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Various >> The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, No. 474
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. XVII. No. 474.] SUPPLEMENTARY NUMBER. [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
LORD BYRON.
LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF LORD BYRON, WITH NOTICES OF HIS LIFE, BY THOMAS
MOORE, Vol. ii.
[To attempt anything like an analysis of a "great big book," of 823
pages, like the present, and that within a sheet of 16 pages, would
be an effort of condensation indeed. Besides, the very nature of the
volume before us will not admit of such a task being performed with
much regard to accuracy or unique character. The "Letters," of which,
the work is, in great part, composed, are especially ill adapted for
such a purpose; since, many of them become interesting only from
manner rather than importance of matter. Horace Walpole's
Correspondence would make but a dull book cut in "little stars" in
the letter style; and Lord Byron, as a letter writer, resembles
Walpole more closely than any other writer of his time. His gay,
anecdotical style is delightful--his epithets and single words are
always well chosen, and often convey more than one side of the letter
of a common-place mind.
Our sheet of Extracts is from such portions of Mr. Moore's volume as
appear to illustrate the main points of the Noble Poet's character
and habits, as the superscriptions will best explain--_currente
calamo_ from pages 22 to 769--within a few leaves of the Appendix.]
HIS SENSIBILITY.
With the following melancholy passage one of his journals concludes:--
"In the weather for this tour (of thirteen days) I have been very
fortunate--fortunate in a companion (Mr. H.)--fortunate in all our
prospects, and exempt from even the little petty accidents and delays
which often render journeys in a less wild country disappointing. I was
disposed to be pleased. I am a lover of nature, and an admirer of beauty;
I can bear fatigue and welcome privation, and have seen some of the
noblest views in the world. But in all this--the recollection of
bitterness, and more especially of recent and more home desolation, which
must accompany me through life, have preyed upon me here; and neither the
music of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor the torrent, the
mountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment
lightened the weight upon my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own wretched
identity in the majesty, and the power, and the glory, around, above, and
beneath me----."
On his return from an excursion to Diodati, an occasion was afforded for
the gratification of his jesting propensities by the avowal of the young
physician (Polidori) that--he had fallen in love. On the evening of this
tender confession they both appeared at Shelley's cottage--Lord Byron, in
the highest and most boyish spirits, rubbing his hands as he walked about
the room, and in that utter incapacity of retention which was one of his
foibles, making jesting allusions to the secret he had just heard. The
brow of the doctor darkened as this pleasantry went on, and, at last, he
angrily accused Lord Byron of hardness of heart. "I never," said he, "met
with a person so unfeeling." This sally, though the poet had evidently
brought it upon himself, annoyed him most deeply. "Call _me_
cold-hearted--_me_ insensible!" he exclaimed, with manifest emotion--"as
well might you say that glass is not brittle, which has been cast down a
precipice, and lies dashed to pieces at the foot!"
TO AUGUSTA.
I.
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine,
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine.
Go where I will, to me thou art the same--
A loved regret which I would not resign.
There yet are two things in my destiny--
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
II.
The first were nothing--had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and part
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore--
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
III.
If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils overlook'd or unforeseen,
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My errors with defensive paradox;
I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.
IV.
Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
My whole life was a contest, since the day
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
The gift--a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:
But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.
V.
Kingdoms and empires in my little day
I have outlived, and yet I am not old;
And when I look on this, the petty spray
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
Something--I know not what--does still uphold
A spirit of slight patience--not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.
VI.
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
Within me--or perhaps a cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur--
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
(For even to this may change of soul refer,
And with light armour we may learn to bear,)
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not
The chief companion of a calmer lot.
VII.
I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
Which do remember me of where I dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of their looks:
And even at moments I could think I see
Some living thing to love--but none like thee.
VIII.
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
A fund for contemplation.--to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
But something worthier do such scenes inspire:
Here to be lonely is not desolate.
For much I view which I could most desire,
And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.
IX.
Oh that thou wert but with me!--but I grow
The fool of my own wishes, and forget
The solitude which I have vaunted so
Has lost its praise in this but one regret;
There may be others which I less may show;--
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
I feel an ebb in my philosophy
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.
X.
I did remind thee of our own dear lake,
By the old hall which may be mine no more,
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
Ere _that_ or _thou_ can fade these eyes before;
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are
Resign'd for ever, or divided far.
XI.
The world is all before me; I but ask
Of nature that with which she will comply--
It is but in her summer sun to bask,
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her gentle fare without a mask,
And never gaze on it with apathy.
She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister--till I look again on thee.
XII.
I can reduce all feelings but this one:
And that I would not;--for at length I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun.
The earliest--even the only paths for me--
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
I had been better than I now can be:
The passions which have torn me would have slept:
I had not suffered, and _thou_ hadst not wept.
XIII.
With false ambition what had I to do?
Little with love, and least of all with fame;
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
And made me all which they can make--a name.
Yet this was not the end I did pursue;
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over--I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone before.
XIV.
And for the future, this world's future may
From me demand but little of my care;
I have outlived myself by many a day;
Having survived so many things that were;
My years have been no slumber, but the prey
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
Of life that might have filled a century,
Before its fourth in time had passed me by.
XV.
And for the remnant which may be to come
I am content; and for the past I feel
Not thankless--for within the crowded sum
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
And for the present I would not benumb
My feelings farther.--Nor shall I conceal,
That with all this I still can look around,
And worship Nature with a thought profound.
XVI.
For thee my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
We were and are--I am even as thou art--
Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
It is the same, together or apart,
From life's commencement to its slow decline
We are entwined--let death come slow or fast,
The tie which bound the first endures the last!
AMOUR AT VENICE.
Venice, November 17, 1816.
"I wrote to you from Verona the other day in my progress hither, which
letter I hope you will receive. Some three years ago, or it may be more, I
recollect you telling me that you had received a letter from our friend,
Sam, dated "On board his gondola." _My_ gondola is, at this present,
waiting for me on the canal; but I prefer writing to you in the house, it
being autumn--and rather an English autumn than otherwise. It is my
intention to remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it has
always been (next to the east) the greenest island of my imagination. It
has not disappointed me; though its evident decay would, perhaps, have
that effect upon others. But I have been familiar with ruins too long to
dislike desolation. Besides, I have fallen in love, which, next to falling
into the canal (which would be of no use, as I can swim,) is the best or
the worst thing I could do. I have got some extremely good apartments in
the house of a "Merchant of Venice," who is a good deal occupied with
business, and has a wife in her twenty-second year. Marianna (that is her
name) is in her, appearance altogether like an antelope. She has the large,
black, oriental eyes, with that peculiar expression in them, which is seen
rarely among _Europeans_--even the Italians--and which many of the Turkish
women give themselves by tinging the eyelid--an art not known out of that
country, I believe. This expression she has _naturally_--and something
more than this. In short, I cannot describe the effect of this kind of
eye--at least upon me. Her features are regular, and rather aquiline--mouth
small--skin clear and soft, with a kind of hectic colour--forehead
remarkably good; her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of Lady
J----'s; her figure is light and pretty, and she is a famous
songstress--scientifically so; her natural voice (in conversation, I mean,)
is very sweet; and the _naivete_ of the Venetian dialect is always
pleasing in the mouth of a woman.
November 23.
You will perceive that my description, which was proceeding with the
minuteness of a passport, has been interrupted for several days. In the
meantime.
* * * * *
December 5.
Since my former dates, I do not know that I have much to add on the
subject, and, luckily, nothing to take away; for I am more pleased than
ever with my Venetian, and begin to feel very serious on that point--so
much so, that I shall be silent.
* * * * *
By way of divertisement, I am studying daily, at an Armenian monastery,
the Armenian language. I found that my mind wanted something craggy to
break upon; and this--as the most difficult thing I could discover here
for an amusement--I have chosen, to torture me into attention. It is a
rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of
learning it. I try, and shall go on;--but I answer for nothing, least of
all for my intentions or my success. There are some very curious MSS. in
the monastery, as well as books; translations also from Greek originals,
now lost, and from Persian and Syriac, &c.; besides works of their own
people. Four years ago the French instituted an Armenian professorship.
Twenty pupils presented themselves on Monday morning, full of noble ardour,
ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. They persevered with a courage
worthy of the nation and of universal conquest, till Thursday; when
_fifteen_ of the _twenty_ succumbed to the six and twentieth letter of the
alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an Alphabet--that must be said
for them. But it is so like these fellows, to do by it as they did by
their sovereigns--abandon both; to parody the old rhymes, "Take a thing
and give a thing"--"Take a king and give a king. They are the worst of
animals, except their conquerors.
I hear that that H----n is your neighbour, having a living in Derbyshire.
You will find him an excellent hearted fellow, as well as one of the
cleverest; a little, perhaps, too much japanned by preferment in the
church and the tuition of youth, as well as inoculated with the disease of
domestic felicity, besides being overrun with fine feelings about women
and _constancy_ (that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly,
receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal;) but,
otherwise, a very worthy man, who has lately got a pretty wife, and (I
suppose) a child by this time. Pray remember me to him, and say that I
know not which to envy most--his neighbourhood, him, or you.
Of Venice I shall say little. You must have seen many descriptions; and
they and they are most of them like. It is a poetical place; and classical,
to us, from Shakspeare and Otway. I have not yet sinned against it in
verse, nor do I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since I
crossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the "estro." By the
way, I suppose you have seen "Glenarvon." Madame de Stael lent it me to
read from Copet last autumn. It seems to me that, if the authoress had
written the _truth_, and nothing but the truth--the whole truth--the
romance would not only have been more _romantic_, but more entertaining.
As for the likeness, the picture can't be good--I did not sit long enough.
When you have leisure, let me hear from and of you, believing me ever and
truly yours most affectionately.
B.
P.S. Oh! _your Poem_--is it out? I hope Longman has paid his thousands;
but don't you do as H---- T----'s father did, who, having, made money by a
quarto tour, became a vinegar merchant; when, lo! his vinegar turned sweet
(and be d----d to it) and ruined him. My last letter to you (from Verona)
was inclosed to Murray--have you got it? Direct to me _here, poste
restante_. There are no English here at present. There were several in
Switzerland--some women; but, except Lady Dalrymple Hamilton, most of them
as ugly as virtue--at least those that I saw."
AT VENICE.
_To Mr. Moore._
"Venice, December 24th, 1816.
"I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends postage--once from
Verona--once from Venice, and again from Venice--_thrice_ that is. For
this you may thank yourself, for I heard that you complained of my
silence--so here goes for garrulity.
"I trust that you received my other twain of letters. My 'way of life' (or
'May of life,' which is it, according to the commentators?)--my 'way of
life' is fallen into great regularity. In the mornings I go over in my
gondola to hobble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. Lazarus,
and to help one of them in correcting the English of an English and
Armenian grammar which he is publishing. In the evenings I do one of many
nothings--either at the theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which are
like our routs, or rather worse, for the women sit in a semicircle by the
lady of the mansion, and the men stand about the room. To be sure, there
is one improvement upon ours--instead of lemonade with their ices, they
hand about stiff _rum-punch--punch_, by my palate; and this they think
_English_. I would not disabuse them of so agreeable an error--'no, not
for Venice.'
"Last night I was at the Count Governor's, which, of course, comprises the
best society, and is very much like other gregarious meetings in every
country--as in ours--except that, instead of the Bishop of Winchester, you
have the Patriarch of Venice; and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans,
noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, you may be sure he is
a consul. Oh, by the way, I forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you
that at Milan I met with a countryman of yours--a Colonel ----, a very
excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows all about Milan, and
is, as it were, a native there. He is particularly civil to strangers, and
this is his history--at least an episode of it.
"Six-and-twenty years ago, Colonel ----, then an ensign, being in Italy,
fell in love with the Marchesa ----, and she with him. The lady must
be, at least, twenty years his senior. The war broke out; he returned to
England, to serve--not his country, for that's Ireland, but England, which
is a different thing; and _she_, heaven knows what she did. In the year
1814, the first annunciation of the definitive treaty of peace (and
tyranny) was developed to the astonished Milanese by the arrival of
Colonel ----, who flinging himself full length at the feet of Madame ----,
murmured forth, in half forgotten Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelible
constancy. The lady screamed, and exclaimed 'Who are you?' The colonel
cried, 'What, don't you know me? I am so and so,' &c. &c. &c.; till at
length, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence, to reminiscence, through
the lovers of the intermediate twenty-five years, arrived at last at the
recollection of her _povero_ sub-lieutenant.--She then said, 'Was there
ever such virtue?' (that was her very word) and, being now a widow, gave
him apartments in her palace, reinstated him in all the rights of wrong,
and held him up to the admiring world as a miracle of incontinent fidelity,
and the unshaken Abdiel of absence.
"Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of Marmontel's. Here is
another. The same lady, several years ago, made an escapade with a Swede,
Count Fersen (the same whom the Stockholm mob quartered and lapidated not
very long since), and they arrived at an Osteria, on the road to Rome or
thereabouts. It was a summer evening, and while they were at supper, they
were suddenly regaled by a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment,
so prettily played, that, wishing to hear them more distinctly, the count
rose, and going into the musical society, said--'Gentlemen, I am sure that,
as a company of gallant cavaliers, you will be delighted to show your
skill to a lady, who feels anxious,' &c. &c. The men of harmony were all
acquiescence--every instrument was tuned and toned, and, striking up one
of their most ambrosial airs, the whole band followed the count to the
lady's apartment. At their head was the first fiddler, who, bowing and
fiddling at the same moment, headed his troop, and advanced up the room.
Death and discord!--it was the marquess himself, who was on a serenading
party in the country, while his spouse had run away from town.--The rest
may be imagined; but, first of all, the lady tried to persuade him that
she was there on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for an
harmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which amused me when I heard
it, and I send it to you, in the hope it may have the like effect. Now
we'll return to Venice."
"The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being Christmas-day) the Carnival
begins. I dine with the Countess Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera.
On that day the Phenix (not the Insurance Office, but) the theatre of that
name opens: I have got me a box there for the season, for two reasons, one
of which is, that the music is remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, of
whom I have made mention, is the De Stael of Venice--not young, but a very
learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very polite to strangers, and, I
believe, not at all dissolute, as most of the women are. She has written
very well on the works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besides
other printed matter. She is of Corfu, but married a dead Venetian--that
is, dead since he married.
"My flame (my 'Donna,' whom I spoke of in my former epistle, my Marianna)
is still my Marianna, and I, her--what she pleases. She is by far the
prettiest woman I have seen here, and the most loveable I have met with
any where--as well as one of the most singular. I believe I told you the
rise and progress of our _liaison_ in my former letter. Lest that should
not have reached you, I will merely repeat that she is a Venetian,
two-and-twenty years old, married to a merchant well to do in the world,
and that she has great black oriental eyes, and all the qualities which
her eyes promise. Whether being in love with her has steeled me or not, I
do not know; but I have not seen many other women who seem pretty. The
nobility, in particular, are a sad-looking race--the gentry rather better.
And now, what art _thou_ doing?
"What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,
Which, Thomas Moore?
Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord! if there's a row, but I'll be
among ye! How go on the weavers--the breakers of frames--the Lutherans of
politics--the reformers?
"As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will _die_ fighting, or _live_ free,
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
"When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding-sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd.
"Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew
Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!
There's an amiable _chanson_ for you--all impromptu. I have written it
principally to shock your neighbour ----, who is all clergy and
loyalty--mirth and innocence--milk and water.
"But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore,
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore,
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,
Oh Thomas Moore.
The other night I saw a new play--and the author. The subject was the
sacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, and they called for the
author--according to continental custom--and he presented himself: a noble
Venetian, Mali, or Malapiero by name. Mala was his name, and _pessima_ his
production--at least, I thought so, and I ought to know, having read more
or less of five hundred Drury-lane offerings, during my coadjutorship with
the sub-and-super committee.
"When does your Poem of Poems come out? I hear that the E.R. has cut up
Coleridge's Christabel, and declared against me for praising it. I praised
it, firstly, because I thought well of it; secondly, because Coleridge was
in great distress, and, after doing what little I could for him in
essentials, I thought that the public avowal of my good opinion might help
him further, at least with the booksellers. I am very sorry that J---- has
attacked him, because, poor fellow, it will hurt him in mind and pocket.
As for me, he's welcome,--I shall never think less of J---- for any thing
he may say against me or mine in future.
"I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send (for I do not know whether
they are out or no) the poem, or poesies, of mine, of last summer. By the
mass! they're sublime--'Ganion Coheriza'--gainsay who dares! Pray, let me
hear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me know that you have
received these three letters. Direct, right _here, poste restante_.--"Ever
and ever, &c."
AN EXECUTION.
_To Mr. Murray_.
"Venice, May 30th, 1817.
"I returned from Rome two days ago, and have received your letter; but no
sign nor tidings of the parcel sent through Sir C. Stuart, which you
mention. After an interval of months, a packet of 'Tales,' &c. found me at
Rome; but this is all, and may be all that ever will find me. The post
seems to be the only sure conveyance, and _that only for letters_. From
Florence I sent you a poem on Tasso, and from Rome the new Third Act of
'Manfred,' and by Dr. Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left Rome
and made a rapid journey home. You will continue to direct here as usual.
Mr. Hobhouse is gone to Naples; I should have run down there too for a
week, but for the quantity of English whom I heard of there. I prefer
hating them at a distance; unless an earthquake, or a good real irruption
of Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their vicinity.