(Lord Byron) George Gordon Byron - Life of Lord Byron, With His Letters And Journals, Vol. 5 (of 6)

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"January 8. 1821, Monday.

"Rose, and found Count P.G. in my apartments. Sent away the servant.
Told me that, according to the best information, the Government had not
issued orders for the arrests apprehended; that the attack in Forli had
not taken place (as expected) by the Sanfedisti--the opponents of the
Carbonari or Liberals--and that, as yet, they are still in apprehension
only. Asked me for some arms of a better sort, which I gave him. Settled
that, in case of a row, the Liberals were to assemble _here_ (with me),
and that he had given the word to Vincenzo G. and others of the _Chiefs_
for that purpose. He himself and father are going to the chase in the
forest; but V.G. is to come to me, and an express to be sent off to him,
P.G., if any thing occurs. Concerted operations. They are to seize--but
no matter.

"I advised them to attack in detail, and in different parties, in
different _places_ (though at the _same_ time), so as to divide the
attention of the troops, who, though few, yet being disciplined, would
beat any body of people (not trained) in a regular fight--unless
dispersed in small parties, and distracted with different assaults.
Offered to let them assemble here, if they choose. It is a strongish
post--narrow street, commanded from within--and tenable walls.

"Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Murray, with corrections of
Bacon's Apophthegms and an epigram--the _latter not_ for publication. At
eight went to Teresa, Countess G. At nine and a half came in Il Conte P.
and Count P.G. Talked of a certain proclamation lately issued. Count
R.G. had been with * * (the * *), to sound him about the arrests. He,
* *, is a _trimmer_, and deals, at present, his cards with both hands.
If he don't mind, they'll be full. * * pretends (_I_ doubt him--_they_
don't,--we shall see) that there is no such order, and seems staggered
by the immense exertions of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of
the Liberals here. The truth is, that * * cares for little but his place
(which is a good one), and wishes to play pretty with both parties. He
has changed his mind thirty times these last three moons, to my
knowledge, for he corresponds with me. But he is not a bloody
fellow--only an avaricious one.

"It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia Languish says), there will
be no elopement after all. I wish that I had known as much last
night--or, rather, this morning--I should have gone to bed two hours
earlier. And yet I ought not to complain; for, though it is a sirocco,
and heavy rain, I have not _yawned_ for these two days.

"Came home--read History of Greece--before dinner had read Walter
Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote address to the letter in answer to Alessio del
Pinto, who has thanked me for helping his brother (the late Commandant,
murdered here last month) in his last moments. Have told him I only did
a duty of humanity--as is true. The brother lives at Rome.

"Mended the fire with some 'sgobole' (a Romagnuole word), and gave the
falcon some water. Drank some Seltzer-water. Mem.--received to-day a
print, or etching, of the story of Ugolino, by an Italian
painter--different, of course, from Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and I think
(as far as recollection goes) _no worse_, for Reynolds's is not good in
history. Tore a button in my new coat.

"I wonder what figure these Italians will make in a regular row. I
sometimes think that, like the Irishman's gun (somebody had sold him a
crooked one), they will only do for 'shooting round a corner;' at least,
this sort of shooting has been the late tenor of their exploits. And
yet, there are materials in this people, and a noble energy, if well
directed. But who is to direct them? No matter. Out of such times heroes
spring. Difficulties are the hotbeds of high spirits, and Freedom the
mother of the few virtues incident to human nature.

"Tuesday, January 9. 1821.

"Rose--the day fine. Ordered the horses; but Lega (my _secretary_, an
Italianism for steward or chief servant) coming to tell me that the
painter had finished the work in fresco, for the room he has been
employed on lately, I went to see it before I set out. The painter has
not copied badly the prints from Titian, &c. considering all things.

"Dined. Read Johnson's 'Vanity of Human Wishes,'--all the examples and
mode of giving them sublime, as well as the latter part, with the
exception of an occasional couplet. I do not so much admire the opening.
I remember an observation of Sharpe's, (the _Conversationist_, as he was
called in London, and a very clever man,) that the first line of this
poem was superfluous, and that Pope (the best of poets, _I_ think) would
have begun at once, only changing the punctuation--

"'Survey mankind from China to Peru.'

The former line, 'Let observation,' &c. is certainly heavy and useless.
But 'tis a grand poem--and _so true!_--true as the 10th of Juvenal
himself. The lapse of ages _changes_ all things--time--language--the
earth--the bounds of the sea--the stars of the sky, and every thing
'about, around, and underneath' man, _except man himself_, who has
always been, and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite variety
of lives conduct but to death, and the infinity of wishes lead but to
disappointment. All the discoveries which have yet been made have
multiplied little but existence. An extirpated disease is succeeded by
some new pestilence; and a discovered world has brought little to the
old one, except the p---- first and freedom afterwards--the _latter_ a
fine thing, particularly as they gave it to Europe in exchange for
slavery. But it is doubtful whether 'the Sovereigns' would not think the
_first_ the best present of the two to their subjects.

"At eight went out--heard some news. They say the King of Naples has
declared, by couriers from Florence, to the _Powers_ (as they call now
those wretches with crowns) that his Constitution was compulsive, &c.
&c. and that the Austrian barbarians are placed again on _war_ pay, and
will march. Let them--'they come like sacrifices in their trim,' the
hounds of hell! Let it still be a hope to see their bones piled like
those of the human dogs at Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen.

"Heard some music. At nine the usual visiters--news, _war_, or rumours
of war. Consulted with P.G. &c. &c. They mean to _insurrect_ here, and
are to honour me with a call thereupon. I shall not fall back; though I
don't think them in force or heart sufficient to make much of it. But,
_onward!_--it is now the time to act, and what signifies _self_, if a
single spark of that which would be worthy of the past can be bequeathed
unquenchedly to the future? It is not one man, nor a million, but the
_spirit_ of liberty which must be spread. The waves which dash upon the
shore are, one by one, broken, but yet the _ocean_ conquers,
nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears the rock, and, if the
_Neptunians_ are to be believed, it has not only destroyed, but made a
world. In like manner, whatever the sacrifice of individuals, the great
cause will gather strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilise
(for _sea-weed_ is _manure_) what is cultivable. And so, the mere
selfish calculation ought never to be made on such occasions; and, at
present, it shall not be computed by me. I was never a good
arithmetician of chances, and shall not commence now.

"January 10. 1821.

"Day fine--rained only in the morning. Looked over accounts. Read
Campbell's Poets--marked errors of Tom (the author) for correction.
Dined--went out--music--Tyrolese air, with variations. Sustained the
cause of the original simple air against the variations of the Italian
school.

"Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier daily. To-morrow being
foreign post-day, probably something more will be known.

"Came home--read. Corrected Tom Campbell's slips of the pen. A good
work, though--style affected--but his defence of Pope is glorious. To be
sure, it is his _own cause_ too,--but no matter, it is very good, and
does him great credit.

"Midnight.

"I have been turning over different _Lives_ of the Poets. I rarely read
their works, unless an occasional flight over the classical ones, Pope,
Dryden, Johnson, Gray, and those who approach them nearest (I leave the
_rant_ of the rest to the _cant_ of the day), and--I had made several
reflections, but I feel sleepy, and may as well go to bed.

"January 11. 1821.

"Read the letters. Corrected the tragedy and the 'Hints from Horace.'
Dined, and got into better spirits. Went out--returned--finished
letters, five in number. Read Poets, and an anecdote in Spence.

"Alli. writes to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tuscany, and King of
Sardinia, have also been called to Congress; but the Pope will only deal
there by proxy. So the interests of millions are in the hands of about
twenty coxcombs, at a place called Leibach!

"I should almost regret that my own affairs went well, when those of
nations are in peril. If the interests of mankind could be essentially
bettered (particularly of these oppressed Italians), I should not so
much mind my own 'suma peculiar.' God grant us all better times, or more
philosophy!

"In reading, I have just chanced upon an expression of Tom
Campbell's;--speaking of Collins, he says that no reader cares any more
about the _characteristic manners_ of his Eclogues than about the
authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 'Tis false--we _do_ care about the
authenticity of the tale of Troy. I have stood upon that plain _daily_,
for more than a month in 1810; and if any thing diminished my pleasure,
it was that the blackguard Bryant had impugned its veracity. It is true
I read 'Homer Travestied' (the first twelve books), because Hobhouse and
others bored me with their learned localities, and I love quizzing. But
I still venerated the grand original as the truth of _history_ (in the
material _facts_) and of _place_. Otherwise, it would have given me no
delight. Who will persuade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that
it did not contain a hero?--its very magnitude proved this. Men do not
labour over the ignoble and petty dead--and why should not the _dead_ be
_Homer_'s dead? The secret of Tom Campbell's defence of _inaccuracy_ in
costume and description is, that his Gertrude, &c. has no more locality
in common with Pennsylvania than with Penmanmaur. It is notoriously full
of grossly false scenery, as all Americans declare, though they praise
parts of the poem. It is thus that self-love for ever creeps out, like a
snake, to sting any thing which happens, even accidentally, to stumble
upon it.

"January 12. 1821.

"The weather still so humid and impracticable, that London, in its most
oppressive fogs, were a summer-bower to this mist and sirocco, which has
now lasted (but with one day's interval), chequered with snow or heavy
rain only, since the 30th of December, 1820. It is so far lucky that I
have a literary turn;--but it is very tiresome not to be able to stir
out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for so many days. The roads
are even worse than the weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy
soil, and the growth of the waters.

"Read the Poets--English, that is to say--out of Campbell's edition.
There is a good deal of taffeta in some of Tom's prefatory phrases, but
his work is good as a whole. I like him best, though, in his own poetry.

"Murray writes that they want to act the Tragedy of Marino Faliero--more
fools they, it was written for the closet. I have protested against this
piece of usurpation, (which, it seems, is legal for managers over any
printed work, against the author's will,) and I hope they will not
attempt it. Why don't they bring out some of the numberless aspirants
for theatrical celebrity, now encumbering their shelves, instead of
lugging me out of the library? I have written a fierce protest against
any such attempt, but I still would hope that it will not be necessary,
and that they will see, at once, that it is not intended for the stage.
It is too regular--the time, twenty-four hours--the change of place not
frequent--nothing _melo_dramatic--no surprises, no starts, nor
trap-doors, nor opportunities 'for tossing their heads and kicking their
heels'--and no _love_--the grand ingredient of a modern play.

"I have found out the seal cut on Murray's letter. It is meant for
Walter Scott--or _Sir_ Walter--he is the first poet knighted since Sir
Richard Blackmore. But it does not do him justice.
Scott's--particularly when he recites--is a very intelligent
countenance, and this seal says nothing.

"Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. His novels are
a new literature in themselves, and his poetry as good as any--if not
better (only on an erroneous system)--and only ceased to be so popular,
because the vulgar learned were tired of hearing 'Aristides called the
Just,' and Scott the Best, and ostracised him.

"I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the extreme
pleasantness of his conversation, and his good-nature towards myself,
personally. May he prosper!--for he deserves it. I know no reading to
which I fall with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott's. I shall give
the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contesse G. this evening,
who will be curious to have the effigies of a man so celebrated.

"How strange are our thoughts, &c. &c. &c.[19]

[Footnote 19: Here follows a long passage, already extracted, relative
to his early friend, Edward Noel Long.]

"Midnight.

"Read the Italian translation by Guido Sorelli of the German
Grillparzer--a devil of a name, to be sure, for posterity; but they
_must_ learn to pronounce it. With all the allowance for a
_translation_, and above all, an _Italian_ translation (they are the
very worst of translators, except from the Classics--Annibale Caro, for
instance--and _there_, the bastardy of their language helps them, as, by
way of _looking legitimate_, they ape their father's tongue);--but with
every allowance for such a disadvantage, the tragedy of Sappho is superb
and sublime! There is no denying it. The man has done a great thing in
writing that play. And _who is he?_ I know him not; but _ages will_.
'Tis a high intellect.

"I must premise, however, that I have read _nothing_ of Adolph Muellner's
(the author of 'Guilt'), and much less of Goethe, and Schiller, and
Wieland, than I could wish. I only know them through the medium of
English, French, and Italian translations. Of the _real_ language I know
absolutely nothing,--except oaths learnt from postilions and officers in
a squabble. I can _swear_ in German potently, when I
like--'Sacrament--Verfluchter--Hundsfott'--and so forth; but I have
little of their less energetic conversation.

"I like, however, their women, (I was once so _desperately_ in love with
a German woman, Constance,) and all that I have read, translated, of
their writings, and all that I have seen on the Rhine of their country
and people--all, except the Austrians, whom I abhor, loathe, and--I
cannot find words for my hate of them, and should be sorry to find deeds
correspondent to my hate; for I abhor cruelty more than I abhor the
Austrians--except on an impulse, and then I am savage--but not
deliberately so.

"Grillparzer is grand--antique--_not so simple_ as the ancients, but
very simple for a modern--too Madame de Stael_ish_, now and then--but
altogether a great and goodly writer.

"January 13. 1821, Saturday.

"Sketched the outline and Drams. Pers. of an intended tragedy of
Sardanapalus, which I have for some time meditated. Took the names from
Diodorus Siculus, (I know the history of Sardanapalus, and have known it
since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in the ninth vol.
octavo, of Mitford's Greece, where he rather vindicates the memory of
this last of the Assyrians.

"Dined--news come--the _Powers_ mean to war with the peoples. The
intelligence seems positive--let it be so--they will be beaten in the
end. The king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood shed like
water, and tears like mist; but the peoples will conquer in the end. I
shall not live to see it, but I foresee it.

"I carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer's Sappho, which
she promises to read. She quarrelled with me, because I said that love
was _not the loftiest_ theme for true tragedy; and, having the advantage
of her native language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my
fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put more love into
'Sardanapalus' than I intended. I speak, of course, _if_ the times will
allow me leisure. That _if_ will hardly be a peace-maker.

"January 14. 1821.

"Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote the opening lines of the intended
tragedy of Sardanapalus. Rode out some miles into the forest. Misty and
rainy. Returned--dined--wrote some more of my tragedy.

"Read Diodorus Siculus--turned over Seneca, and some other books. Wrote
some more of the tragedy. Took a glass of grog. After having ridden hard
in rainy weather, and scribbled, and scribbled again, the spirits (at
least mine) need a little exhilaration, and I don't like laudanum now as
I used to do. So I have mixed a glass of strong waters and single
waters, which I shall now proceed to empty. Therefore and thereunto I
conclude this day's diary.

"The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is, however, strange. It
_settles_, but it makes me gloomy--gloomy at the very moment of their
effect, and not gay hardly ever. But it composes for a time, though
sullenly.

"January 15. 1821.

"Weather fine. Received visit. Rode out into the forest--fired pistols.
Returned home--dined--dipped into a volume of Mitford's Greece--wrote
part of a scene of 'Sardanapalus.' Went out--heard some music--heard
some politics. More ministers from the other Italian powers gone to
Congress. War seems certain--in that case, it will be a savage one.
Talked over various important matters with one of the initiated. At ten
and half returned home.

"I have just thought of something odd. In the year 1814, Moore ('the
poet,' _par excellence_, and he deserves it) and I were going together,
in the same carriage, to dine with Earl Grey, the Capo Politico of the
remaining Whigs. Murray, the magnificent (the illustrious publisher of
that name), had just sent me a Java gazette--I know not why, or
wherefore. Pulling it out, by way of curiosity, we found it to contain a
dispute (the said Java gazette) on Moore's merits and mine. I think, if
I had been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of disputing
on the subject. But, there is _fame_ for you at six and twenty!
Alexander had conquered India at the same age; but I doubt if he was
disputed about, or his conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus,
at Java.

"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 Stael, 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 _sub_scribed and _circum_scribed
'for the recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.'[20]

"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 Stael.

"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.

[Footnote 20: In this, I rather think he was misinformed; whatever merit
there may be in the jest, I have not, as far as I can recollect, the
slightest claim to it.]

"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.

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