"Genoa, April 2. 1823.
"I have just seen some friends of yours, who paid me a visit
yesterday, which, in honour of them and of you, I returned
to-day;--as I reserve my bear-skin and teeth, and paws and claws, for
our enemies.
"I have also seen Henry F----, Lord H----'s son, whom I had not
looked upon since I left him a pretty, mild boy, without a neckcloth,
in a jacket, and in delicate health, seven long years agone, at the
period of mine eclipse--the third, I believe, as I have generally one
every two or three years. I think that he has the softest and most
amiable expression of countenance I ever saw, and manners
correspondent. If to those he can add hereditary talents, he will
keep the name of F---- in all its freshness for half a century more,
I hope. I speak from a transient glimpse--but I love still to yield
to such impressions; for I have ever found that those I liked longest
and best, I took to at first sight; and I always liked that
boy--perhaps, in part, from some resemblance in the less fortunate
part of our destinies--I mean, to avoid mistakes, his lameness. But
there is this difference, that _he_ appears a halting angel, who has
tripped against a star; whilst I am _Le Diable Boiteux_,--a
soubriquet, which I marvel that, amongst their various _nominis
umbræ_, the Orthodox have not hit upon.
"Your other allies, whom I have found very agreeable personages, are
Milor B---- and _épouse_, travelling with a very handsome companion,
in the shape of a 'French Count' (to use Farquhar's phrase in the
Beaux Stratagem), who has all the air of a _Cupidon déchainé_, and is
one of the few specimens I have seen of our ideal of a Frenchman
_before_ the Revolution--an old friend with a new face, upon whose
like I never thought that we should look again. Miladi seems highly
literary,--to which, and your honour's acquaintance with the family,
I attribute the pleasure of having seen them. She is also very
pretty, even in a morning,--a species of beauty on which the sun of
Italy does not shine so frequently as the chandelier. Certainly,
English-women wear better than their continental neighbours of the
same sex. M---- seems very good-natured, but is much tamed, since I
recollect him in all the glory of gems and snuff-boxes, and uniforms,
and theatricals, and speeches in our house--'I mean, of peers,'--(I
must refer you to Pope--who you don't read and won't appreciate--for
that quotation, which you must allow to be poetical,) and sitting to
Stroeling, the painter, (do you remember our visit, with Leckie, to
the German?) to be depicted as one of the heroes of Agincourt, 'with
his long sword, saddle, bridle, Whack fal de, &c. &c.'
"I have been unwell--caught a cold and inflammation, which menaced a
conflagration, after dining with our ambassador, Monsieur Hill,--not
owing to the dinner, but my carriage broke down in the way home, and
I had to walk some miles, up hill partly, after hot rooms, in a very
bleak, windy evening, and over-hotted, or over-colded myself. I have
not been so robustious as formerly, ever since the last summer, when
I fell ill after a long swim in the Mediterranean, and have never
been quite right up to this present writing. I am thin,--perhaps
thinner than you saw me, when I was nearly transparent, in 1812,--and
am obliged to be moderate of my mouth; which, nevertheless, won't
prevent me (the gods willing) from dining with your friends the day
after to-morrow.
"They give me a very good account of you, and of your nearly
'Emprisoned Angels.' But why did you change your title?--you will
regret this some day. The bigots are not to be conciliated; and, if
they were--are they worth it? I suspect that I am a more orthodox
Christian than you are; and, whenever I see a real Christian, either
in practice or in theory, (for I never yet found the man who could
produce either, when put to the proof,) I am his disciple. But, till
then, I cannot truckle to tithe-mongers,--nor can I imagine what has
made _you_ circumcise your Seraphs.
"I have been far more persecuted than you, as you may judge by my
present decadence,--for I take it that I am as low in popularity and
book-selling as any writer can be. At least, so my friends assure
me--blessings on their benevolence! This they attribute to Hunt; but
they are wrong--it must be, partly at least, owing to myself; be it
so. As to Hunt, I prefer _not_ having turned him to starve in the
streets to any personal honour which might have accrued from such
genuine philanthropy. I really act upon principle in this matter, for
we have nothing much in common; and I cannot describe to you the
despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems
incapable or unwilling to do any thing further for himself,--at
least, to the purpose. It is like pulling a man out of a river who
directly throws himself in again. For the last three or four years
Shelley assisted, and had once actually extricated him. I have since
his demise,--and even before,--done what I could: but it is not in my
power to make this permanent. I want Hunt to return to England, for
which I would furnish him with the means in comfort; and his
situation _there_, on the whole, is bettered, by the payment of a
portion of his debts, &c.; and he would be on the spot to continue
his Journal, or Journals, with his brother, who seems a sensible,
plain, sturdy, and enduring person." * *
The new intimacy of which he here announces the commencement, and
which it was gratifying to me, as the common friend of all, to find
that he had formed, was a source of much pleasure to him during the
stay of his noble acquaintances at Genoa. So long, indeed, had he
persuaded himself that his countrymen abroad all regarded him in no
other light than as an outlaw or a show, that every new instance he
met of friendly reception from them was as much a surprise as
pleasure to him; and it was evident that to his mind the revival of
English associations and habitudes always brought with it a sense of
refreshment, like that of inhaling his native air.
With the view of inducing these friends to prolong their stay at
Genoa, he suggested their taking a pretty villa called "Il Paradiso,"
in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it.
Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some
intentions of residing there, he produced the following impromptu,
which--but for the purpose of showing that he was not so "chary of
his fame" as to fear failing in such trifles--I should have thought
hardly worth transcribing.
"Beneath ----'s eyes
The reclaim'd Paradise
Should be free as the former from evil;
But, if the new Eve
For an apple should grieve,
What mortal would not play the devil?"[1]
[Footnote 1: The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare
jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa (which
was also, I believe, a Casa Saluzzo) had been the one fixed on for
his own residence, they said "Il Diavolo é ancora entrato in
Paradise."]
Another copy of verses addressed by him to the same lady, whose
beauty and talent might well have claimed a warmer tribute from such
a pen, is yet too interesting, as descriptive of the premature
feeling of age now stealing upon him, to be omitted in these pages.
"TO THE COUNTESS OF B----.
1.
"You have ask'd for a verse:--the request
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny,
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
2.
"Were I now as I was, I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.
3.
"I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I _now_ merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.
4.
"My life is not dated by years--
There are _moments_ which act as a plough,
And there is not a furrow appears
But is deep in my soul as my brow.
5.
"Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing what I gaze on in vain;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
The string which was worthy the strain.
"B."
The following letters written during the stay of this party at Genoa
will be found,--some of them at least,--not a little curious.