Thomas Moore - Life of Lord Byron, Vol. III

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This buoyancy it was,--this irrepressible spring of mind,--that now
enabled him to bear up not only against the assaults of others, but,
what was still more difficult, against his own thoughts and feelings.
The muster of all his mental resources to which, in self-defence, he had
been driven, but opened to him the yet undreamed extent and capacity of
his powers, and inspired him with a proud confidence that he should yet
shine down these calumnious mists, convert censure to wonder, and compel
even those who could not approve to admire.

The route which he now took, through Flanders and by the Rhine, is best
traced in his own matchless verses, which leave a portion of their glory
on all that they touch, and lend to scenes, already clothed with
immortality by nature and by history, the no less durable associations
of undying song. On his leaving Brussels, an incident occurred which
would be hardly worth relating, were it not for the proof it affords of
the malicious assiduity with which every thing to his disadvantage was
now caught up and circulated in England. Mr. Pryce Gordon, a gentleman,
who appears to have seen a good deal of him during his short stay at
Brussels, thus relates the anecdote:--

"Lord Byron travelled in a huge coach, copied from the celebrated one of
Napoleon, taken at Genappe, with additions. Besides a _lit de repos_, it
contained a library, a plate-chest, and every apparatus for dining in
it. It was not, however, found sufficiently capacious for his baggage
and suite; and he purchased a caleche at Brussels for his servants. It
broke down going to Waterloo, and I advised him to return it, as it
seemed to be a crazy machine; but as he had made a deposit of forty
Napoleons (certainly double its value), the honest Fleming would not
consent to restore the cash, or take back his packing case, except under
a forfeiture of thirty Napoleons. As his Lordship was to set out the
following day, he begged me to make the best arrangement I could in the
affair. He had no sooner taken his departure, than the worthy _sellier_
inserted a paragraph in 'The Brussels Oracle,' stating 'that the noble
_milor Anglais_ had absconded with his caleche, value 1800 francs!'"

In the Courier of May 13., the Brussels account of this transaction is
thus copied:--

"The following is an extract from the Dutch Mail, dated Brussels, May
8th,:--In the Journal de Belgique, of this date, is a petition from a
coachmaker at Brussels to the president of the Tribunal de Premier
Instance, stating that he has sold to Lord Byron a carriage, &c. for
1882 francs, of which he has received 847 francs, but that his Lordship,
who is going away the same day, refuses to pay him the remaining 1035
francs; he begs permission to seize the carriage, &c. This being granted,
he put it into the hands of a proper officer, who went to signify the
above to Lord Byron, and was informed by the landlord of the hotel that
his Lordship was gone without having given him any thing to pay the
debt, on which the officer seized a chaise belonging to his Lordship as
security for the amount."

It was not till the beginning of the following month that a
contradiction of this falsehood, stating the real circumstances of the
case, as above related, was communicated to the Morning Chronicle, in a
letter from Brussels, signed "Pryce L. Gordon."

Another anecdote, of far more interest, has been furnished from the same
respectable source. It appears that the two first stanzas of the verses
relating to Waterloo, "Stop, for thy tread is on an empire's dust[107],"
were written at Brussels, after a visit to that memorable field, and
transcribed by Lord Byron, next morning, in an album belonging to the
lady of the gentleman who communicates the anecdote.

"A few weeks after he had written them (says the relater), the
well-known artist, R.R. Reinagle, a friend of mine, arrived in Brussels,
when I invited him to dine with me and showed him the lines, requesting
him to embellish them with an appropriate vignette to the following
passage:--

"'Here his last flight the haughty eagle flew,
Then tore, with bloody beak, the fatal plain;
Pierced with the shafts of banded nations through,
Ambition's life, and labours, all were vain--
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain.'

Mr. Reinagle sketched with a pencil a spirited chained eagle, grasping
the earth with his talons.

"I had occasion to write to his Lordship, and mentioned having got this
clever artist to draw a vignette to his beautiful lines, and the liberty
he had taken by altering the action of the eagle. In reply to this, he
wrote to me,--'Reinagle is a better poet and a better ornithologist than
I am; eagles, and all birds of prey, attack with their talons, and not
with their beaks, and I have altered the line thus:--

"'Then tore, with bloody talon, the rent plain.'

This is, I think, a better line, besides its poetical justice.' I need
hardly add, when I communicated this flattering compliment to the
painter, that he was highly gratified."

From Brussels the noble traveller pursued his course along the Rhine,--a
line of road which he has strewed over with all the riches of poesy;
and, arriving at Geneva, took up his abode at the well-known hotel,
Secheron. After a stay of a few weeks at this place, he removed to a
villa, in the neighbourhood, called Diodati, very beautifully situated
on the high banks of the Lake, where he established his residence for
the remainder of the summer.

I shall now give the few letters in my possession written by him at this
time, and then subjoin to them such anecdotes as I have been able to
collect relative to the same period.

[Footnote 103: Dated April 16.]

[Footnote 104: It will be seen, from a subsequent letter, that the first
stanza of that most cordial of Farewells, "My boat is on the shore," was
also written at this time.]

[Footnote 105: In one of his letters to Mr. Hunt, he declares it to be
his own opinion that "an addiction to poetry is very generally the
result of 'an uneasy mind in an uneasy body;' disease or deformity," he
adds, "have been the attendants of many of our best. Collins
mad--Chatterton, _I_ think, mad--Cowper mad--Pope crooked--Milton
blind," &c. &c.]

[Footnote 106: The Deformed Transformed.]

[Footnote 107: Childe Harold, Canto iii. stanza 17.]

* * * * *

LETTER 242. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Ouchy, near Lausanne, June 27. 1816.

"I am thus far (kept by stress of weather) on my way back to
Diodati (near Geneva) from a voyage in my boat round the Lake; and
I enclose you a sprig of _Gibbons acacia_ and some rose-leaves from
his garden, which, with part of his house, I have just seen. You
will find honourable mention, in his Life, made of this 'acacia,'
when he walked out on the night of concluding his history. The
garden and _summer-house_, where he composed, are neglected, and
the last utterly decayed; but they still show it as his 'cabinet,'
and seem perfectly aware of his memory.

"My route, through Flanders, and by the Rhine, to Switzerland, was
all I expected, and more.

"I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the Heloise before me,
and am struck to a degree that I cannot express with the force and
accuracy of his descriptions and the beauty of their reality.
Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and the Chateau de Chillon, are
places of which I shall say little, because all I could say must
fall short of the impressions they stamp.

"Three days ago, we were most nearly wrecked in a squall off
Meillerie, and driven to shore. I ran no risk, being so near the
rocks, and a good swimmer; but our party were wet, and incommoded a
good deal. The wind was strong enough to blow down some trees, as
we found at landing: however, all is righted and right, and we are
thus far on our return.

"Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left behind in hospital
with a sprained ankle, which he acquired in tumbling from a
wall--he can't jump.

"I shall be glad to hear you are well, and have received for me
certain helms and swords, sent from Waterloo, which I rode over
with pain and pleasure.

"I have finished a third canto of Childe Harold (consisting of one
hundred and seventeen stanzas), longer than either of the two
former, and in some parts, it may be, better; but of course on that
I cannot determine. I shall send it by the first safe-looking
opportunity. Ever," &c.

* * * * *

LETTER 243. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Diodati, near Geneva, July 22. 1816.

"I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and Dr. Polidori received your
letter; but the packet has not made its appearance, nor the
epistle, of which you gave notice therein. I enclose you an
advertisement[108], which was copied by Dr. Polidori, and which
appears to be about the most impudent imposition that ever issued
from Grub Street. I need hardly say that I know nothing of all this
trash, nor whence it may spring,--'Odes to St. Helena,'--'Farewells
to England,' &c. &c.--and if it can be disavowed, or is worth
disavowing, you have full authority to do so. I never wrote, nor
conceived, a line on any thing of the kind, any more than of two
other things with which I was saddled--something about 'Gaul,' and
another about 'Mrs. La Valette;' and as to the 'Lily of France,' I
should as soon think of celebrating a turnip. 'On the Morning of my
Daughter's Birth,' I had other things to think of than verses; and
should never have dreamed of such an invention, till Mr. Johnston
and his pamphlet's advertisement broke in upon me with a new light
on the crafts and subtleties of the demon of printing,--or rather
publishing.

"I did hope that some succeeding lie would have superseded the
thousand and one which were accumulated during last winter. I can
forgive whatever may be said of or against me, but not what they
make me say or sing for myself. It is enough to answer for what I
have written; but it were too much for Job himself to bear what one
has not. I suspect that when the Arab Patriarch wished that his
'enemy had written a book,' he did not anticipate his own name on
the title-page. I feel quite as much bored with this foolery as it
deserves, and more than I should be if I had not a headach.

"Of Glenarvon, Madame de Stael told me (ten days ago, at Copet)
marvellous and grievous things; but I have seen nothing of it but
the motto, which promises amiably 'for us and for our tragedy.' If
such be the posy, what should the ring be? 'a name to all
succeeding[109],' &c. The generous moment selected for the
publication is probably its kindest accompaniment, and--truth to
say--the time _was_ well chosen. I have not even a guess at the
contents, except from the very vague accounts I have heard.

"I ought to be ashamed of the egotism of this letter. It is not my
fault altogether, and I shall be but too happy to drop the subject
when others will allow me.

"I am in tolerable plight, and in my last letter told you what I
had done in the way of all rhyme. I trust that you prosper, and
that your authors are in good condition. I should suppose your stud
has received some increase by what I hear. Bertram must be a good
horse; does he run next meeting? I hope you will beat the Row.
Yours alway," &c.

[Footnote 108: The following was the advertisement enclosed:--

"Neatly printed and hot-pressed, 2s. 6d.

"Lord Byron's Farewell to England, with Three other Poems--Ode to
St. Helena, to My Daughter on her Birthday, and To the Lily of
France.

"Printed by J. Johnston, Cheapside, 335.; Oxford, 9.

"The above beautiful Poems will be read with the most lively
interest, as it is probable they will be the last of the author's
that will appear in England."
]

[Footnote 109: The motto is--

He left a name to all succeeding times,
Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes."
]

* * * * *

LETTER 244. TO MR. ROGERS.

"Diodati, near Geneva, July 29. 1816.

"Do you recollect a book, Mathieson's Letters, which you lent me,
which I have still, and yet hope to return to your library? Well, I
have encountered at Copet and elsewhere Gray's correspondent, that
same Bonstetten, to whom I lent the translation of his
correspondent's epistles, for a few days; but all he could remember
of Gray amounts to little, except that he was the most 'melancholy
and gentlemanlike' of all possible poets. Bonstetten himself is a
fine and very lively old man, and much esteemed by his compatriots;
he is also a _litterateur_ of good repute, and all his friends have
a mania of addressing to him volumes of letters--Mathieson, Muller
the historian, &c.&c. He is a good deal at Copet, where I have met
him a few times. All there are well, except Rocca, who, I am sorry
to say, looks in a very bad state of health. Schlegel is in high
force, and Madame as brilliant as ever.

"I came here by the Netherlands and the Rhine route, and Basle,
Berne, Moral, and Lausanne. I have circumnavigated the Lake, and go
to Chamouni with the first fair weather; but really we have had
lately such stupid mists, fogs, and perpetual density, that one
would think Castlereagh had the Foreign Affairs of the kingdom of
Heaven also on his hands. I need say nothing to you of these parts,
you having traversed them already. I do not think of Italy before
September. I have read Glenarvon, and have also seen Ben.
Constant's Adolphe, and his preface, denying the real people. It is
a work which leaves an unpleasant impression, but very consistent
with the consequences of not being in love, which is, perhaps, as
disagreeable as any thing, except being so. I doubt, however,
whether all such _liens_ (as he calls them) terminate so wretchedly
as his hero and heroine's.

"There is a third Canto (a longer than either of the former) of
Childe Harold finished, and some smaller things,--among them a
story on the Chateau de Chillon; I only wait a good opportunity to
transmit them to the grand Murray, who, I hope, flourishes. Where
is Moore? Why is he not out? My love to him, and my perfect
consideration and remembrances to all, particularly to Lord and
Lady Holland, and to your Duchess of Somerset.

"Ever, &c.

"P.S. I send you a _fac-simile_, a note of Bonstetten's, thinking
you might like to see the hand of Gray's correspondent."

* * * * *

LETTER 245. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Diodati, Sept. 29. 1816.

"I am very much flattered by Mr. Gifford's good opinion of the
MSS., and shall be still more so if it answers your expectations
and justifies his kindness. I liked it myself, but that must go for
nothing. The feelings with which most of it was written need not be
envied me. With regard to the price, _I_ fixed _none_, but left it
to Mr. Kinnaird, Mr. Shelley, and yourself, to arrange. Of course,
they would do their best; and as to yourself, I knew you would make
no difficulties. But I agree with Mr. Kinnaird perfectly, that the
concluding _five hundred_ should be only _conditional_; and for my
own sake, I wish it to be added, only in case of your selling a
certain number, _that number_ to be fixed by _yourself_. I hope
this is fair. In every thing of this kind there must be risk; and
till that be past, in one way or the other, I would not willingly
add to it, particularly in times like the present. And pray always
recollect that nothing could mortify me more--no failure on my own
part--than having made you lose by any purchase from me.

"The Monody[110] was written by request of Mr. Kinnaird for the
theatre. I did as well as I could; but where I have not my choice
I pretend to answer for nothing. Mr. Hobhouse and myself are just
returned from a journey of lakes and mountains. We have been to the
Grindelwald, and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the
Wengen Alp; and seen torrents of nine hundred feet in fall, and
glaciers of all dimensions: we have heard shepherds' pipes, and
avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from the valleys
below us, like the spray of the ocean of hell. Chamouni, and that
which it inherits, we saw a month ago: but though Mont Blanc is
higher, it is not equal in wildness to the Jungfrau, the Eighers,
the Shreckhorn, and the Rose Glaciers.

"We set off for Italy next week. The road is within this month
infested with bandits, but we must take our chance and such
precautions as are requisite.

"Ever, &c.

"P.S. My best remembrances to Mr. Gifford. Pray say all that can be
said from me to him.

"I am sorry that Mr. Maturin did not like Phillips's picture. I
thought it was reckoned a good one. If he had made the speech on
the original, perhaps he would have been more readily forgiven by
the proprietor and the painter of the portrait * * *."

[Footnote 110: A Monody on the death of Sheridan, which was spoken at
Drury Lane theatre.]

* * * * *

LETTER 246. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Diodati, Sept. 30. 1816.

"I answered your obliging letters yesterday: to-day the Monody
arrived with its _title_-page, which is, I presume, a separate
publication. 'The request of a friend:'--

'Obliged by hunger and request of friends.'

I will request you to expunge that same, unless you please to add,
'by a person of quality,' or 'of wit and honour about town.' Merely
say, 'written to be spoken at Drury Lane.' To-morrow I dine at
Copet. Saturday I strike tents for Italy. This evening, on the lake
in my boat with Mr. Hobhouse, the pole which sustains the mainsail
slipped in tacking, and struck me so violently on one of my legs
(the _worst_, luckily) as to make me do a foolish thing, viz. to
_faint_--a downright swoon; the thing must have jarred some nerve
or other, for the bone is not injured, and hardly painful (it is
six hours since), and cost Mr. Hobhouse some apprehension and much
sprinkling of water to recover me. The sensation was a very odd
one: I never had but two such before, once from a cut on the head
from a stone, several years ago, and once (long ago also) in
falling into a great wreath of snow;--a sort of grey giddiness
first, then nothingness, and a total loss of memory on beginning to
recover. The last part is not disagreeable, if one did not find it
again.

"You want the original MSS. Mr. Davies has the first fair copy in
my own hand, and I have the rough composition here, and will send
or save it for you, since you wish it.

"With regard to your new literary project, if any thing falls in
the way which will, to the best of my judgment, suit you, I will
send you what I can. At present I must lay by a little, having
pretty well exhausted myself in what I have sent you. Italy or
Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again. I
have no plans, and am nearly as indifferent what may come as where
I go. I shall take Felicia Heman's Restoration, &c. with me; it is
a good poem--very.

"Pray repeat my best thanks and remembrances to Mr. Gifford for all
his trouble and good nature towards me.

"Do not fancy me laid up, from the beginning of this scrawl. I tell
you the accident for want of better to say; but it is over, and I
am only wondering what the deuce was the matter with me.

"I have lately been over all the Bernese Alps and their lakes. I
think many of the scenes (some of which were not those usually
frequented by the English) finer than Chamouni, which I visited
some time before. I have been to Clarens again, and crossed the
mountains behind it: of this tour I kept a short journal for my
sister, which I sent yesterday in three letters. It is not all for
perusal; but if you like to hear about the romantic part, she will,
I dare say, show you what touches upon the rocks, &c.

"Christabel--I won't have any one sneer at Christabel: it is a fine
wild poem.

"Madame de Stael wishes to see the Antiquary, and I am going to
take it to her to-morrow. She has made Copet as agreeable as
society and talent can make any place on earth. Yours ever,

"N."

* * * * *

From the Journal mentioned in the foregoing letter, I am enabled to give
the following extracts:--

EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL.

"September 18. 1816.

"Yesterday, September 17th, I set out with Mr. Hobhouse on an excursion
of some days to the mountains.

"September 17.

"Rose at five; left Diodati about seven, in one of the country carriages
(a char-a-banc), our servants on horseback. Weather very fine; the lake
calm and clear; Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Argentieres both very
distinct; the borders of the lake beautiful. Reached Lausanne before
sunset; stopped and slept at ----. Went to bed at nine: slept till five
o'clock.

"September 18.

"Called by my courier; got up. Hobhouse walked on before. A mile from
Lausanne, the road overflowed by the lake; got on horseback and rode
till within a mile of Vevay. The colt young, but went very well.
Overtook Hobhouse, and resumed the carriage, which is an open one.
Stopped at Vevay two hours (the second time I had visited it); walked to
the church; view from the churchyard superb; within it General Ludlow
(the regicide's) monument--black marble--long inscription--Latin, but
simple; he was an exile two-and-thirty-years--one of King Charles's
judges. Near him Broughton (who read King Charles's sentence to Charles
Stuart) is buried, with a queer and rather canting, but still a
republican, inscription. Ludlow's house shown; it retains still its
inscription--'Omne solum forti patria.' Walked down to the Lake side;
servants, carriage, saddle-horses--all set off and left us _plantes la_,
by some mistake, and we walked on after them towards Clarens: Hobhouse
ran on before, and overtook them at last. Arrived the second time (first
time was by water) at Clarens. Went to Chillon through scenery worthy of
I know not whom; went over the Castle of Chillon again. On our return
met an English party in a carriage; a lady in it fast asleep--fast
asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the world--excellent! I
remember, at Chamouni, in the very eyes of Mont Blanc, hearing another
woman, English also, exclaim to her party, 'Did you ever see any thing
more _rural_?'--as if it was Highgate, or Hampstead, or Brompton, or
Hayes,--'Rural!' quotha.--Rocks, pines, torrents, glaciers, clouds, and
summits of eternal snow far above them--and 'rural!'

"After a slight and short dinner we visited the Chateau de Clarens; an
English woman has rented it recently (it was not let when I saw it
first); the roses are gone with their summer; the family out, but the
servants desired us to walk over the interior of the mansion. Saw on the
table of the saloon Blair's Sermons and somebody else's (I forget who's)
sermons, and a set of noisy children. Saw all worth seeing, and then
descended to the 'Bosquet de Julie,' &c. &c.; our guide full of
Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing
the man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon to revisit the little
torrent from the hill behind it. Sunset reflected in the lake. Have to
get up at five to-morrow to cross the mountains on horseback; carriage
to be sent round; lodged at my old cottage--hospitable and comfortable;
tired with a longish ride on the colt, and the subsequent jolting of the
char-a-banc, and my scramble in the hot sun.

"Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of Chillon was as drunk as
Blucher, and (to my mind) as great a man; he was deaf also, and thinking
every one else so, roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully
that H. got out of humour. However, we saw things from the gallows to
the dungeons (the _potence_ and the _cachots_), and returned to Clarens
with more freedom than belonged to the fifteenth century.

"September 19.

"Rose at five. Crossed the mountains to Montbovon on horseback, and on
mules, and, by dint of scrambling, on foot also; the whole route
beautiful as a dream, and now to me almost as indistinct. I am so
tired;--for though healthy, I have not the strength I possessed but a
few years ago. At Montbovon we breakfasted; afterwards, on a steep
ascent dismounted; tumbled down; cut a finger open; the baggage also got
loose and fell down a ravine, till stopped by a large tree; recovered
baggage; horse tired and drooping; mounted mule. At the approach of the
summit of Dent Jument[111] dismounted again with Hobhouse and all the
party. Arrived at a lake in the very bosom of the mountains; left our
quadrupeds with a shepherd, and ascended farther; came to some snow in
patches, upon which my forehead's perspiration fell like rain, making
the same dints as in a sieve; the chill of the wind and the snow turned
me giddy, but I scrambled on and upwards. Hobhouse went to the highest
pinnacle; I did not, but paused within a few yards (at an opening of the
cliff). In coming down, the guide tumbled three times; I fell a
laughing, and tumbled too--the descent luckily soft, though steep and
slippery: Hobhouse also fell, but nobody hurt. The whole of the
mountains superb. A shepherd on a very steep and high cliff playing upon
his _pipe_; very different from _Arcadia_, where I saw the pastors with
a long musket instead of a crook, and pistols in their girdles. Our
Swiss shepherd's pipe was sweet, and his tune agreeable. I saw a cow
strayed; am told that they often break their necks on and over the
crags. Descended to Montbovon; pretty scraggy village, with a wild river
and a wooden bridge. Hobhouse went to fish--caught one. Our carriage not
come; our horses, mules, &c. knocked up; ourselves fatigued; but so much
the better--I shall sleep.

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