Whitby! Whitby! funny eye! funny eye! two dozen, and let you off easy. Oh you —— !’
“Now, if Madame de B. has a parrot, it had better be taught a French parody of the same sounds.
“With regard to our purposed Journal, I will call it what you please, but it should be a newspaper, to make it pay. We can call it ‘The Harp,’ if you like — or any thing.
“I feel exactly as you do about our ‘art,’but it comes over me in a kind of rage every now and then, like * * * *, and then, if I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing, which you describe in your friend, I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
“I wish you to think seriously of the Journal scheme — for I am as serious as one can be, in this world, about any thing. As to matters here, they are high and mighty — but not for paper. It is much about the state of things betwixt Cain and Abel. There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them. Excepting a few occasional murders, (every body killing whomsoever he pleases, and being killed, in turn, by a friend, or relative, of the defunct,) there is as quiet a society and as merry a Carnival as can be met with in a tour through Europe. There is nothing like habit in these things.
“I shall remain here till May or June, and, unless ‘honour comes unlocked for,’ we may perhaps meet, in France or England, within the year.
“Yours, &c.
“Of course, I cannot explain to you existing circumstances, as they open all letters.
“Will you set me right about your curst ‘Champs Elysées?’ — are they ‘és’ or ‘ées’ for the adjective? I know nothing of French, being all Italian. Though I can read and understand French, I never attempt to speak it; for I hate it. From the second part of the Memoirs cut what you please.”
LETTER 405. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Ravenna, January 4. 1821.
“I just see, by the papers of Galignani, that there is a new tragedy of great expectation, by Barry Cornwall. Of what I have read of his works Hiked the Dramatic Sketches, but thought his Sicilian Story and Marcian Colonna, in rhyme, quite spoilt, by I know not what affectation of Wordsworth, and Moore, and myself, all mixed up into a kind of chaos. I think him very likely to produce a good tragedy, if he keep to a natural style, and not play tricks to form harlequinades for an audience. As he (Barry Cornwall is not his true name) was a schoolfellow of mine, I take more than common interest in his success, and shall be glad to hear of it speedily. If I had been aware that he was in that line, I should have spoken of him in the preface to Marino Faliero. He will do a world’s wonder if he produce a great tragedy. I am, however, persuaded, that this is not to be done by following the old dramatists, — who are full of gross faults, pardoned only for the beauty of their language, — but by writing naturally and regularly, and producing regular tragedies, like the Greeks; but not in imitation, — merely the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times and circumstances, and of course no chorus.
“You will laugh, and say, ‘Why don’t you do so?’ I have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero; but many people think my talent ‘essentially undramatic,’ and I am not at all clear that they are not right. If Marino Faliero don’t fall — in the perusal — I shall, perhaps, try again (but not for the stage); and, as I think that love is not the principal passion for tragedy (and yet most of ours turn upon it), you will not find me a popular writer. Unless it is love, furious, criminal, and hapless, it ought not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do; it is then for the gallery and second-price boxes.
“If you want to have a notion of what I am trying, take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. If I said the original, it would be an imp
udent presumption of mine; but the translations are so inferior to the originals, that I think I may risk it Then judge of the ‘simplicity of plot,’ &c. and do not judge me by your old mad dramatists, which is like drinking usquebaugh and then proving a fountain. Yet after all, I suppose that you do not mean that spirits is a nobler element than a clear spring bubbling in the sun? and this I take to be the difference between the Greeks and those turbid mountebanks — always excepting Ben Jonson, who was a scholar and a classic. Or, take up a translation of Alfieri, and try the interest, &c. of these my new attempts in the old line, by him in English; and then tell me fairly your opinion. But don’t measure me by YOUR OWN old or new tailors’ yards. Nothing so easy as intricate confusion of plot and rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedy, has ten times the bustle of Congreve; but are they to be compared? and yet she drove Congreve from the theatre.”
LETTER 406. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Ravenna, January 19. 1821.
“Yours of the 29th ultimo hath arrived. I must, really and seriously request that you will beg of Messrs. Harris or Elliston to let the Doge alone: it is not an acting play; it will not serve their purpose; it will destroy yours (the sale); and it will distress me. It is not courteous, it is hardly even gentlemanly, to persist in this appropriation of a man’s writings to their mountebanks.
“I have already sent you by last post a short protest to the public (against this proceeding); in case that they persist, which I trust that they will not, you must then publish it in the newspapers. I shall not let them off with that only, if they go on; but make a longer appeal on that subject, and state what I think the injustice of their mode of behaviour. It is hard that I should have all the buffoons in Britain to deal with — pirates who will publish, and players who will act — when there are thousands of worthy men who can get neither bookseller nor manager for love nor money.
