Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “Is there a hope of seeing you in Italy again ever? What are you doing? — bored by me, I know; but I have explained why before. I have no correspondence now with London, except through relations and lawyers and one or two friends. My greatest friend, Lord Clare, is at Rome: we met on the road, and our meeting was quite sentimental — really pathetic on both sides. I have always loved him better than any male thing in the world.”

  The preceding was enclosed in that which follows.

  LETTER 482. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Pisa, March 4. 1822.

  “Since I wrote the enclosed, I have waited another post, and now have your answer acknowledging the arrival of the packet — a troublesome one, I fear, to you in more ways than one, both from weight external and internal.

  “The unpublished things in your hands, in Douglas K.’s, and Mr. John Murray’s, are, ‘Heaven and Earth, a lyrical kind of Drama upon the Deluge, &c.;’— ‘Werner,’ now with you; — a translation of the First Canto of the Morgante Maggiore; — ditto of an Episode in Dante; — some stanzas to the Po, June 1st, 1819; — Hints from Horace, written in 1811, but a good deal, since, to be omitted; — several prose things, which may, perhaps, as well remain unpublished;— ‘The Vision, &c. of Quevedo Redivivus’ in verse.

  “Here you see is ‘more matter for a May morning;’ but how much of this can be published is for consideration. The Quevedo (one of my best in that line) has appalled the Row already, and must take its chance at Paris, if at all. The new Mystery is less speculative than ‘Cain,’ and very pious; besides, it is chiefly lyrical. The Morgante is the best translation that ever was or will be made; and the rest are — whatever you please to think them.

  “I am sorry you think Werner even approaching to any fitness for the stage, which, with my notions upon it, is very far from my present object. With regard to the publication, I have already explained that I have no exorbitant expectations of either fame or profit in the present instances; but wish them published because they are written, which is the common feeling of all scribblers.

  “With respect to ‘Religion,’ can I never convince you that I have no such opinions as the characters in that drama, which seems to have frightened every body? Yet they are nothing to the expressions in Goethe’s Faust (which are ten times hardier), and not a whit more bold than those of Milton’s Satan. My ideas of a character may run away with me: like all imaginative men, I, of course, embody myself with the character while I draw it, but not a moment after the pen is from off the paper.

  “I am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. As a proof, I am educating my natural daughter a strict Catholic in a convent of Romagna; for I think people can never have enough of religion, if they are to have any. I incline, myself, very much to the Catholic doctrines; but if I am to write a drama, I must make my characters speak as I conceive them likely to argue.

  “As to poor Shelley, who is another bugbear to you and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the least selfish and the mildest of men — a man who has made more sacrifices of his fortune and feelings for others than any I ever heard of. With his speculative opinions I have nothing in common, nor desire to have.

  “The truth is, my dear Moore, you live near the stove of society, where you are unavoidably influenced by its heat and its vapours. I did so once — and too much — and enough to give a colour to my whole future existence. As my success in society was not inconsiderable, I am surely not a prejudiced judge upon the subject, unless in its favour; but I think it, as now constituted, fatal to all great original undertakings of every kind. I never courted it then, when I was young and high in blood, and one of its ‘curled darlings;’ and do you think I would do so now, when I am living in a clearer atmosphere? One thing only might lead me back to it, and that is, to try once more if I could do any good in politics; but not in the petty politics I see now preying upon our miserable country.

  “Do not let me be misunderstood, however. If you speak your own opinions, they ever had, and will have, the greatest weight with me. But if you merely echo the ‘monde,’ (and it is difficult not to do so, being in its favour and its ferment,) I can only regret that you should ever repeat any thing to which I cannot pay attention.

  “But I am prosing. The gods go with you, and as much immortality of all kinds as may suit your present and all other existence.

  “Yours,” &c.

  LETTER 483. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Pisa, March 6. 1822.

  “The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted me; though I think it is against his own interest to wish that I should continue his connection. You may, therefore, send him the packet of Werner, which will save you all further trouble. And pray, can you forgive me for the bore and expense I have already put upon you? At least, say so — for I feel ashamed of having given you so much for such nonsense.

  “The fact is, I cannot keep my resentments, though violent enough in their onset. Besides, now that all the world are at Murray on my account, I neither can nor ought to leave him; unless, as I really thought, it were better for him that I should.

  “I have had no other news from England, except a letter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old school-fellow. Though I have sickened you with letters lately, believe me

  “Yours, &c.

  “P.S. In your last letter you say, speaking of Shelley, that you would almost prefer the ‘damning bigot’ to the ‘annihilating infidel.’ Shelley believes in immortality, however — but this by the way. Do you remember Frederick the Great’s answer to the remonstrance of the villagers whose curate preached against the eternity of hell’s torments? It was thus:— ‘If my faithful subjects of Schrausenhaussen prefer being eternally damned, let them.’

  “Of the two, I should think the long sleep better than the agonised vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling so to any thing like life, that they probably would prefer damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so important in the creation, that nothing less can satisfy their pride — the insects!”

  It is Dr. Clarke, I think, who gives, in his Travels, rather a striking account of a Tartar whom he once saw exercising a young, fiery horse, upon a spot of ground almost surrounded by a steep precipice, and describes the wantonness of courage with which the rider, as if delighting in his own peril, would, at times, dash, with loose rein, towards the giddy verge. Something of the same breathless apprehension with which the traveller viewed that scene, did the unchecked daring of Byron’s genius inspire in all who watched its course, — causing them, at the same moment, to admire and tremble, and, in those more especially who loved him, awakening a sort of instinctive impulse to rush forward and save him from his own headlong strength. But, however natural it was in friends to give way to this feeling, a little reflection upon his now altered character might have forewarned them that such interference would prove as little useful to him as safe for themselves; and it is not without some surprise I look back upon my own temerity and presumption in supposing that, let loose as he was now, in the full pride and consciousness of strength, with the wide regions of thought outstretching before him, any representations that even friendship could make would have the power — or ought to have — of checking him. As the motives, however, by which I was actuated in my remonstrances to him may be left to speak for themselves, I shall, without dwelling any further upon the subject, content myself with laying before the reader a few such extracts from my own letters at this period as may serve to explain some allusions in those just given.

  In writing to me under the date January 24th, it will be recollected that he says— “be assured that there is no such coalition as you apprehend.” The following extracts from my previous communication to him will explain what this means:— “I heard some days ago that Leigh Hunt was on his way to you with all his family; and the idea seems to be, that you and Shelley and he are to conspire together in the Examiner. I cannot believe this, — and deprecate such a plan with all my might. Alone you may do any thing; but partnerships in fame, like th
ose in trade, make the strongest party answerable for the deficiencies or delinquencies of the rest, and I tremble even for you with such a bankrupt Co. — * * *. They are both clever fellows, and Shelley I look upon as a man of real genius; but I must again say, that you could not give your enemies (the * * *’s, ‘et hoc genus omne’) a greater triumph than by forming such an unequal and unholy alliance. You are, single-handed, a match for the world, — which is saying a good deal, the world being, like Briareus, a very many-handed gentleman, — but, to be so, you must stand alone. Recollect that the scurvy buildings about St. Peter’s almost seem to overtop itself.”

  The notices of Cain, in my letters to him, were, according to their respective dates, as follow: —

  “September 30. 1821.

  “Since writing the above, I have read Foscari and Cain. The former does not please me so highly as Sardanapalus. It has the fault of all those violent Venetian stories, being unnatural and improbable, and therefore, in spite of all your fine management of them, appealing but remotely to one’s sympathies. But Cain is wonderful — terrible — never to be forgotten. If I am not mistaken, it will sink deep into the world’s heart; and while many will shudder at its blasphemy, all must fall prostrate before its grandeur. Talk of Æschylus and his Prometheus! — here is the true spirit both of the Poet — and the Devil.”

  “February 9. 1822.

  “Do not take it into your head, my dear B. that the tide is at all turning against you in England. Till I see some symptoms of people forgetting you a little, I will not believe that you lose ground. As it is, ‘te veniente die, te, decedente,’ — nothing is hardly talked of but you; and though good people sometimes bless themselves when they mention you, it is plain that even they think much more about you than, for the good of their souls, they ought. Cain, to be sure, has made a sensation; and, grand as it is, I regret, for many reasons, you ever wrote it. * * For myself, I would not give up the poetry of religion for all the wisest results that philosophy will ever arrive at. Particular sects and creeds are fair game enough for those who are anxious enough about their neighbours to meddle with them; but our faith in the Future is a treasure not so lightly to be parted with; and the dream of immortality (if philosophers will have it a dream) is one that, let us hope, we shall carry into our last sleep with us.”

  “February 19. 1822.

  “I have written to the Longmans to try the ground, for I do not think Galignani the man for you. The only thing he can do is what we can do, ourselves, without him, — and that is, employ an English bookseller. Paris, indeed, might be convenient for such refugee works as are set down in the Index Expurgatorius of London; and if you have any political catamarans to explode, this is your place. But, pray, let them be only political ones. Boldness, and even licence, in politics, does good, — actual, present good; but, in religion, it profits neither here nor hereafter; and, for myself, such a horror have I of both extremes on this subject, that I know not which I hate most, the bold, damning bigot, or the bold, annihilating infidel. ‘Furiosa res est in tenebris impetus;’ — and much as we are in the dark, even the wisest of us, upon these matters, a little modesty, in unbelief as well as belief, best becomes us. You will easily guess that, in all this, I am thinking not so much of you, as of a friend and, at present, companion of yours, whose influence over your mind (knowing you as I do, and knowing what Lady B. ought to have found out, that you are a person the most tractable to those who live with you that, perhaps, ever existed) I own I dread and deprecate most earnestly.”

  “March 16. 1822.

  “With respect to our Religious Polemics, I must try to set you right upon one or two points. In the first place, I do not identify you with the blasphemies of Cain no more than I do myself with the impieties of my Mokanna, — all I wish and implore is that you, who are such a powerful manufacturer of these thunderbolts, would not choose subjects that make it necessary to launch them. In the next place, were you even a decided atheist, I could not (except, perhaps, for the decision which is always unwise) blame you. I could only pity, — knowing from experience how dreary are the doubts with which even the bright, poetic view I am myself inclined to take of mankind and their destiny is now and then clouded. I look upon Cuvier’s book to be a most desolating one in the conclusions to which it may lead some minds. But the young, the simple, — all those whose hearts one would like to keep unwithered, trouble their heads but little about Cuvier. You, however, have embodied him in poetry which every one reads; and, like the wind, blowing ‘where you list,’ carry this deadly chill, mixed up with your own fragrance, into hearts that should be visited only by the latter. This is what I regret, and what with all my influence I would deprecate a repetition of. Now, do you understand me?

  “As to your solemn peroration, ‘the truth is, my dear Moore, &c. &c.’ meaning neither more nor less than that I give into the cant of the world, it only proves, alas! the melancholy fact, that you and I are hundreds of miles asunder. Could you hear me speak my opinions instead of coldly reading them, I flatter myself there is still enough of honesty and fun in this face to remind you that your friend Tom Moore — whatever else he may be, — is no Canter.”

  LETTER 484. TO MR. MURRAY.

  “Pisa, March 6. 1822.

  “You will long ago have received a letter from me (or should), declaring my opinion of the treatment you have met with about the recent publication. I think it disgraceful to those who have persecuted you. I make peace with you, though our war was for other reasons than this same controversy. I have written to Moore by this post to forward to you the tragedy of’ Werner.’ I shall not make or propose any present bargain about it or the new Mystery till we see if they succeed. If they don’t sell (which is not unlikely), you sha’n’t pay; and I suppose this is fair play, if you choose to risk it.

  “Bartolini, the celebrated sculptor, wrote to me to desire to take my bust: I consented, on condition that he also took that of the Countess Guiccioli. He has taken both, and I think it will be allowed that hers is beautiful. I shall make you a present of them both, to show that I don’t bear malice, and as a compensation for the trouble and squabble you had about Thorwaldsen’s. Of my own I can hardly speak, except that it is thought very like what I now am, which is different from what I was, of course, since you saw me. The sculptor is a famous one; and as it was done by his own particular request, will be done well, probably.

  “What is to be done about * * and his Commentary? He will die if he is not published; he will be damned, if he is; but that he don’t mind. We must publish him.

  “All the row about me has no otherwise affected me than by the attack upon yourself, which is ungenerous in Church and State: but as all violence must in time have its proportionate re-action, you will do better by and by. Yours very truly,

  “Noel Byron.”

  LETTER 485. TO MR. MOORE.

  “Pisa, March 8. 1822.

  “You will have had enough of my letters by this time — yet one word in answer to your present missive. You are quite wrong in thinking that your ‘advice’ had offended me; but I have already replied (if not answered) on that point.

  “With regard to Murray, as I really am the meekest and mildest of men since Moses (though the public and mine ‘excellent wife’ cannot find it out), I had already pacified myself and subsided back to Albemarle Street, as my yesterday’s yepistle will have informed you. But I thought that I had explained my causes of bile — at least to you. Some instances of vacillation, occasional neglect, and troublesome sincerity, real or imagined, are sufficient to put your truly great author and man into a passion. But reflection, with some aid from hellebore, hath already cured me ‘pro tempore;’ and, if it had not, a request from you and Hobhouse would have come upon me like two out of the ‘tribus Anticyris,’ — with which, however, Horace despairs of purging a poet. I really feel ashamed of having bored you so frequently and fully of late. But what could I do? You are a friend — an absent one, alas! — and as I trust no one more, I
trouble you in proportion.

  “This war of ‘Church and State’ has astonished me more than it disturbs; for I really thought ‘Cain’ a speculative and hardy, but still a harmless, production. As I said before, I am really a great admirer of tangible religion; and am breeding one of my daughters a Catholic, that she may have her hands full. It is by far the most elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and the real presence, confession, absolution, — there is something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no possibility of doubt; for those who swallow their Deity, really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of digestion.

  “I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I don’t mean it to be so; only my turn of mind is so given to taking things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in spite of me every now and then. Still, I do assure you that I am a very good Christian. Whether you will believe me in this, I do not know; but I trust you will take my word for being

  “Very truly and affectionately yours, &c.

  “P.S. Do tell Murray that one of the conditions of peace is, that he publisheth (or obtaineth a publisher for) * * *’s Commentary on Dante, against which there appears in the trade an unaccountable repugnance. It will make the man so exuberantly happy. He dines with me and half-a-dozen English to-day; and I have not the heart to tell him how the bibliopolar world shrink from his Commentary; — and yet it is full of the most orthodox religion and morality. In short, I make it a point that he shall be in print. He is such a good-natured, heavy-* * Christian, that we must give him a shove through the press. He naturally thirsts to be an author, and has been the happiest of men for these two months, printing, correcting, collating, dating, anticipating, and adding to his treasures of learning. Besides, he has had another fall from his horse into a ditch the other day, while riding out with me into the country.”