_By a Sexagenarian._
In his transit to Italy in August, 1816, Lord Byron visited Brussels
(where I was residing) accompanied by Dr. Polidori. The moment I heard
of his arrival, I waited on him, and was received with the greatest
cordiality and kindness.
As he proposed visiting Waterloo on the following morning, I offered
my services as his cicerone, which were graciously accepted, and we
set out at an early hour, accompanied by his _compagnon de voyage_.
The weather was propitious, but the poet's spirits seemed depressed,
and we passed through the gloomy forest of Soignies without much
conversation. As the plan of the inspection of the field had been left
to me, I ordered our postilion to drive to Mont St. Jean, without
stopping at Waterloo. We got out at the monuments. Lord Byron gazed
about for five minutes without uttering a syllable; at last, turning
to me, he said--"I am not disappointed. I have seen the plains of
Marathon, and these are as fine. Can you tell me," he continued,
"where Picton fell? because I have heard that my friend Howard was
killed at his side, and nearly at the same moment."
The spot was well known, and I pointed with my finger to some trees
near it, at the distance of one hundred and fifty yards: we walked to
the spot. "Howard," said his lordship, with a sigh, "was my relation
and dear friend; but we quarrelled, and I was in the wrong; we were,
however, reconciled, at which I now rejoice." He spoke these words
with great feeling, and we returned to examine the monument of Sir
Alexander Gordon, a broken column, on which he made some criticisms,
bestowing great praise on the fraternal affection of his brother, who
had erected it. He did not seem much interested about the positions of
the troops, which I pointed out to him; and we got into our carriage,
and drove to the Château Goumont, the poet remaining silent, pensive,
and in a musing mood, which I took care not to interrupt.
The gallant defence of this post seemed to interest him more, and
I recapitulated all the particulars I knew of the attack. From the
bravery displayed by the handful of troops (the Guards) who defended
it, it has acquired its reputation. Though they were reinforced
more than once, the number never exceeded twelve hundred; and
notwithstanding the enemy having, by battering down the gate of the
farmyard, and setting fire to the straw in it, got possession of the
outer works, in the evening attack, they could make no impression on
the strong hold, the garden--
"Whose close pleach'd walks and bowers have been
The deadly marksman's lurking screen."
They reaped no advantage by these assaults; on the contrary, they
sacrificed a great many brave men without any purpose. It was a most
important post; for had they succeeded in getting possession of it,
and driving out our troops, their guns would have enfiladed us, and
we should have been obliged to change our front. The pompous title
of _château_ gives a little additional importance to this position,
though it is only a miserable dwelling of two stories, somewhat
resembling the habitations of our _Bonnet Lairds_ about the beginning
of the last century. The area of the house is about two Scotch acres,
including the garden. The clipped and shady walks have been long since
cut down, which takes away much interest from it; and the stupid
Fleming to whom it belonged, cut down the young trees in front of it,
because they had been wounded by the bullets, which he was informed
"would cause them to bleed to death!" The nobleman who now possesses
it, had, with better taste, repaired the château, and will not permit
any alteration in its appearance.
I asked Byron what he thought of Mr. Scott's "Field of Waterloo," just
published--if it was fair to ask one poet his opinion of a living
contemporary. "Oh," said he, "quite fair; besides, there is not much
subject for criticism in this hasty sketch. The reviewers call it a
_falling off_; but I am sure there is no poet living who could have
written so many good lines on so meagre a subject, in so short a time.
Scott," he added, "is a fine poet, and a most amiable man. We are
great friends. As a prose writer, he has no rival; and has not been
approached since Cervantes, in depicting manners. His tales are my
constant companions. It is highly absurd his denying, what every one
that knows him believes, his being the author of these admirable
works. Yet no man is obliged to give his name to the public, except he
chooses so to do; and Scott is not likely to be compelled by the law,
for he does not write libels, nor a line of which he may be ashamed."
He said a great deal more in praise of his friend, for whom he had the
highest respect and regard. "I wish," added the poet, with feeling,
"it had been my good fortune to have had such a Mentor. No author," he
observed, "had deserved more from the public, or has been so liberally
rewarded. Poor Milton got only 15_l._ for his 'Paradise Lost,' while
a modern poet has as much for a stanza." I know not if he made any
allusion to himself in this remark, but it has been said that Murray
paid him that sum for every verse of "Childe Harold."
Lord Byron, in reading aloud the stanzas of Mr. Scott,
"For high, and deathless is the name,
Oh Hougoinont, thy ruins claim!
The sound of Cressy none shall own,
And Agincourt shall be unknown,
And Blenheim be a nameless spot
Long ere thy glories are forgot," &c.
he exclaimed, striking the page with his hand, "I'll be d----d if they
will, Mr. Scott, be forgot!"