Chapter IV (4)

[Footnote 5: Thomas Sheridan (1775-1817), originally in the army, was at this time assisting his father, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, as manager of Drury Lane Theatre. His 'Bonduca' was played at Covent Garden in May, 1808. He married, in 1805, Caroline Henrietta Callender, who was "more beautiful than anybody but her daughters," afterwards Mrs. Norton, the Duchess of Somerset, and Lady Dufferin. He died at the Cape of Good Hope in 1817. "Tom Sheridan and his beautiful wife" were at Gibraltar in 1809, when Byron and Hobhouse landed on the Rock, and, as Galt states ('Life of Byron', p. 58), brought the news to Lady Westmorland of their arrival. (See 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers', lines 572, 573, and note 1.)]

[Footnote 6: 'Bluebeard, or Female Curiosity', by George Colman the Younger (1762-1836), was being acted at Drury Lane in January, 1809. "Bluebeard's elephants" were wicker-work constructions. It was at Covent Garden that the first live elephant was introduced two years later. Johnstone, the machinist employed at Drury Lane, famous for the construction of wooden children, wicker-work lions, and paste-board swans, was present with a friend.

"Among the attractions of this Christmas foolery, a _real_ elephant
was introduced.... The friend, who sat close to Johnstone, jogged his
elbow, whispering, 'This is a bitter bad job for Drury! Why, the
elephant's _alive_! He'll carry all before him, and beat you hollow.
What do you think on't, eh?' 'Think on't?' said Johnstone, in a tone
of utmost contempt, 'I should be very sorry if I couldn't make a much
better elephant than that, at any time'"

(George Colman the Younger, 'Random Records', vol. i. pp. 228, 229).]

149.--To John Cam Hobhouse.

Patras, Morea, October 4th, 1810.

MY Dear Hobhouse,--I wrote to you two days ago, but the weather and my
friend Strané's conversation being much the same, and my ally Nicola
[1] in bed with a fever, I think I may as well talk to you, the
rather, as you can't answer me, and excite my wrath with impertinent
observations, at least for three months to come.

I will try not to say the same things I have set down in my other
letter of the 2nd, but I can't promise, as my poor head is still giddy
with my late fever.

I saw the Lady Hesther Stanhope [2] at Athens, and do not admire "that
dangerous thing a female wit." She told me (take her own words) that
she had given you a good set-down at Malta, in some disputation about
the Navy; from this, of course, I readily inferred the contrary, or in
the words of an _acquaintance_ of ours, that "you had the best of it."

She evinced a similar disposition to _argufy_ with me, which I avoided
by either laughing or yielding. I despise the sex too much to squabble
with them, and I rather wonder you should allow a woman to draw you
into a contest, in which, however, I am sure you had the advantage,
she abuses you so bitterly.

I have seen too little of the Lady to form any decisive opinion, but I
have discovered nothing different from other she-things, except a
great disregard of received notions in her conversation as well as
conduct. I don't know whether this will recommend her to our sex, but
I am sure it won't to her own. She is going on to Constantinople.

Ali Pacha is in a scrape. Ibrahim Pacha and the Pacha of Scutari have
come down upon him with 20,000 Gegdes and Albanians, retaken Berat,
and threaten Tepaleni. Adam Bey is dead, Vely Pacha was on his way to
the Danube, but has gone off suddenly to Yanina, and all Albania is in
an uproar.

The mountains we crossed last year are the scene of warfare, and there
is nothing but carnage and cutting of throats. In my other letter I
mentioned that Vely had given me a fine horse. On my late visit he
received me with great pomp, standing, conducted me to the door with
his arm round my waist, and a variety of civilities, invited me to
meet him at Larissa and see his army, which I should have accepted,
had not this rupture with Ibrahim taken place. Sultan Mahmout is in a
phrenzy because Vely has not joined the army. We have a report here,
that the Russians have beaten the Turks and taken Muchtar Pacha
prisoner, but it is a Greek Bazaar rumour and not to be believed.

I have now treated you with a dish of Turkish politics. You have by
this time gotten into England, and your ears and mouth are full of
"Reform Burdett, Gale Jones, [3] minority, last night's division,
dissolution of Parliament, battle in Portugal," and all the cream of
forty newspapers.

In my t'other letter, to which I am perpetually obliged to refer, I
have offered some moving topics on the head of your _Miscellany_, the
neglect of which I attribute to the half guinea annexed as the
indispensable equivalent for the said volume.

Now I do hope, notwithstanding that exorbitant demand, that on your
return you will find it selling, or, what is better, sold, in
consequence of which you will be able to face the public with your new
volume, if that intention still subsists.

My journal, did I keep one, should be yours. As it is I can only offer
my sincere wishes for your success, if you will believe it possible
for a brother scribbler to be sincere on such an occasion.

Will you execute a commission for me? Lord Sligo tells me it was the
intention of Miller [4] in Albemarle Street to send by him a letter to
me, which he stated to be of consequence. Now I have no concern with
Mr. M. except a bill which I hope is paid before this time; will you
visit the said M. and if it be a pecuniary matter, refer him to
Hanson, and if not, tell me what he means, or forward his letter.

I have just received an epistle from Galt, [5] with a Candist poem,
which it seems I am to forward to you. This I would willingly do, but
it is too large for a letter, and too small for a parcel, and besides
appears to be damned nonsense, from all which considerations I will
deliver it in person. It is entitled the "Fair Shepherdess," or rather
"Herdswoman;" if you don't like the translation take the original
title "[Greek (transliterated): hae boskopoula]." Galt also writes
something not very intelligible about a "Spartan State paper" which by
his account is everything but Laconic. Now the said Sparta having some
years ceased to be a state, what the devil does he mean by a paper? he
also adds mysteriously that the _affair_ not being concluded, he
cannot at present apply for it.

Now, Hobhouse, are you mad? or is he? Are these documents for Longman
& Co.? Spartan state papers! and Cretan rhymes! indeed these
circumstances super-added to his house at Mycone (whither I am
invited) and his Levant wines, make me suspect his sanity. Athens is
at present infested with English people, but they are moving, _Dio
bendetto!_ I am returning to pass a month or two; I think the spring
will see me in England, but do not let this transpire, nor cease to
urge the most dilatory of mortals, Hanson. I have some idea of
purchasing the Island of Ithaca; I suppose you will add me to the
Levant lunatics. I shall be glad to hear from your Signoria of your
welfare, politics, and literature.

Your last letter closes pathetically with a postscript about a
nosegay; [6] I advise you to introduce that into your next sentimental
novel. I am sure I did not suspect you of any fine feelings, and I
believe you were laughing, but you are welcome.

_Vale_; "I can no more," like Lord Grizzle. [7]

Yours,

[Greek (transliterated): Mpair_on]

[Footnote 1: Nicolo Giraud, from whom Byron was learning Italian.]

[Footnote 2: Hobhouse had written to Byron, speaking of Lady Hester Stanhope "as the most superior woman, as Bruce says, of all the world." The daughter of Pitt's favourite sister, Lady Hester (1776-1839) was her uncle's constant companion (1803-6). In character she resembled her grandfather far more than her uncle, who owed his cool judgment to the Grenville blood. Lady Hester inherited the overweening pride, generosity, courage, and fervent heat of the "Great Commoner," as well as his indomitable will. Like him, she despised difficulties, and ignored the word "impossibility." Her romantic ideas were also combined with keen insight into character, and much practical sagacity. These were the qualities which made her for many years a power among the wild tribes of Lebanon, with whom she was in 1810 proceeding to take up her abode (1813-39).]

[Footnote 3: Sir Francis Burdett (1770-1844), a lifelong friend of Lady Hester Stanhope, was afterwards Hobhouse's colleague as M.P. for Westminster (1820-33). He was committed to the Tower in 1810 for publishing a speech which he delivered in the House of Commons in defence of John Gale Jones, whom the House (February, 1810) had sent to Newgate for a breach of privilege. Sir Francis refused to obey the warrant, and told the sergeant-at-arms that he would not go unless taken by force. His refusal led to riots near his house (77, Piccadilly), in which the Horse Guards, or "Oxford Blues" as they were called, gained the name of "Piccadilly Butchers" (Lord Albemarle's 'Recollections', vol. i. pp. 317, 318).]

[Footnote 4: See page 319, 'note 2.']

[Footnote 5: John Galt (1779-1839), the novelist, was at this time endeavouring to establish a place of business at Mycone, in the Greek Archipelago. He published in 1812 his 'Voyages and Travels in the Years' 1809, 1810, 1811. (For his meeting with Byron at Gibraltar, see page 243 [Letter 130], [Foot]note 1.)]

[Footnote 6: Hobhouse's letter to Byron of July 31, 1810, ends with the following postscript:--

"I kept the half of your little nosegay till it withered entirely, and
even then I could not bear to throw it away. I can't account for this,
nor can you either, I dare say."]

[Footnote 7: Lord Grizzle, in Fielding's 'Tom Thumb', is the first peer in the Court of King Arthur, who, jealous of Tom Thumb and in love with the Princess Huncamunca, turns traitor, and is run through the body by Tom Thumb. It is the ghost, not Grizzle, who says, "I can no more." (See page 226 [Letter 124], [Foot]note 1.)]

150.--To Francis Hodgson.

Athens, November 14, 1810.

MY DEAR HODGSON,--This will arrive with an English servant whom I send
homewards with some papers of consequence. I have been journeying in
different parts of Greece for these last four months, and you may
expect me in England somewhere about April, but this is very dubious.
Hobhouse you have doubtless seen; he went home in August to arrange
materials for a tour he talks of publishing. You will find him well
and scribbling--that is, scribbling if well, and well if scribbling.

I suppose you have a score of new works, all of which I hope to see
flourishing, with a hecatomb of reviews. _My_ works are likely to have
a powerful effect with a vengeance, as I hear of divers angry people,
whom it is proper I should shoot at, by way of satisfaction. Be it so,
the same impulse which made "Otho a warrior" will make me one also. My
domestic affairs being moreover considerably deranged, my appetite for
travelling pretty well satiated with my late peregrinations, my
various hopes in this world almost extinct, and not very brilliant in
the next, I trust I shall go through the process with a creditable
_sang froid_ and not disgrace a line of cut-throat ancestors.

I regret in one of your letters to hear you talk of domestic
embarrassments, [1] indeed I am at present very well calculated to
sympathise with you on that point. I suppose I must take to
dram-drinking as a _succedaneum_ for philosophy, though as I am
happily not married, I have very little occasion for either just yet.

Talking of marriage puts me in mind of Drury, who I suppose has a
dozen children by this time, all fine fretful brats; I will never
forgive Matrimony for having spoiled such an excellent Bachelor. If
anybody honours my name with an inquiry tell them of "my whereabouts"
and write if you like it. I am living alone in the Franciscan
monastery with one "fri_ar_" (a Capuchin of course) and one "fri_er_"
(a bandy-legged Turkish cook), two Albanian savages, a Tartar, and a
Dragoman. My only Englishman departs with this and other letters. The
day before yesterday the Waywode (or Governor of Athens) with the
Mufti of Thebes (a sort of Mussulman Bishop) supped here and made
themselves beastly with raw rum, and the Padré of the convent being as
drunk as _we_, my _Attic_ feast went off with great _éclat_. I have
had a present of a stallion from the Pacha of the Morea. I caught a
fever going to Olympia. I was blown ashore on the Island of Salamis,
in my way to Corinth through the Gulf of Ægina. I have kicked an
Athenian postmaster, I have a friendship with the French consul [2]
and an Italian painter, and am on good terms with five Teutones and
Cimbri, Danes and Germans, [2] who are travelling for an Academy.
Vale!

Yours, [Greek: Mpair_on] [3]

[Footnote 1: Hodgson's father, Rector of Barwick-in-Elmet, Yorkshire, died in October, 1810, heavily in debt. Francis Hodgson undertook to satisfy the claims of his father's creditors ('Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 147, 148).]

[Footnote 2: M. Fauriel, the French Consul: Lusieri, an Italian artist employed by Lord Elgin; Nicolo Giraud, from whom Byron learned Italian, and to whose sister Lusieri proposed; Baron Haller, a Bavarian 'savant'; and Dr. Bronstett, of Copenhagen, were among his friends at Athens.]

[Footnote 3: The signature represents "Byron" in modern Greek, [Greek: Mp] being the correct transliteration of 'B'.]

151.--To his Mother.

Athens, January 14, 1811.

My Dear Madam,--I seize an occasion to write as usual, shortly, but
frequently, as the arrival of letters, where there exists no regular
communication, is, of course, very precarious. I have lately made
several small tours of some hundred or two miles about the Morea,
Attica, etc., as I have finished my grand giro by the Troad,
Constantinople, etc., and am returned down again to Athens. I believe
I have mentioned to you more than once that I swam (in imitation of
Leander, though without his lady) across the Hellespont, from Sestos
to Abydos. Of this, and all other particulars, Fletcher, whom I have
sent home with papers, etc., will apprise you. I cannot find that he
is any loss; being tolerably master of the Italian and modern Greek
languages, which last I am also studying with a master, I can order
and discourse more than enough for a reasonable man. Besides, the
perpetual lamentations after beef and beer, the stupid, bigoted
contempt for every thing foreign, and insurmountable incapacity of
acquiring even a few words of any language, rendered him, like all
other English servants, an incumbrance. I do assure you, the plague of
speaking for him, the comforts he required (more than myself by far),
the pilaws (a Turkish dish of rice and meat) which he could not eat,
the wines which he could not drink, the beds where he could not sleep,
and the long list of calamities, such as stumbling horses, want of
_tea!!!_ etc., which assailed him, would have made a lasting source of
laughter to a spectator, and inconvenience to a master. After all, the
man is honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable enough; but in
Turkey, Lord forgive me! my Albanian soldiers, my Tartars and
Jannissary, worked for him and us too, as my friend Hobhouse can
testify.

It is probable I may steer homewards in spring; but to enable me to do
that, I must have remittances. My own funds would have lasted me very
well; but I was obliged to assist a friend, who, I know, will pay me;
but, in the mean time, I am out of pocket. At present, I do not care
to venture a winter's voyage, even if I were otherwise tired of
travelling; but I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at
mankind instead of reading about them, and the bitter effects of
staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I
think there should be a law amongst us, to set our young men abroad,
for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us.

Here I see and have conversed with French, Italians, Germans, Danes,
Greeks, Turks, Americans, etc., etc., etc.; and without losing sight
of my own, I can judge of the countries and manners of others. Where I
see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a good deal
mistaken about in many things), I am pleased, and where I find her
inferior, I am at least enlightened. Now, I might have stayed, smoked
in your towns, or fogged in your country, a century, without being
sure of this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or amusing
at home. I keep no journal, nor have I any intention of scribbling my
travels. I have done with authorship, and if, in my last production, I
have convinced the critics or the world I was something more than they
took me for, I am satisfied; nor will I hazard _that reputation_ by a
future effort. It is true I have some others in manuscript, but I
leave them for those who come after me; and, if deemed worth
publishing, they may serve to prolong my memory when I myself shall
cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist taking some views
of Athens, etc., etc., for me. This will be better than scribbling, a
disease I hope myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet,
recluse life, but God knows and does best for us all; at least, so
they say, and I have nothing to object, as, on the whole, I have no
reason to complain of my lot. I am convinced, however, that men do
more harm to themselves than ever the devil could do to them. I trust
this will find you well, and as happy as we can be; you will, at
least, be pleased to hear I am so, and

Yours ever.

152.--To his Mother.

Athens, February 28, 1811.

DEAR MADAM,--As I have received a firman for Egypt, etc., I shall
proceed to that quarter in the spring, and I beg you will state to Mr.
Hanson that it is necessary to [send] further remittances. On the
subject of Newstead, I answer as before, _No_. If it is necessary to
sell, sell Rochdale. Fletcher will have arrived by this time with my
letters to that purport. I will tell you fairly, I have, in the first
place, no opinion of funded property; if, by any particular
circumstances, I shall be led to adopt such a determination, I will,
at all events, pass my life abroad, as my only tie to England is
Newstead, and, that once gone, neither interest nor inclination lead
me northward. Competence in your country is ample wealth in the East,
such is the difference in the value of money and the abundance of the
necessaries of life; and I feel myself so much a citizen of the world,
that the spot where I can enjoy a delicious climate, and every luxury,
at a less expense than a common college life in England, will always
be a country to me; and such are in fact the shores of the
Archipelago. This then is the alternative--if I preserve Newstead, I
return; if I sell it, I stay away. I have had no letters since yours
of June, but I have written several times, and shall continue, as
usual, on the same plan.

Believe me, yours ever, BYRON.

P.S.--I shall most likely see you in the course of the summer, but, of
course, at such a distance, I cannot specify any particular month.

153.--To his Mother.

'Volage' frigate, at sea, June 25, 1811.

DEAR MOTHER,--This letter, which will be forwarded on our arrival at
Portsmouth, probably about the 4th of July, is begun about
twenty-three days after our departure from Malta. I have just been two
years (to a day, on the 2d of July) absent from England, and I return
to it with much the same feelings which prevailed on my departure,
viz. indifference; but within that apathy I certainly do not comprise
yourself, as I will prove by every means in my power. You will be good
enough to get my apartments ready at Newstead; but don't disturb
yourself, on any account, particularly mine, nor consider me in any
other light than as a visiter. I must only inform you that for a long
time I have been restricted to an entire vegetable diet, neither fish
nor flesh coming within my regimen; so I expect a powerful stock of
potatoes, greens, and biscuit; I drink no wine. I have two servants,
middle-aged men, and both Greeks. It is my intention to proceed first
to town, to see Mr. Hanson, and thence to Newstead, on my way to
Rochdale. I have only to beg you will not forget my diet, which it is
very necessary for me to observe. I am well in health, as I have
generally been, with the exception of two agues, both of which I
quickly got over.

My plans will so much depend on circumstances, that I shall not
venture to lay down an opinion on the subject. My prospects are not
very promising, but I suppose we shall wrestle through life like our
neighbours; indeed, by Hanson's last advices, I have some apprehension
of finding Newstead dismantled by Messrs. Brothers,[1] etc., and he
seems determined to force me into selling it, but he will be baffled.
I don't suppose I shall be much pestered with visiters; but if I am,
you must receive them, for I am determined to have nobody breaking in
upon my retirement: you know that I never was fond of society, and I
am less so than before. I have brought you a shawl, and a quantity of
attar of roses, but these I must smuggle, if possible. I trust to find
my library in tolerable order.

Fletcher is no doubt arrived. I shall separate the mill from Mr. B--'s
farm, for his son is too gay a deceiver to inherit both, and place
Fletcher in it, who has served me faithfully, and whose wife is a good
woman; besides, it is necessary to sober young Mr. B--, or he will
people the parish with bastards. In a word, if he had seduced a
dairy-maid, he might have found something like an apology; but the
girl is his equal, and in high life or low life reparation is made in
such circumstances. But I shall not interfere further than (like
Buonaparte) by dismembering Mr. B.'s _kingdom_, and erecting part of
it into a principality for field-marshal Fletcher! I hope you govern
my little _empire_ and its sad load of national debt with a wary hand.
To drop my metaphor, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Yours ever, BYRON.

P.S. July 14.--This letter was written to be sent from Portsmouth,
but, on arriving there, the squadron was ordered to the Nore, from
whence I shall forward it. This I have not done before, supposing you
might be alarmed by the interval mentioned in the letter being longer
than expected between our arrival in port and my appearance at
Newstead.

[Footnote 1: Brothers, an upholsterer of Nottingham, had put in an execution at Newstead for £1600.]

154.--To R. C. Dallas.

_Volage_ Frigate, at sea, June 28, 1811.

After two years' absence (to a day, on the 2d of July, before which we
shall not arrive at Portsmouth), I am retracing my way to England. I
have, as you know, spent the greater part of that period in Turkey,
except two months in Spain and Portugal, which were then accessible. I
have seen every thing most remarkable in Turkey, particularly the
Troad, Greece, Constantinople, and Albania, into which last region
very few have penetrated so high as Hobhouse and myself. I don't know
that I have done anything to distinguish me from other voyagers,
unless you will reckon my swimming from Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d,
1810, a tolerable feat for a _modern_.

I am coming back with little prospect of pleasure at home, and with a
body a little shaken by one or two smart fevers, but a spirit I hope
yet unbroken. My affairs, it seems, are considerably involved, and
much business must be done with lawyers, colliers, farmers, and
creditors. Now this, to a man who hates bustle as he hates a bishop,
is a serious concern. But enough of my home department.

I find I have been scolding Cawthorn without a cause, as I found two
parcels with two letters from you on my return to Malta. By these it
appears you have not received a letter from Constantinople, addressed
to Longman's, but it was of no consequence.

My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a success rather above
the middling run, but not much for a production which, from its
topics, must be temporary, and of course be successful at first, or
not at all. At this period, when I can think and act more coolly, I
regret that I have written it, though I shall probably find it
forgotten by all except those whom it has offended. My friend
Hobhouse's _Miscellany_ has not succeeded; but he himself writes so
good-humouredly on the subject, I don't know whether to laugh or cry
with him. He met with your son at Cadiz, of whom he speaks highly.

Yours and Pratt's [1] _protégé_, Blacket, [2] the cobbler, is dead, in
spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the instances where death
has saved a man from damnation. You were the ruin of that poor fellow
amongst you: had it not been for his patrons, he might now have been
in very good plight, shoe- (not verse-) making; but you have made him
immortal with a vengeance. I write this, supposing poetry, patronage,
and strong waters, to have been the death of him. If you are in town
in or about the beginning of July, you will find me at Dorant's, in
Albemarle Street, glad to see you.[1] I have an imitation of Horace's
_Art of Poetry_ ready for Cawthorn, but don't let that deter you, for
I sha'n't inflict it upon you. You know I never read my rhymes to
visiters. I shall quit town in a few days for Notts., and thence to
Rochdale. I shall send this the moment we arrive in harbour, that is a
week hence.

Yours ever sincerely, BYRON.

[Footnote 1: For Pratt, see page 186, note 1.]

[Footnote 2: Joseph Blacket (1786-1810) has his place in 'English Bards' (lines 765, 798) and 'Hints from Horace' (line 734). The son of a labourer, and himself by trade a cobbler, he wrote verses in which Pratt saw signs of genius. A volume of his poetry was published in 1809, under the title of 'Specimens', edited by Pratt. Among those who befriended him were Elliston the actor, Dallas, and Miss Milbanke, afterwards Lady Byron (see 'English Bards', lines 770, and note 1). His 'Remains' were collected and published by Pratt in 1811 for the benefit of Blacket's orphan daughter, with a dedication to "the Duchess of Leeds, Lady Milbanke and family" (see page 337, and 'Hints from Horace', line 734, and Byron's note). In the suppressed edition of Dallas's 'Correspondence of Lord Byron' (pp. 127, 128) occurs the following passage, from which, if Dallas's grammar is to be trusted, it seems that the famous epitaph on Blacket was not Byron's composition. Dallas

"was persuaded by Mr. Pratt's warmth to see some sparkling of genius
in the effusions of this young man (Blacket). It was upon this that
Lord Byron and a young friend of his were sometimes playful in
conversation, and in writing to me. 'I see,' says the latter, 'that
Blacket the Son of Crispin and Apollo is dead.' Looking into Boswell's
'Life of Johnson' the other day, I saw, 'We were talking about the
famous Mr. Wordsworth, the poetical Shoemaker.' Now, I never before
heard that there had been a Mr. Wordsworth a Poet, a Shoemaker, or a
famous man; and I dare say you have never heard of him. Thus it will
be with Bloomfield and Blackett--their names two years after their
death will be found neither on the rolls of Curriers' Hall nor of
Parnassus. Who would think that anybody would be such a blockhead as
to sin against an express proverb, 'Ne sutor ultra crepidam'?

'But spare him, ye Critics, his follies are past,
For the Cobler is come, as he ought, to his 'last'.'

Which two lines, with a scratch under 'last', to show where the joke
lies, I beg that you will prevail on Miss Milbanke to have inserted on
the tomb of her departed Blacket."

It should be added that the shoemaking poet was not Wordsworth, but Woodhouse.]

[Footnote 3: Dallas called on Byron at Reddish's Hotel, St. James's Street, July 15, 1811, and received from him the MS. of 'Hints from Horace'. Byron finished the work March 12, 1811, at the Franciscan Convent at Athens, where he found a copy of the 'De Arte Poeticâ'. ('Hints from Horace' were not, however, published till 1831.) On July 16 Dallas called again, and expressed surprise that Byron had written nothing else. Byron then produced out of his trunk 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', saying, "They are not worth troubling you with, but you shall have them all with you if you like." He was as reluctant to publish 'Childe Harold' as he was eager to publish 'Hints from Horace'.]

155.--To Francis Hodgson.

'Volage' Frigate, at sea, June 29, 1811.

In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at Portsmouth, and on the 2d
of July I shall have completed (to a day) two years of peregrination,
from which I am returning with as little emotion as I set out. I
think, upon the whole, I was more grieved at leaving Greece than
England, which I am impatient to see, simply because I am tired of a
long voyage.

Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Embarrassed in my private
affairs, indifferent to public, solitary without the wish to be
social, with a body a little enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but
a spirit I trust, yet unbroken, I am returning _home_ without a hope,
and almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to encounter
will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers,
surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to estates out of repair,
and contested coal-pits. In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I
have a little repaired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march,
either to campaign in Spain, or back again to the East, where I can at
least have cloudless skies and a cessation from impertinence.

I trust to meet, or see you, in town, or at Newstead, whenever you can
make it convenient--I suppose you are in love and in poetry as usual.
That husband, H. Drury, has never written to me, albeit I have sent
him more than one letter;--but I dare say the poor man has a family,
and of course all his cares are confined to his circle.

"For children fresh expenses yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit."

WARTON. [1]

If you see him, tell him I have a letter for him from Tucker, a
regimental chirurgeon and friend of his, who prescribed for me,----
and is a very worthy man, but too fond of hard words. I should be too
late for a speech-day, or I should probably go down to Harrow. I
regretted very much in Greece having omitted to carry the _Anthology_
with me--I mean Bland and Merivale's.--What has _Sir Edgar_ done? And
the _Imitations and Translations_--where are they? I suppose you don't
mean to let the public off so easily, but charge them home with a
quarto. For me, I am "sick of fops, and poesy, and prate," and shall
leave the "whole Castalian state" to Bufo, or any body else. [2] But
you are a sentimental and sensibilitous person, and will rhyme to the
end of the chapter. Howbeit, I have written some 4000 lines, of one
kind or another, on my travels.

I need not repeat that I shall be happy to see you. I shall be in town
about the 8th, at Dorant's Hotel, in Albemarle Street, and proceed in
a few days to Notts., and thence to Rochdale on business.

I am, here and there, yours, etc.

[Footnote 1: Warton's 'Progress of Discontent', lines 109, 110.]

[Footnote 2:

"But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state."

Pope, 'Prologue to the Satires', lines 229, 230.]

156.--To Henry Drury.

'Volage' frigate, off Ushant, July 17, 1811.

My Dear Drury,--After two years' absence (on the 2d) and some odd days,
I am approaching your country. The day of our arrival you will see by
the outside date of my letter. At present, we are becalmed comfortably,
close to Brest Harbour;--I have never been so near it since I left Duck
Puddle. [1] We left Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a tedious
passage of it. You will either see or hear from or of me, soon after the
receipt of this, as I pass through town to repair my irreparable
affairs; and thence I want to go to Notts. and raise rents, and to
Lanes. and sell collieries, and back to London and pay debts,--for it
seems I shall neither have coals nor comfort till I go down to Rochdale
in person.

I have brought home some marbles for Hobhouse;--for myself, four
ancient Athenian skulls, [2] dug out of sarcophagi--a phial of Attic
hemlock [3]--four live tortoises--a greyhound (died on the
passage)--two live Greek servants, one an Athenian, t'other a _Yaniote_,
who can speak nothing but Romaic and Italian--and _myself_, as Moses in
the _Vicar of Wakefield_ says, _slily_ [4] and I may say it too, for I
have as little cause to boast of my expedition as he had of his to the
fair.

I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks to tell you I had swam from Sestos
to Abydos--have you received my letter? Hobhouse went to England to fish
up his _Miscellany,_ which foundered (so he tells me) in the Gulph of
Lethe. I daresay it capsized with the vile goods of his contributory
friends, for his own share was very portable. However, I hope he will
either weigh up or set sail with a fresh cargo, and a luckier vessel.
Hodgson, I suppose, is four deep by this time. What would he have given
to have seen, like me, the _real Parnassus,_ where I robbed the Bishop
of Chrisso of a book of geography!--but this I only call plagiarism, as
it was done within an hour's ride of Delphi.

[Footnote 1: The swimming-bath at Harrow.]

[Footnote 2: Given afterwards to Sir Walter Scott.]

[Footnote 3: At present in the possession of Mr. Murray.]

[Footnote 4:

"'Welcome, welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from
the fair?'

'I have brought you _myself_,' cried Moses, with a sly look, and
resting the box on the dresser."

'Vicar of Wakefield', ch. xii.]

157.-To his Mother.

Reddish's Hotel, St. James's Street, London, July 23, 1811.

MY DEAR MADAM,--I am only detained by Mr. Hanson to sign some copyhold
papers, and will give you timely notice of my approach. It is with
great reluctance I remain in town. [1] I shall pay a short visit as we
go on to Lancashire on Rochdale business. I shall attend to your
directions, of course, and am, with great respect, yours ever,

BYRON.

P.S.--You will consider Newstead as your house, not mine; and me only
as a visiter.

[Footnote 1: On his way to London, Byron paid a visit, at Sittingbourne, to Hobhouse, who was with his Militia Regiment, and under orders for Ireland. He also stayed with H. Drury, at Harrow, for two or three days.]

158.--To William Miller. [1]

Reddish's Hotel, July 30th, 1811.

SIR,--I am perfectly aware of the justice of your remarks, and am
convinced that, if ever the poem is published, the same objections
will be made in much stronger terms. But as it was intended to be a
poem on _Ariosto's plan,_ that _is_ to _say_ on _no plan_ at all, and,
as is usual in similar cases, having a predilection for the worst
passages, I shall retain those parts, though I cannot venture to
defend them. Under these circumstances I regret that you decline the
publication, on my own account, as I think the book would have done
better in your hands; the pecuniary part, you know, I have nothing to
do with. But I can perfectly conceive, and indeed _approve_ your
reasons, and assure you my sensations are not _Archiepiscopal_ [2]
enough as yet to regard the rejection of my Homilies.

I am, Sir, your very obed't humble serv't,

BYRON.

[Footnote 1: William Miller (1769-1844), son of Thomas Miller, bookseller, of Bungay (see Beloe's 'Sexagenarian,' 2nd edit., vol. ii. pp. 253, 254), served his apprenticeship in Hookham's publishing house. In 1790 he set up for himself as a bookselling publisher in Bond Street. From 1804 onwards his place of business was at 50, Albemarle Street. But in September, 1812, he sold his stock, copyrights, good will, and lease to John Murray, and retired to a country farm in Hertfordshire. He declined to publish 'Childe Harold,' on the grounds that it contained "sceptical stanzas," and attacked Lord Elgin as a plunderer. But on the latter point, Byron, who was in serious earnest, was not likely to give way. In Beloe's 'Sexagenarian' (vol. ii. pp. 270, 271), Miller is described as "the splendid bookseller," who "was enabled to retire to tranquillity and independence long before the decline of life, or infirmities of age, rendered it necessary to do so. He was highly respectable, but could drive a hard bargain with a poor author, as well as any of his fraternity."

[Footnote 2: Alluding to Gil Blas and the Archbishop of Grenada (see page 121 [Letter 67], [Foot]note 3 [4]).]

159.--To John M. B. Pigot.

Newport Pagnell, August 2, 1811.

MY DEAR DOCTOR,--My poor mother died yesterday! and I am on my way
from town to attend her to the family vault. I heard _one_ day of her
illness, the _next_ of her death. [1] Thank God her last moments were
most tranquil. I am told she was in little pain, and not aware of her
situation. I now feel the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, "That we
can only have _one_ mother." [2] Peace be with her! I have to thank
you for your expressions of regard; and as in six weeks I shall be in
Lancashire on business, I may extend to Liverpool and Chester,--at
least I shall endeavour.

If it will be any satisfaction, I have to inform you that in November
next the Editor of the _Scourge_ [3] will be tried for two different
libels on the late Mrs. B. and myself (the decease of Mrs. B. makes no
difference in the proceedings); and as he is guilty, by his very
foolish and unfounded assertion of a breach of privilege, he will be
prosecuted with the utmost rigour.

I inform you of this, as you seem interested in the affair, which is
now in the hands of the Attorney-general.

I shall remain at Newstead the greater part of this month, where I
shall be happy to hear from you, after my two years' absence in the
East.

I am, dear Pigot, yours very truly,

BYRON.

[Footnote 1: On the night after his arrival at Newstead, Mrs. Byron's maid, passing the room where the body lay, heard a heavy sigh from within. Entering the room, she found Byron sitting in the dark beside the bed. When she spoke to him, he burst into tears, and exclaimed,

"Oh, Mrs. By, I had but one friend in the world, and she is gone!"

On the day of the funeral he refused to follow the corpse to the grave, but watched the procession move away from the door of Newstead; then, turning to Rushton, bade him bring the gloves, and began his usual sparring exercise. Only his silence, abstraction, and unusual violence betrayed to his antagonist, says Moore ('Life', p. 128), the state of his feelings.]

[Footnote 2:

"I had discovered a thing very little known, which is, that in one's
whole life one can never have more than a single mother. You may think
this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite observation. You are a
green gosling! I was at the same age (very near) as wise as you, and
yet I never discovered this (with full evidence and conviction, I
mean) till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, ... and every
day I live it sinks deeper into my heart."

Gray to Nicholls, 'Works', vol. i. p. 482.]

[Footnote 3: One of Byron's first acts on returning to England was to buy a copy of the 'Scourge', In Ridgway's bill for books supplied from Piccadilly to Byron on July 24, 1811, is a copy of the 'Scourge' at 2's'. 6'd'. Hewson Clarke (1787-1832) was entered at Emanuel College, Cambridge, apparently as a sizar, in 1806. Obliged to leave the University before he had taken his degree, he supported himself in London by his pen. He wrote two historical works--a continuation of Hume's 'History of England' (1832), and an 'Impartial History of the Naval, etc., Events in Europe' from the French Revolution to the Peace of 1815. It was, however, as a journalist that he came into collision with Byron. In the 'Satirist', a monthly magazine, illustrated with coloured cartoons, three attacks were made on Byron, which he attributed to Clarke:

(1) October, 1807 (vol. i pp. 77-81), a review of 'Hours of Idleness';

(2) June, 1808 (vol. ii p. 368), verses on "Lord B--n to his Bear. To the tune of 'Lo chin y gair;'"

(3) August, 1808 (vol. iii pp. 78-86), a review of 'Poems Original and Translated'.

Byron's reply was the passage in 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers' (lines 973-980; see also the notes), where Clarke is described as

"A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon," etc.;

and also the Postscript to the second edition (see 'Poems', vol. i. p. 382). In the 'Scourge' for March, 1811 (vol. i. pp. 191, 'et seqq'.), appeared an article headed "Lord Byron," in which the alleged libel occurred.

"We are unacquainted," says the article, "with any act of cowardice
that can be compared with that of keeping a libel 'ready cut and
dried' till some favourable opportunity enable its author to disperse
it without the hazard of personal responsibility, and under
circumstances which deprive the injured party of every means of
reparation ... He confined the knowledge of his lampoon, therefore, to
the circle of his own immediate friends, and left it to be given to
the public as soon as he should have bid adieu to the shores of
Britain. Whether his voyage was in reality no further than to Paris,
in search of the proofs of his own legitimacy, or, as he asserts, to
'Afric's coasts, and Calpe's adverse height', was of little
consequence to Mr. Clarke, who felt that to recriminate during his
absence would be unworthy of his character ... Considering the two
parties not as writers, but as men, Mr. Clarke might confidently
appeal to the knowledge and opinion of the whole university; but a
character like his disdains comparison with that of his noble
calumniator; a temper unruffled by malignant passions, a mind superior
to vicissitude, are gifts for which the pride of doubtful birth, and
the temporary possession of Newstead Abbey are contemptible
equivalents ...

"It may be reasonably asked whether to be a denizen of
Berwick-upon-Tweed be more disgraceful than to be the illegitimate
descendant of a murderer; whether to labour in an honourable
profession for the peace and competence of maturer age be less worthy
of praise than to waste the property of others in vulgar debauchery;
whether to be the offspring of parents whose only crime is their want
of title, be not as honourable as to be the son of a profligate
father, and a mother whose days and nights are spent in the delirium
of drunkenness; and, finally, whether to deserve the kindness of his
own college, to obtain its prizes, and to prepare himself for any
examination that might entitle him to share the highest honours which
the university can bestow, be less indicative of talent and virtue
than to be held up to the derision and contempt of his
fellow-students, as a scribbler of doggerel and a bear-leader; to be
hated for malignity of temper and repulsiveness of manners, and
shunned by every man who did not want to be considered a profligate
without wit, and trifling without elegance. ... We ... shall neither
expose the infamy of his uncle, the indiscretions of his mother, nor
his personal follies and embarrassments. But let him not again obtrude
himself on our attention as a moralist, etc."

The Attorney-General, Sir Vicary Gibbs, gave his opinion against legal proceedings, on the two grounds that a considerable time had elapsed since the publication, and Byron himself had provoked the attack.]

160.--To John Hanson.

Newstead Abbey, August 4th, 1811.

MY DEAR SIR,--The _Earl_ of Huntley and the Lady _Jean_ Stewart,
daughter of James 1st, of Scotland were the progenitors of Mrs. Byron.
I think it would be as well to be correct in the statement. Every
thing is doing that can be done, plainly yet decently, for the
interment.

When you favour me with your company, be kind enough to bring down my
carriage from Messrs. Baxter's & Co., Long Acre. I have written to
them, and beg you will come down in it, as I cannot travel
conveniently or properly without it. I trust that the decease of Mrs.
B. will not interrupt the prosecution of the Editor of the Magazine,
less for the mere punishment of the rascal, than to set the question
at rest, which, with the ignorant & weak-minded, might leave a wrong
impression. I will have no stain on the Memory of my Mother; with a
very large portion of foibles and irritability, she was without a
_vice_ (and in these days that is much). The laws of my country shall
do her and me justice in the first instance; but, if they were
deficient, the laws of modern Honour should decide. Cost what it may,
Gold or blood, I will pursue to the last the cowardly calumniator of
an absent man and a defenceless woman.

The effects of the deceased are sealed and untouched. I have sent for
her agent, Mr. Bolton, to ascertain the proper steps and nothing shall
be done precipitately. I understand her jewels and clothes are of
considerable value. I shall write to you again soon, and in the
meantime, with my most particular remembrance to Mrs. Hanson, my
regards to Charles, and my _respects_ to the young ladies, I am, Dear
Sir,

Your very sincere and obliged servant,

BYRON.

161.--To Scrope Berdmore Davies.

Newstead Abbey, August 7, 1811.

MY DEAREST DAVIES,--Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies
a corpse in this house; one of my best friends is drowned in a ditch.
[1] What can I say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him the
day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do
come down to me--I want a friend. Matthews's last letter was written
on _Friday._--on Saturday he was not. In ability, who was like
Matthews? How did we all shrink before him? You do me but justice in
saying, I would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved his.
This very evening did I mean to write, inviting him, as I invite you,
my very dear friend, to visit me. God forgive----for his apathy! What
will our poor Hobhouse feel? His letters breathe but of Matthews. Come
to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate--left almost alone in the world
[2]--I had but you, and H., and M., and let me enjoy the survivors
whilst I can. Poor M., in his letter of Friday, speaks of his intended
contest for Cambridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or come,
but come if you can, or one or both.

Yours ever.

[Footnote 1: Charles Skinner Matthews (see page 150 [Letter 84], [Foot]note 3 [2]).]

[Footnote 2: In 1811 Byron had lost, besides his mother and Matthews (August), his Harrow friend Wingfield (see page 180, note 1), Hargreaves Hanson (see page 54 [Letter 18], [Foot]note 1), and Edleston (see page 130 [Letter 74], [Foot]note 3 [2]).]

162.--To R. C. Dallas.

Newstead Abbey, Notts., August 12, 1811.

Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake them. With a sigh to the
departed, let us resume the dull business of life, in the certainty
that we also shall have our repose. Besides her who gave me being, I
have lost more than one who made that being tolerable.--The best
friend of my friend Hobhouse, Matthews, a man of the first talents,
and also not the worst of my narrow circle, has perished miserably in
the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal to genius:--my poor
school-fellow, Wingfield, at Coimbra--within a month; and whilst I had
heard from _all three,_ but not seen _one._ Matthews wrote to me the
very day before his death; and though I feel for his fate, I am still
more anxious for Hobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain
his senses: his letters to me since the event have been most
incoherent. [1] But let this pass; we shall all one day pass along
with the rest--the world is too full of such things, and our very
sorrow is selfish.

I received a letter from you, which my late occupations prevented me
from duly noticing. [2]--I hope your friends and family will long hold
together. I shall be glad to hear from you, on business, on
commonplace, or any thing, or nothing--but death--I am already too
familiar with the dead. It is strange that I look on the skulls which
stand beside me (I have always had _four_ in my study) without
emotion, but I cannot strip the features of those I have known of
their fleshy covering, even in idea, without a hideous sensation; but
the worms are less ceremonious.--Surely, the Romans did well when they
burned the dead.--I shall be happy to hear from you, and am,

Yours, etc.

[Footnote 1:

"Just," writes Hobhouse to Byron, in an undated letter from Dover, "as
I was preparing to condole with you on your severe misfortune, an
event has taken place, the details of which you will find in the
enclosed letter from S. Davies. I am totally unable to say one word on
the subject. He was my oldest friend, and, though quite unworthy of
his attachment, I believe that I was an object of his regard.

"I now fear that I have not been sufficiently at all times just and
kind to him. Return me this fatal letter, and pray add, if it is but
one line, a few words of your own."

A second letter, dated August 8, 1811, is as follows:--

"MY DEAR BYRON,--To-morrow morning we sail for Cork. It is with
difficulty I bring myself to talk of my paltry concerns, but I cannot
refuse giving you such information as may enable me to hear from one
of the friends that I have still left. Pray do give me a line; nothing
is more selfish than sorrow. His great and unrivalled talents were
observable by all, his kindness was known to his friends. You
recollect how affectionately he shook my hand at parting. It was the
last time you ever saw him--did you think it would be the last? But
three days before his death he told me in a letter that he had heard
from you. On Friday he wrote to me again, and on Saturday--alas, alas!
we are not stocks or stones,--every word of our friend Davies' letter
still pierces me to the soul--such a man and such a death! I would
that he had not been so minute in his horrid details. Oh, my dear
Byron, do write to me; I am very, very sick at heart indeed, and,
after various efforts to write upon my own concerns, I still revert to
the same melancholy subject. I wrote to Cawthorn to-day, but knew not
what I said to him; half my incitement to finish that task is for ever
gone. I can neither have his assistance during my labour, his comfort
if I should fail, nor his congratulation if I should succeed. Forgive
me, I do not forget you--but I cannot but remember him.

Ever your obliged and faithful, JOHN C. HOBHOUSE."