by Thomas Moore
“I see the way that he and his Quarterly people are tending — they want a row with me, and they shall have it. I only regret that I am not in England for the nonce; as, here, it is hardly fair ground for me, isolated and out of the way of prompt rejoinder and information as I am. But, though backed by all the corruption, and infamy, and patronage of their master rogues and slave renegadoes, if they do once rouse me up,
“‘They had better gall the devil, Salisbury.’
“I have that for two or three of them, which they had better not move me to put in motion; — and yet, after all, what a fool I am to disquiet myself about such fellows! It was all very well ten or twelve years ago, when I was a ‘curled darling,’ and minded such things. At present, I rate them at their true value; but, from natural temper and bile, am not able to keep quiet.
“Let me hear from you on your return from Ireland, which ought to be ashamed to see you, after her Brunswick blarney. I am of Longman’s opinion, that you should allow your friends to liquidate the Bermuda claim. Why should you throw away the two thousand pounds (of the non-guinea Murray) upon that cursed piece of treacherous inveiglement? I think you carry the matter a little too far and scrupulously. When we see patriots begging publicly, and know that Grattan received a fortune from his country, I really do not see why a man, in no whit inferior to any or all of them, should shrink from accepting that assistance from his private friends which every tradesman receives from his connections upon much less occasions. For, after all, it was not your debt — it was a piece of swindling against you. As to * * * *, and the ‘what noble creatures! &c. &c.’ it is all very fine and very well, but, till you can persuade me that there is no credit, and no self-applause to be obtained by being of use to a celebrated man, I must retain the same opinion of the human species, which I do of our friend Ms. Specie.”
In the month of August, Madame Guiccioli had joined her father at Pisa, and was now superintending the preparations at the Casa Lanfranchi, — one of the most ancient and spacious palaces of that city, — for the reception of her noble friend. “He left Ravenna,” says this lady, “with great regret, and with a presentiment that his departure would be the forerunner of a thousand evils to us. In every letter he then wrote to me, he expressed his displeasure at this step. ‘If your father should be recalled,’ he said, ‘I immediately return to Ravenna; and if he is recalled previous to my departure, I remain.’ In this hope he delayed his journey for several months; but, at last, no longer having any expectation of our immediate return, he wrote to me, saying— ‘I set out most unwillingly, foreseeing the most evil results for all of you, and principally for yourself. I say no more, but you will see.’ And in another letter he says, ‘I leave Ravenna so unwillingly, and with such a persuasion on my mind that my departure will lead from one misery to another, each greater than the former, that I have not the heart to utter another word on the subject.’ He always wrote to me at that time in Italian, and I transcribe his exact words. How entirely were these presentiments verified by the event!”
After describing his mode of life while at Ravenna, the lady thus proceeds: —
“This sort of simple life he led until the fatal day of his departure for Greece, and the few variations he made from it may be said to have arisen solely from the greater or smaller number of occasions which were offered him of doing good, and from the generous actions he was continually performing. Many families (in Ravenna principally) owed to him the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed. His arrival in that town was spoken of as a piece of public good fortune, and his departure as a public calamity; and this is the life which many attempted to asperse as that of a libertine. But the world must at last learn how, with so good and generous a heart, Lord Byron, susceptible, it is true, of the most energetic passions, yet, at the same time, of the sublimest and most pure, and rendering homage in his acts to every virtue — how he, I say, could afford such scope to malice and to calumny. Circumstances, and also, probably, an eccentricity of disposition, (which, nevertheless, had its origin in a virtuous feeling, an excessive abhorrence for hypocrisy and affectation,) contributed, perhaps, to cloud the splendour of his exalted nature in the opinion of many. But you will well know how to analyse these contradictions in a manner worthy of your noble friend and of yourself, and you will prove that the goodness of his heart was not inferior to the grandeur of his genius.”
At Bologna, according to the appointment made between them, Lord Byron and Mr. Rogers met; and the record which this latter gentleman has, in his Poem on Italy, preserved of their meeting, conveys so vivid a picture of the poet at this period, with, at the same time, so just and feeling a tribute to his memory, that, narrowed as my limits are now becoming, I cannot refrain from giving the sketch entire.
BOLOGNA.
“’Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day Were o’er. The mountebank no longer wrought Miraculous cures — he and his stage were gone; And he who, when the crisis of his tale Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm’d his wire And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries , So well portray’d and by a son of thine, Whose voice had swell’d the hubbub in his youth, Were hush’d, BOLOGNA, silence in the streets, The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far, Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet stain’d with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. ’Twas where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the Pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach’d Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the Master — one long used To sojourn among strangers, every where (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunn’d the busy scenes of life, But mingled not; and mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate Spirit. “Much had pass’d Since last we parted; and those five short years — Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn’d Grey; nor did aught recall the youth that swam From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flash’d lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing — no unwelcome hour, The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising, we climb’d the rugged Apennine. “Well I remember how the golden sun Fill’d with its beams the unfathomable gulfs As on we travell’d, and along the ridge, ‘Mid groves of cork, and cistus, and wild fig, His motley household came. — Not last nor least, Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea Of Venice had so ably, zealously Served, and at parting, thrown his oar away To follow through the world; who without stain Had worn so long that honourable badge, The gondolier’s, in a Patrician House Arguing unlimited trust. — Not last nor least, Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength, Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour Guarding his chamber-door, and now along The silent, sullen strand of MISSOLONGHI Howling in grief. “He had just left that Place Of old renown, once in the ADRIAN sea, RAVENNA; where from DANTE’S sacred tomb He had so oft, as many a verse declares, Drawn inspiration; where at twilight-time, Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld (What is not visible to a poet’s eye?) The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and their prey, The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Suddenly blasted. ’Twas a theme he loved, But others claim’d their turn; and many a tower, Shatter’d uprooted from its native rock, Its strength the pride of some heroic age, Appear’d and vanish’d (many a sturdy steer Yoked and unyoked), while, as in happier days, He pour’d his spirit forth. The past forgot, All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured Present or future. “He is now at rest; And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, Now dull in death. Yes, BYRON, thou ar
t gone, Gone like a star that through the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do Things long regretted, oft, as many know, None more than I, thy gratitude would build On slight foundations: and, if in thy life Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, Thy wish accomplish’d; dying in the land Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, Dying in GREECE, and in a cause so glorious! “They in thy train — ah, little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourn’d, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleam’d on what remain’d of thee, Roll o’er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow. “Thou art gone; And he who would assail thee in thy grave, Oh, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert — even from thine earliest years, When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland boy — Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, Her charmed cup — ah, who among us all Could say he had not err’d as much, and more?”
On the road to Bologna he had met with his early and dearest friend, Lord Clare, and the following description of their short interview is given in his “Detached Thoughts.”
“Pisa, November 5. 1821.
“‘There is a strange coincidence sometimes in the little things of this world, Sancho,’ says Sterne in a letter (if I mistake not), and so I have often found it.
“Page 128. article 91. of this collection, I had alluded to my friend Lord Clare in terms such as my feelings suggested. About a week or two afterwards I met him on the road between Imola and Bologna, after not having met for seven or eight years. He was abroad in 1814, and came home just as I set out in 1816.
“This meeting annihilated for a moment all the years between the present time and the days of Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, like rising from the grave, to me. Clare, too, was much agitated — more in appearance than was myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers’ ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own which made me think so. He told me that I should find a note from him left at Bologna. I did. We were obliged to part for our different journeys, he for Rome, I for Pisa, but with the promise to meet again in spring. We were but five minutes together, and on the public road; but I hardly recollect an hour of my existence which could be weighed against them. He had heard that I was coming on, and had left his letter for me at Bologna, because the people with whom he was travelling could not wait longer.
“Of all I have ever known, he has always been the least altered in every thing from the excellent qualities and kind affections which attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little of the leaven of bad passions.
“I do not speak from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him from others, during absence and distance.”
After remaining a day at Bologna, Lord Byron crossed the Apennines with Mr. Rogers; and I find the following note of their visit together to the Gallery at Florence: —
“I revisited the Florence Gallery, &c. My former impressions were confirmed; but there were too many visiters there to allow one to feel any thing properly. When we were (about thirty or forty) all stuffed into the cabinet of gems and knick-knackeries, in a corner of one of the galleries, I told Rogers that it ‘felt like being in the watchhouse.’ I left him to make his obeisances to some of his acquaintances, and strolled on alone — the only four minutes I could snatch of any feeling for the works around me. I do not mean to apply this to a tête-à-tête scrutiny with Rogers, who has an excellent taste, and deep feeling for the arts, (indeed much more of both than I can possess, for of the former I have not much,) but to the crowd of jostling starers and travelling talkers around me.
“I heard one bold Briton declare to the woman on his arm, looking at the Venus of Titian, ‘Well, now, this is really very fine indeed,’ — an observation which, like that of the landlord in Joseph Andrews on ‘the certainty of death,’ was (as the landlord’s wife observed) ‘extremely true.’
“In the Pitti Palace, I did not omit Goldsmith’s prescription for a connoisseur, viz. ‘that the pictures would have been better if the painter had taken more pains, and to praise the works of Pietro Perugino.’”
LETTER 466. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Pisa, November 3. 1821.
“The two passages cannot be altered without making Lucifer talk like the Bishop of Lincoln, which would not be in the character of the former. The notion is from Cuvier (that of the old worlds), as I have explained in an additional note to the preface. The other passage is also in character: if nonsense, so much the better, because then it can do no harm, and the sillier Satan is made, the safer for every body. As to ‘alarms,’ &c. do you really think such things ever led any body astray? Are these people more impious than Milton’s Satan? or the Prometheus of Æschylus? or even than the Sadducees of * *, the ‘Fall of Jerusalem’ * *? Are not Adam, Eve, Adah, and Abel, as pious as the catechism?
“Gifford is too wise a man to think that such things can have any serious effect: who was ever altered by a poem? I beg leave to observe, that there is no creed nor personal hypothesis of mine in all this; but I was obliged to make Cain and Lucifer talk consistently, and surely this has always been permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud man: if Lucifer promised him kingdom, &c. it would elate him: the object of the Demon is to depress him still further in his own estimation than he was before, by showing him infinite things and his own abasement, till he falls into the frame of mind that leads to the catastrophe, from mere internal irritation, not premeditation, or envy of Abel (which would have made him contemptible), but from the rage and fury against the inadequacy of his state to his conceptions, and which discharges itself rather against life, and the Author of life, than the mere living.
“His subsequent remorse is the natural effect of looking on his sudden deed. Had the deed been premeditated, his repentance would have been tardier.
“Either dedicate it to Walter Scott, or, if you think he would like the dedication of ‘The Foscaris’ better, put the dedication to ‘The Foscaris.’ Ask him which.
“Your first note was queer enough; but your two other letters, with Moore’s and Gifford’s opinions, set all right again. I told you before that I can never recast any thing. I am like the tiger: if I miss the first spring, I go grumbling back to my jungle again; but if I do hit, it is crushing. * * * You disparaged the last three cantos to me, and kept them back above a year; but I have heard from England that (notwithstanding the errors of the press) they are well thought of; for instance, by American Irving, which last is a feather in my (fool’s) cap.
“You have received my letter (open) through Mr. Kinnaird, and so, pray, send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years.
“The bust is not my property, but Hobhouse’s. I addressed it to you as an Admiralty man, great at the Custom-house. Pray deduct the expenses of the same, and all others.
“Yours,” &c.
LETTER 467. TO MR. MURRAY.
“Pisa, Nov. 9. 1821.
“I never read the Memoirs at all, not even since they were written; and I never will: the pain of writing them was enough; you may spare me that of a perusal. Mr. Moore has (or may have) a discretionary power to omit any repetition, or expressions which do not seem good to him, who is a better judge than you or I.
“Enclosed is a lyrical drama, (entitled ‘A Mystery,’ from its subject,) which, perhaps may arrive in time for the volume. You will find it pious enough, I trust, — at least some of the Chorus might have been written by Sternhold and Hopkins themselves fo
r that, and perhaps for melody. As it is longer, and more lyrical and Greek, than I intended at first, I have not divided it into acts, but called what I have sent Part First, as there is a suspension of the action, which may either close there without impropriety, or be continued in a way that I have in view. I wish the first part to be published before the second, because, if it don’t succeed, it is better to stop there than to go on in a fruitless experiment.
“I desire you to acknowledge the arrival of this packet by return of post, if you can conveniently, with a proof.
“Your obedient, &c.
“P.S. My wish is to have it published at the same time, and, if possible, in the same volume, with the others, because, whatever the merits or demerits of these pieces may be, it will perhaps be allowed that each is of a different kind, and in a different style; so that, including the prose and the Don Juans, &c. I have at least sent you variety during the last year or two.”
LETTER 468. TO MR. MOORE.
“Pisa, November 16. 1821.
“There is here Mr. * *, an Irish genius, with whom we are acquainted. He hath written a really excellent Commentary on Dante, full of new and true information, and much ingenuity. But his verse is such as it hath pleased God to endue him withal. Nevertheless, he is so firmly persuaded of its equal excellence, that he won’t divorce the Commentary from the traduction, as I ventured delicately to hint, — not having the fear of Ireland before my eyes, and upon the presumption of having shotten very well in his presence (with common pistols too, not with my Manton’s) the day before.
