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

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"As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand troops, a number with
which they might as well attempt to conquer the world as secure Italy in
its present state. The artillery marches _last_, and alone, and there is
an idea of an attempt to cut part of them off. All this will much depend
upon the first steps of the Neapolitans. _Here_, the public spirit is
excellent, provided it be kept up. This will be seen by the event.

"It is probable that Italy will be delivered from the Barbarians if the
Neapolitans will but stand firm, and are united among themselves. _Here_
they appear so.

"February 10. 1821.

"Day passed as usual--nothing new. Barbarians still in march--not well
equipped, and, of course, not well received on their route. There is
some talk of a commotion at Paris.

"Rode out between four and six--finished my letter to Murray on Bowles's
pamphlets--added postscript. Passed the evening as usual--out till
eleven--and subsequently at home.

"February 11. 1821.

"Wrote--had a copy taken of an extract from Petrarch's Letters, with
reference to the conspiracy of the Doge, M. Faliero, containing the
poet's opinion of the matter. Heard a heavy firing of cannon towards
Comacchio--the Barbarians rejoicing for their principal pig's birthday,
which is to-morrow--or Saint day--I forget which. Received a ticket for
the first ball to-morrow. Shall not go to the first, but intend going to
the second, as also to the Veglioni.

"February 13. 1821.

"To-day read a little in Louis B.'s Hollande, but have written nothing
since the completion of the letter on the Pope controversy. Politics are
quite misty for the present. The Barbarians still upon their march. It
is not easy to divine what the Italians will now do.

"Was elected yesterday 'Socio' of the Carnival ball society. This is the
fifth carnival that I have passed. In the four former, I racketed a good
deal. In the present, I have been as sober as Lady Grace herself.

"February 14. 1821

"Much as usual. Wrote, before riding out, part of a scene of
'Sardanapalus.' The first act nearly finished. The rest of the day and
evening as before--partly without, in conversazione--partly at home.

"Heard the particulars of the late fray at Russi, a town not far from
this. It is exactly the fact of Romeo and Giulietta--_not_ Romeo,
as the Barbarian writes it. Two families of Contadini (peasants) are at
feud. At a ball, the younger part of the families forget their quarrel,
and dance together. An old man of one of them enters, and reproves the
young men for dancing with the females of the opposite family. The male
relatives of the latter resent this. Both parties rush home and arm
themselves. They meet directly, by moonlight, in the public way, and
fight it out. Three are killed on the spot, and six wounded, most of
them dangerously,--pretty well for two families, methinks--and all
_fact_, of the last week. Another assassination has taken place at
Cesenna,--in all about _forty_ in Romagna within the last three months.
These people retain much of the middle ages.

"February 15. 1821.

"Last night finished the first act of Sardanapalus. To-night, or
to-morrow, I ought to answer letters.

"February 16. 1821.

"Last night Il Conte P.G. sent a man with a bag full of bayonets, some
muskets, and some hundreds of cartridges to my house, without apprizing
me, though I had seen him not half an hour before. About ten days ago,
when there was to be a rising here, the Liberals and my brethren Ci.
asked me to purchase some arms for a certain few of our ragamuffins. I
did so immediately, and ordered ammunition, &c. and they were armed
accordingly. Well--the rising is prevented by the Barbarians marching a
week sooner than appointed; and an _order_ is issued, and in force, by
the Government, 'that all persons having arms concealed, &c. &c. shall
be liable to,' &c. &c.--and what do my friends, the patriots, do two
days afterwards? Why, they throw back upon my hands, and into my house,
these very arms (without a word of warning previously) with which I had
furnished them at their own request, and at my own peril and expense.

"It was lucky that Lega was at home to receive them. If any of the
servants had (except Tita and F. and Lega) they would have betrayed it
immediately. In the mean time, if they are denounced or discovered, I
shall be in a scrape.

"At nine went out--at eleven returned. Beat the crow for stealing the
falcon's victuals. Read 'Tales of my Landlord'--wrote a letter--and
mixed a moderate beaker of water with other ingredients.

"February 18. 1821.

"The news are that the Neapolitans have broken a bridge, and slain four
pontifical carabiniers, whilk carabiniers wished to oppose. Besides the
disrespect to neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in this
German quarrel should be Italian. However, the war seems begun in good
earnest: for, if the Neapolitans kill the Pope's carabiniers, they will
not be more delicate towards the Barbarians. If it be even so, in a
short time 'there will be news o' thae craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson
says of Jenny Blane's 'unco cockernony' in the 'Tales of my Landlord.'

"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,
Ou sont ses yeux,
Font la Zone brulante.'

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
Bientot il nous destine;
Mais ces longs jours
Seront trop courts,
Passes pres 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 depot,
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 Caesar (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 [24] 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.

[Footnote 24: In Boccacio, the name is, I think, Nastagio.]

"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_[25].

[Footnote 25: In another paper-book.]

"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, at 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 * *[26], 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[27],'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 Elysees?'--are they
'es' or 'ees' 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."

[Footnote 26: Of this gentleman, the following notice occurs in the
"Detached Thoughts:"--"L * * was a good man, a clever man, but a bore.
My only revenge or consolation used to be setting him by the ears with
some vivacious person who hated bores especially,--Madame de S---- or
H----, for example. But I liked L * *; he was a jewel of a man, had he
been better set;--I don't mean _personally_, but less _tiresome_, for he
was tedious, as well as contradictory to every thing and every body.
Being short-sighted, when we used to ride out together near the Brenta
in the twilight in summer, he made me go _before_, to pilot him; I am
absent at times, especially towards evening; and the consequence of this
pilotage was some narrow escapes to the M * * on horseback. Once I led
him into a ditch over which I had passed as usual, forgetting to warn my
convoy; once I led him nearly into the river, instead of on the
_moveable_ bridge which incommodes passengers; and twice did we both run
against the Diligence, which, being heavy and slow, did communicate less
damage than it received in its leaders, who were _terra_fied by the
charge; thrice did I lose him in the grey of the gloaming, and was
obliged to bring-to to his distant signals of distance and
distress;--all the time he went on talking without intermission, for he
was a man of many words. Poor fellow! he died a martyr to his new
riches--of a second visit to Jamaica.

"'I'd give the lands of Deloraine
Dark Musgrave were alive again!'

that is,--

"I would give many a sugar cane
M * * L * * were alive again!"]

[Footnote 27: The following passage from the letter of mine, to which
the above was an answer, will best explain what follows:--With respect
to the newspaper, it is odd enough that Lord * * * * and myself had been
(about a week or two before I received your letter) speculating upon
your assistance in a plan somewhat similar, but more literary and less
regularly-periodical in its appearance. Lord * *, as you will see by his
volume of Essays, if it reaches you, has a very sly, dry, and pithy way
of putting sound truths, upon politics and manners, and whatever scheme
we adopt, he will be a very useful and active ally in it, as he has a
pleasure in writing quite inconceivable to a poor hack scribe like me,
who always feel, about my art, as the French husband did when he found a
man making love to his (the Frenchman's) wife:--' Comment,
Monsieur,--sans y etre _oblige_!' When I say this, however, I mean it
only of the executive part of writing; for the imagining, the shadowing
out of the future work is, I own, a delicious fool's paradise."]

* * * * *

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.

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