"JOURNAL, 1814.
"February 18.
"Better than a month since I last journalised:--most of it out of London
and at Notts., but a busy one and a pleasant, at least three weeks of
it. On my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics[1], and town
in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess
Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 1812. They are
daily at it still;--some of the abuse good, all of it hearty. They talk
of a motion in our House upon it--be it so.
"Got up--redde the Morning Post, containing the battle of Buonaparte,
the destruction of the Custom-house, and a paragraph on me as long as my
pedigree, and vituperative, as usual.
"Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best friend, the most lively,
and a man of the most sterling talents extant.
"'The Corsair' has been conceived, written, published, &c. since I last
took up this journal. They tell me it has great success;--it was written
_con amore_, and much from _existence_. Murray is satisfied with its
progress; and if the public are equally so with the perusal, there's an
end of the matter.
[Footnote 1: Immediately on the appearance of The Corsair, (with those
obnoxious verses, "Weep, daughter of a royal line," appended to it,) a
series of attacks, not confined to Lord Byron himself, but aimed also at
all those who had lately become his friends, was commenced in the
Courier and Morning Post, and carried on through the greater part of the
months of February and March. The point selected by these writers, as a
ground of censure on the poet, was one which _now_, perhaps, even
themselves would agree to class among his claims to praise,--namely, the
atonement which he had endeavoured to make for the youthful violence of
his Satire by a measure of justice, amiable even in its overflowings, to
every one whom he conceived he had wronged.
Notwithstanding the careless tone in which, here and elsewhere, he
speaks of these assaults, it is evident that they annoyed him;--an
effect which, in reading them over now, we should be apt to wonder they
could produce, did we not recollect the property which Dryden attributes
to "small wits," in common with certain other small animals:--
"We scarce could know they live, but that they _bite_."
The following is a specimen of the terms in which these party scribes
could then speak of one of the masters of English song:--"They might
have slept in oblivion with Lord Carlisle's Dramas and Lord Byron's
Poems."--"Some certainly extol Lord Byron's Poem much, but most of the
best judges place his Lordship rather low in the list of our minor
poets."]
"Nine o'clock.
"Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers, and had a note from Lady
Melbourne, who says, it is said I am 'much out of spirits.' I wonder if
I really am or not? I have certainly enough of 'that perilous stuff
which weighs upon the heart,' and it is better they should believe it to
be the result of these attacks than of the real cause; but--ay, ay,
always _but_, to the end of the chapter.
"Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of Napoleon, all good and
true. My friend H. is the most entertaining of companions, and a fine
fellow to boot.
"Redde a little--wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke
says, is bad company. 'Be not solitary, be not idle.'--Um!--the idleness
is troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. The
more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women
too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; my
passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to
wither them,--and yet--and yet--always _yet_ and _but_--'Excellent well,
you are a fishmonger--get thee to a nunnery.'--'They fool me to the top
of my bent.'
"Midnight.
"Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde--but to little
purpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as I promised and ought. No matter, the
loss is mine. Smoked cigars.
"Napoleon!--this week will decide his fate. All seems against him; but I
believe and hope he will win--at least, beat back the invaders. What
right have we to prescribe sovereigns to France? Oh for a Republic!
'Brutus, thou sleepest.' Hobhouse abounds in continental anecdotes of
this extraordinary man; all in favour of his intellect and courage, but
against his _bonhommie_. No wonder;--how should he, who knows mankind
well, do other than despise and abhor them?
"The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is distributed, and
becomes lighter by the division among so many--therefore, a Republic!
"More notes from Mad. de * * unanswered--and so they shall remain. I
admire her abilities, but really her society is overwhelming--an
avalanche that buries one in glittering nonsense--all snow and
sophistry.
"Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday? um!--I did not go to Marquis
Lansdowne's, nor to Miss Berry's, though both are pleasant. So is Sir
James's,--but I don't know--I believe one is not the better for parties;
at least, unless some _regnante_ is there.
"I wonder how the deuce any body could make such a world; for what
purpose dandies, for instance, were ordained--and kings--and fellows of
colleges--and women of 'a certain age'--and many men of any age--and
myself, most of all!
"'Divesne prisco et natus ab Inacho,
Nil interest, an pauper, et infimâ
De gente, sub dio moreris,
Victima nil miserantis Orci.
* * * * *
Omnes eodem cogimur.'
"Is there any thing beyond?--_who_ knows? _He_ that can't tell. Who
tells that there _is_? He who don't know. And when shall he know?
perhaps, when he don't expect, and generally when he don't wish it. In
this last respect, however, all are not alike: it depends a good deal
upon education,--something upon nerves and habits--but most upon
digestion.
"Saturday, Feb. 19.
"Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By Jove, he is a soul!
Life--nature--truth without exaggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet
is perfect;--but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a man; and Kean is
Richard. Now to my own concerns.
"Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white; but he says that I grind
them in my sleep and chip the edges. That same sleep is no friend of
mine, though I court him sometimes for half the twenty-four.
"February 20.
"Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal--I don't know why.
Hodgson just called and gone. He has much _bonhommie_ with his other
good qualities, and more talent than he has yet had credit for beyond
his circle.
"An invitation to dine at Holland House to meet Kean. He is worth
meeting; and I hope, by getting into good society, he will be prevented
from falling like Cooke. He is greater now on the stage, and off he
should never be less. There is a stupid and under-rating criticism upon
him in one of the newspapers. I thought that, last night, though great,
he rather under-acted more than the first time. This may be the effect
of these cavils; but I hope he has more sense than to mind them. He
cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still
higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, and the nibbling of
their admirers. But, if he don't beat them all, why then--merit hath no
purchase in 'these coster-monger days.'
"I wish that I had a talent for the drama; I would write a tragedy
_now_. But no,--it is gone. Hodgson talks of one,--he will do it
well;--and I think M--e should try. He has wonderful powers, and much
variety; besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring home to
the heart, the heart must have been tried,--but, perhaps, ceased to be
so. While you are under the influence of passions, you only feel, but
cannot describe them,--any more than, when in action, you could turn
round and tell the story to your next neighbour! When all is over,--all,
all, and irrevocable,--trust to memory--she is then but too faithful.
"Went out, and answered some letters, yawned now and then, and redde the
Robbers. Fine,--but Fiesco is better; and Alfieri and Monti's Aristodemo
_best_. They are more equal than the Tedeschi dramatists.
"Answered--or, rather acknowledged--the receipt of young Reynolds's
Poem, Safie. The lad is clever, but much of his thoughts are
borrowed,--_whence_, the Reviewers may find out. I hate discouraging a
young one; and I think,--though wild and more oriental than he would be,
had he seen the scenes where he has placed his tale,--that he has much
talent, and, certainly, fire enough.
"Received a very singular epistle; and the mode of its conveyance,
through Lord H.'s hands, as curious as the letter itself. But it was
gratifying and pretty.
"Sunday, February 27.
"Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, where I was
asked,--but not inclined to go anywhere. Hobhouse says I am growing a
_loup garou_,--a solitary hobgoblin. True;--'I am myself alone.' The
last week has been passed in reading--seeing plays--now and then
visiters--sometimes yawning and sometimes sighing, but no writing,--save
of letters. If I could always read, I should never feel the want of
society. Do I regret it?--um!--'Man delights not me,' and only one
woman--at a time.
"There is something to me very softening in the presence of a
woman,--some strange influence, even if one is not in love with
them,--which I cannot at all account for, having no very high opinion of
the sex. But yet,--I always feel in better humour with myself and every
thing else, if there is a woman within ken. Even Mrs. Mule[2], my
fire-lighter,--the most ancient and withered of her kind,--and (except
to myself) not the best-tempered--always makes me laugh,--no difficult
task when I am 'i' the vein.'
"Heigho! I would I were in mine island!--I am not well; and yet I look
in good health. At times, I fear, 'I am not in my perfect mind;'--and
yet my heart and head have stood many a crash, and what should ail them
now? They prey upon themselves, and I am sick--sick--'Prithee, undo this
button--why should a cat, a rat, a dog have life--and _thou_ no life at
all?' Six-and-twenty years, as they call them, why, I might and should
have been a Pasha by this time. 'I 'gin to be a weary of the sun.'
"Buonaparte is not yet beaten; but has rebutted Blucher, and repiqued
Swartzenburg. This it is to have a head. If he again wins, 'Væ victis!'
[Footnote 2: This ancient housemaid, of whose gaunt and witch-like
appearance it would be impossible to convey any idea but by the pencil,
furnished one among the numerous instances of Lord Byron's proneness to
attach himself to any thing, however homely, that had once enlisted his
good nature in its behalf, and become associated with his thoughts. He
first found this old woman at his lodgings in Bennet Street, where, for
a whole season, she was the perpetual scarecrow of his visiters. When,
next year, he took chambers in Albany, one of the great advantages which
his friends looked to in the change was, that they should get rid of
this phantom. But, no,--there she was again--he had actually brought her
with him from Bennet Street. The following year saw him married, and,
with a regular establishment of servants, in Piccadilly; and here,--as
Mrs. Mule had not made her appearance to any of the visiters,--it was
concluded, rashly, that the witch had vanished. One of those friends,
however, who had most fondly indulged in this persuasion, happening to
call one day when all the male part of the establishment were abroad,
saw, to his dismay, the door opened by the same grim personage, improved
considerably in point of habiliments since he last saw her, and keeping
pace with the increased scale of her master's household, as a new
peruke, and other symptoms of promotion, testified. When asked "how he
came to carry this old woman about with him from place to place," Lord
Byron's only answer was, "The poor old devil was so kind to me."]
"Sunday, March 6.
"On Tuesday last dined with Rogers,--Madame de Staël, Mackintosh,
Sheridan, Erskine, and Payne Knight, Lady Donegall and Miss R. there.
Sheridan told a very good story of himself and Madame de Recamier's
handkerchief; Erskine a few stories of himself only. _She_ is going to
write a big book about England, she says;--I believe her. Asked by her
how I liked Miss * *'s thing, called * *, and answered (very sincerely)
that I thought it very bad for _her_, and worse than any of the others.
Afterwards thought it possible Lady Donegall, being Irish, might be a
patroness of * *, and was rather sorry for my opinion, as I hate putting
people into fusses, either with themselves or their favourites; it looks
as if one did it on purpose. The party went off very well, and the fish
was very much to my gusto. But we got up too soon after the women; and
Mrs. Corinne always lingers so long after dinner that we wish her
in--the drawing-room.
"To-day C. called, and while sitting here, in came Merivale. During our
colloquy, C.(ignorant that M. was the writer) abused the 'mawkishness of
the Quarterly Review of Grimm's Correspondence.' I (knowing the secret)
changed the conversation as soon as I could; and C. went away, quite
convinced of having made the most favourable impression on his new
acquaintance. Merivale is luckily a very good-natured fellow, or, God
he knows what might have been engendered from such a malaprop. I did not
look at him while this was going on, but I felt like a coal--for I like
Merivale, as well as the article in question.
"Asked to Lady Keith's to-morrow evening--I think I will go; but it is
the first party invitation I have accepted this 'season,' as the learned
Fletcher called it, when that youngest brat of Lady * *'s cut my eye and
cheek open with a misdirected pebble--'Never mind, my Lord, the scar
will be gone before the _season_;' as if one's eye was of no importance
in the mean time.
"Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous pamphlet, with a marginal
note and corrections in his handwriting. Sent it to be bound superbly,
and shall treasure it.
"Sent my fine print of Napoleon to be framed. It _is_ framed; and the
Emperor becomes his robes as if he had been hatched in them.
"March 7.
"Rose at seven--ready by half-past eight--went to Mr. Hanson's, Berkeley
Square--went to church with his eldest daughter, Mary Anne (a good
girl), and gave her away to the Earl of Portsmouth. Saw her fairly a
countess--congratulated the family and groom (bride)--drank a bumper of
wine (wholesome sherris) to their felicity, and all that--and came home.
Asked to stay to dinner, but could not. At three sat to Phillips for
faces. Called on Lady M.--I like her so well, that I always stay too
long. (Mem. to mend of that.)
"Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has begun a poem, which promises
highly;--wish he would go on with it. Heard some curious extracts from a
life of Morosini, the blundering Venetian, who blew up the Acropolis at
Athens with a bomb, and be d----d to him! Waxed sleepy--just come
home--must go to bed, and am engaged to meet Sheridan to-morrow at
Rogers's.
"Queer ceremony that same of marriage--saw many abroad, Greek and
Catholic--one, at _home_, many years ago. There be some strange phrases
in the prologue (the exhortation), which made me turn away, not to laugh
in the face of the surpliceman. Made one blunder, when I joined the
hands of the happy--rammed their left hands, by mistake, into one
another. Corrected it--bustled back to the altar-rail, and said 'Amen.'
Portsmouth responded as if he had got the whole by heart; and, if any
thing, was rather before the priest. It is now midnight, and * * *.
"March 10. Thor's Day.
"On Tuesday dined with Rogers,--Mackintosh, Sheridan, Sharpe,--much
talk, and good,--all, except my own little prattlement. Much of old
times--Horne Tooke--the Trials--evidence of Sheridan, and anecdotes of
those times, when _I_, alas! was an infant. If I had been a man, I would
have made an English Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
"Set down Sheridan at Brookes's,--where, by the by, he could not have
well set down himself, as he and I were the only drinkers. Sherry means
to stand for Westminster, as Cochrane (the stock-jobbing hoaxer) must
vacate. Brougham is a candidate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. Both have
talents of the highest order, but the youngster has _yet_ a character.
We shall see, if he lives to Sherry's age, how he will pass over the
redhot ploughshares of public life. I don't know why, but I hate to see
the _old_ ones lose; particularly Sheridan, notwithstanding all his
_méchanceté_.
"Received many, and the kindest, thanks from Lady Portsmouth, _père_ and
_mère_, for my match-making. I don't regret it, as she looks the
countess well, and is a very good girl. It is odd how well she carries
her new honours. She looks a different woman, and high-bred, too. I had
no idea that I could make so good a peeress.
"Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordan superlative in Hoyden, and
Jones well enough in Foppington. _What plays!_ what wit!--helas!
Congreve and Vanbrugh are your only comedy. Our society is too insipid
now for the like copy. Would _not_ go to Lady Keith's. Hobhouse thought
it odd. I wonder _he_ should like parties. If one is in love, and wants
to break a commandment and covet any thing that is there, they do very
well. But to go out amongst the mere herd, without a motive, pleasure,
or pursuit--'sdeath! 'I'll none of it.' He told me an odd report,--that
_I_ am the actual Conrad, the veritable Corsair, and that part of my
travels are supposed to have passed in privacy. Um!--people sometimes
hit near the truth; but never the whole truth. H. don't know what I was
about the year after he left the Levant; nor does any
one--nor--nor--nor--however, it is a lie--but, 'I doubt the equivocation
of the fiend that lies like truth!'
"I shall have letters of importance to-morrow. Which, * *, * *, or * *?
heigho!--* * is in my heart, * * in my head, * * in my eye, and the
_single_ one, Heaven knows where. All write, and will be answered.
'Since I have crept in favour with myself, I must maintain it;' but _I_
never 'mistook my person,' though I think others have.
"* * called to-day in great despair about his mistress, who has taken a
freak of * * *. He began a letter to her, but was obliged to stop
short--I finished it for him, and he copied and sent it. If he holds
out, and keeps to my instructions of affected indifference, she will
lower her colours. If she don't, he will, at least, get rid of her, and
she don't seem much worth keeping. But the poor lad is in love--if that
is the case, she will win. When they once discover their power, _finita
e la musica_.
"Sleepy, and must go to bed.
"Tuesday, March 15.
"Dined yesterday with R., Mackintosh, and Sharpe. Sheridan could not
come. Sharpe told several very amusing anecdotes of Henderson, the
actor. Stayed till late, and came home, having drank so much _tea_, that
I did not get to sleep till six this morning. R. says I am to be in
_this_ Quarterly--cut up, I presume, as they 'hate us youth.'
_N'importe_. As Sharpe was passing by the doors of some debating
society (the Westminster Forum), in his way to dinner, he saw rubricked
on the walls _Scott_'s name and _mine_--'Which the best poet?' being the
question of the evening; and I suppose all the Templars and _would bes_
took our rhymes in vain, in the course of the controversy. Which had the
greater show of hands, I neither know nor care; but I feel the coupling
of the names as a compliment,--though I think Scott deserves better
company.
"W.W. called--Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, &c. &c. Wrote to * * the
Corsair report. She says she don't wonder, since 'Conrad is so _like_.'
It is odd that one, who knows me so thoroughly, should tell me this to
my face. However, if she don't know, nobody can.
"Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the defensive letter in the
Morning Chronicle. If so, it is very kind, and more than I did for
myself.
"Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian Novels at the sale
to-morrow. To me they will be _nuts_. Redde a satire on myself, called
'Anti-Byron,' and told Murray to publish it if he liked. The object of
the author is to prove me an atheist and a systematic conspirator
against law and government. Some of the verse is good; the prose I don't
quite understand. He asserts that my 'deleterious works' have had 'an
effect upon civil society, which requires,' &c. &c. &c. and his own
poetry. It is a lengthy poem, and a long preface, with a harmonious
title-page. Like the fly in the fable, I seem to have got upon a wheel
which makes much dust; but, unlike the said fly, I do not take it all
for my own raising.
"A letter from _Bella_, which I answered. I shall be in love with her
again, if I don't take care.
"I shall begin a more regular system of reading soon.
"Thursday, March 17.
"I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise this morning; and mean
to continue and renew my acquaintance with the muffles. My chest, and
arms, and wind are in very good plight, and I am not in flesh. I used to
be a hard hitter, and my arms are very long for my height (5 feet 8-1/2
inches). At any rate, exercise is good, and this the severest of all;
fencing and the broad-sword never fatigued me half so much.
"Redde the 'Quarrels of Authors' (another sort of _sparring_)--a new
work, by that most entertaining and researching writer, Israeli. They
seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. 'I'll not
march through Coventry with them, that's flat.' What the devil had I to
do with scribbling? It is too late to enquire, and all regret is
useless. But, an' it were to do again,--I should write again, I suppose.
Such is human nature, at least my share of it;--though I shall think
better of myself, if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and
that wife has a son--by any body--I will bring up mine heir in the most
anti-poetical way--make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or--any thing. But,
if he writes too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him off
with a Bank token. Must write a letter--three o'clock.
"Sunday, March 20.
"I intended to go to Lady Hardwicke's, but won't. I always begin the day
with a bias towards going to parties; but, as the evening advances, my
stimulus fails, and I hardly ever go out--and, when I do, always regret
it. This might have been a pleasant one;--at least, the hostess is a
very superior woman. Lady Lansdowne's to morrow--Lady Heathcote's
Wednesday. Um!--I must spur myself into going to some of them, or it
will look like rudeness, and it is better to do as other people
do--confound them!
"Redde Machiavel, parts of Chardin, and Sismondi, and Bandello--by
starts. Redde the Edinburgh, 44, just come out. In the beginning of the
article on 'Edgeworth's Patronage,' I have gotten a high compliment, I
perceive. Whether this is creditable to me, I know not; but it does
honour to the editor, because he once abused me. Many a man will retract
praise; none but a high-spirited mind will revoke its censure, or _can_
praise the man it has once attacked. I have often, since my return to
England, heard Jeffrey most highly commended by those who know him for
things independent of his talents. I admire him for _this_--not because
he has _praised me_, (I have been so praised elsewhere and abused,
alternately, that mere habit has rendered me as indifferent to both as a
man at twenty-six can be to any thing,) but because he is, perhaps, the
_only man_ who, under the relations in which he and I stand, or stood,
with regard to each other, would have had the liberality to act thus;
none but a great soul dared hazard it. The height on which he stands
has not made him giddy:--a little scribbler would have gone on cavilling
to the end of the chapter. As to the justice of his panegyric, that is
matter of taste. There are plenty to question it, and glad, too, of the
opportunity.
"Lord Erskine called to-day. He means to carry down his reflections on
the war--or rather wars--to the present day. I trust that he will. Must
send to Mr. Murray to get the binding of my copy of his pamphlet
finished, as Lord E. has promised me to correct it, and add some
marginal notes to it. Any thing in his handwriting will be a treasure,
which will gather compound interest from years. Erskine has high
expectations of Mackintosh's promised History. Undoubtedly it must be a
classic, when finished.
"Sparred with Jackson again yesterday morning, and shall to-morrow. I
feel all the better for it, in spirits, though my arms and shoulders are
very stiff from it. Mem. to attend the pugilistic dinner:--Marquess
Huntley is in the chair.
"Lord Erskine thinks that ministers must be in peril of going out. So
much the better for him. To me it is the same who are in or out;--we
want something more than a change of ministers, and some day we will
have it.
"I remember[3], in riding from Chrisso to Castri (Delphos), along the
sides of Parnassus, I saw six eagles in the air. It is uncommon to see
so many together; and it was the number--not the species, which is
common enough--that excited my attention.
"The last bird I ever fired at was an _eaglet_, on the shore of the Gulf
of Lepanto, near Vostitza. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it,
the eye was so bright; but it pined, and died in a few days; and I never
did since, and never will, attempt the death of another bird. I wonder
what put these two things into my head just now? I have been reading
Sismondi, and there is nothing there that could induce the recollection.
"I am mightily taken with Braccio di Montone, Giovanni Galeazzo, and
Eccelino. But the last is _not_ Bracciaferro (of the same name), Count
of Ravenna, whose history I want to trace. There is a fine engraving in
Lavater, from a picture by Fuseli, of _that_ Ezzelin, over the body of
Meduna, punished by him for a _hitch_ in her constancy during his
absence in the Crusades. He was right--but I want to know the story.
[Footnote 3: Part of this passage has been already extracted, but I have
allowed it to remain here in its original position, on account of the
singularly sudden manner in which it is introduced.]
"Tuesday, March 22.
"Last night, _party_ at Lansdowne House. To-night, _party_ at Lady
Charlotte Greville's--deplorable waste of time, and something of temper.
Nothing imparted--nothing acquired--talking without ideas:--if any thing
like _thought_ in my mind, it was not on the subjects on which we were
gabbling. Heigho!--and in this way half London pass what is called life.
To-morrow there is Lady Heathcote's--shall I go? yes--to punish myself
for not having a pursuit.
"Let me see--what did I see? The only person who much struck me was Lady
S* *d's eldest daughter, Lady C.L. They say she is _not_ pretty. I don't
know--every thing is pretty that pleases; but there is an air of _soul_
about her--and her colour changes--and there is that shyness of the
antelope (which I delight in) in her manner so much, that I observed her
more than I did any other woman in the rooms, and only looked at any
thing else when I thought she might perceive and feel embarrassed by my
scrutiny. After all, there may be something of association in this. She
is a friend of Augusta's, and whatever she loves I can't help liking.
"Her mother, the Marchioness, talked to me a little; and I was twenty
times on the point of asking her to introduce me to _sa fille_, but I
stopped short. This comes of that affray with the Carlisles.
"Earl Grey told me laughingly of a paragraph in the last _Moniteur_,
which has stated, among other symptoms of rebellion, some particulars of
the _sensation_ occasioned in all our government gazettes by the 'tear'
lines,--_only_ amplifying, in its re-statement, an epigram (by the by,
no epigram except in the _Greek_ acceptation of the word) into a
_roman_. I wonder the Couriers, &c. &c., have not translated that part
of the Moniteur, with additional comments.
"The Princess of Wales has requested Fuseli to paint from 'The
Corsair,'--leaving to him the choice of any passage for the subject: so
Mr. Locke tells me. Tired, jaded, selfish, and supine--must go to bed.
"_Roman_, at least _Romance_, means a song sometimes, as in the Spanish.
I suppose this is the Moniteur's meaning, unless he has confused it with
'The Corsair.'
"Albany, March 28.
"This night got into my new apartments, rented of Lord Althorpe, on a
lease of seven years. Spacious, and room for my books and sabres. _In_
the _house_, too, another advantage. The last few days, or whole week,
have been very abstemious, regular in exercise, and yet very _un_well.
"Yesterday, dined _tête-à-tête_ at the Cocoa with Scrope Davies--sat
from six till midnight--drank between us one bottle of champagne and six
of claret, neither of which wines ever affect me. Offered to take Scrope
home in my carriage; but he was tipsy and pious, and I was obliged to
leave him on his knees praying to I know not what purpose or pagod. No
headach, nor sickness, that night nor to-day. Got up, if any thing,
earlier than usual--sparred with Jackson _ad sudorem_, and have been
much better in health than for many days. I have heard nothing more from
Scrope. Yesterday paid him four thousand eight hundred pounds, a debt of
some standing, and which I wished to have paid before. My mind is much
relieved by the removal of that _debit_.
"Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. I have refused _every_
body else, but I can't deny her any thing;--so I must e'en do it, though
I had as lief 'drink up Eisel--eat a crocodile.' Let me see--Ward, the
Hollands, the Lambs, Rogers, &c. &c.--every body, more or less, have
been trying for the last two years to accommodate this _couplet_ quarrel
to no purpose. I shall laugh if Augusta succeeds.
"Redde a little of many things--shall get in all my books to-morrow.
Luckily this room will hold them--with 'ample room and verge, &c. the
characters of hell to trace.' I must set about some employment soon; my
heart begins to eat _itself_ again.
"April 8.
"Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor little pagod,
Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal;--the thieves are in Paris. It is his
own fault. Like Milo, he would rend the oak[4]; but it closed again,
wedged his hands, and now the beasts--lion, bear, down to the dirtiest
jackall--may all tear him. That Muscovite winter _wedged_ his
arms;--ever since, he has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may
still leave their marks; and 'I guess now' (as the Yankees say) that he
will yet play them a pass. He is in their rear--between them and their
homes. Query--will they ever reach them?
[Footnote 4: He adopted this thought afterwards in his Ode to Napoleon,
as well as most of the historical examples in the following paragraph.]
"Saturday, April 9. 1814.
"I mark this day!
"Napoleon Buonaparte has abdicated the throne of the world. 'Excellent
well.' Methinks Sylla did better; for he revenged and resigned in the
height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his foes--the finest
instance of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Dioclesian did
well too--Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a
dervise--Charles the Fifth but so so--but Napoleon, worst of all. What!
wait till they were in his capital, and then talk of his readiness to
give up what is already gone!! 'What whining monk art thou--what holy
cheat?' 'Sdeath!--Dionysius at Corinth was yet a king to this. The 'Isle
of Elba' to retire to!--Well--if it had been Caprea, I should have
marvelled less. 'I see men's minds are but a parcel of their fortunes.'
I am utterly bewildered and confounded.
"I don't know--but I think _I_, even _I_ (an insect compared with this
creature), have set my life on casts not a millionth part of this man's.
But, after all, a crown may be not worth dying for. Yet, to outlive
_Lodi_ for this!!! Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead!
'Expende--quot libras in duce summo invenies?' I knew they were light in
the balance of mortality; but I thought their living dust weighed more
_carats_. Alas! this imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now
hardly fit to stick in a glazier's pencil:--the pen of the historian
won't rate it worth a ducat.
"Psha! 'something too much of this.' But I won't give him up even now;
though all his admirers have, 'like the thanes, fallen from him.'
"April 10.
"I do not know that I am happiest when alone; but this I am sure of,
that I never am long in the society even of _her_ I love, (God knows too
well, and the devil probably too,) without a yearning for the company of
my lamp and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library.[5] Even in the
day, I send away my carriage oftener than I use or abuse it. _Per
esempio_,--I have not stirred out of these rooms for these four days
past: but I have sparred for exercise (windows open) with Jackson an
hour daily, to attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. The more
violent the fatigue, the better my spirits for the rest of the day; and
then, my evenings have that calm nothingness of languor, which I most
delight in. To-day I have boxed one hour--written an ode to Napoleon
Buonaparte--copied it--eaten six biscuits--drunk four bottles of soda
water--redde away the rest of my time--besides giving poor * * a world
of advice about this mistress of his, who is plaguing him into a
phthisic and intolerable tediousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to
lecture about 'the sect.' No matter, my counsels are all thrown away.
[Footnote 5: "As much company," says Pope, "as I have kept, and as much
as I love it, I love reading better, and would rather be employed in
reading than in the most agreeable conversation."]
"April 19. 1814.
"There is ice at both poles, north and south--all extremes are the
same--misery belongs to the highest and the lowest only,--to the emperor
and the beggar, when unsixpenced and unthroned. There is, to be sure, a
damned insipid medium--an equinoctial line--no one knows where, except
upon maps and measurement.
"'And all our _yesterdays_ have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.'
I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch-light; and,
to prevent me from returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear
out the remaining leaves of this volume, and write, in
_Ipecacuanha_,--'that the Bourbons are restored!!!'--'Hang up
philosophy.' To be sure, I have long despised myself and man, but I
never spat in the face of my species before--'O fool! I shall go mad.'"
* * * * *
The perusal of this singular Journal having made the reader acquainted
with the chief occurrences that marked the present period of his
history--the publication of The Corsair, the attacks upon him in the
newspapers, &c.--there only remains for me to add his correspondence at
the same period, by which the moods and movements of his mind, during
these events, will be still further illustrated.
* * * * *