Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the thing was called the
Bride
of Abydos? It is a cursed awkward question, being
unanswerable.
She
is not a
bride
, only about to be one;
but for, etc., etc., etc.
I don't wonder at his finding out the
Bull
; but the detection
—— is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to make it, and am
ashamed of not being an Irishman.
Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at something or other—I
know not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought
out of the other room a vessel of some composition similar to that which
is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, "Here is
some
incense
for you." Campbell answered—"Carry it to Lord
Byron,
he is used to it
."
, this comes of "bearing no brother near the throne."
I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one
now
, whatever I may
have done, am at perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity; or, at
least, if I dislike any, it is not
poetically
, but
personally
. Surely the field of thought is infinite; what does it
signify who is before or behind in a race where there is no
goal
?
The temple of fame is like that of the Persians, the universe; our
altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally content with Mount
Caucasus, or Mount Anything; and those who like it, may have Mount Blanc
or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation.
I think I may
now
speak thus; for I have just published a poem,
and am quite ignorant whether it is
likely
to be
liked
or
not. I have hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can
downright
abuse it to one's face, except in print. It can't be
good, or I should not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in
my very title. But I began it with my heart full of ——, and my head of
oriental
ities
(I can't call them
isms
), and wrote on
rapidly.
This journal is a relief. When I am tired—as I generally am—out comes
this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows
what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I
fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page
should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.
Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner; I have neither head
nor nerves to present it. That confounded supper at Lewis's has spoiled
my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet of
vinegar. Would I were an ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons, —or any
thing that my gizzard could get the better of.
saw Ward. His uncle
is dying, and W. don't much affect our
Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided
l'oncle
is not dined upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the
posthumous epicures before that day. I wish he may recover—not for
our
dinner's sake, but to disappoint the undertaker, and the
rascally reptiles that may well wait, since they
will
dine at
last.
Gell called—he of Troy—after I was out. Mem.— to return his visit.
But my Mems. are the very landmarks of forgetfulness;—something like a
light-house, with a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never
look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to forget. Mem.—I
have forgotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and suppose I shall be surcharged.
"An I do not turn rebel when thou art king "—oons! I believe my very
biscuit is leavened with that impostor's imposts.
Lady Melbourne returns from Jersey's to-morrow;— I must call. A Mr.
Thomson has sent a song, which I must applaud. I hate annoying them with
censure or silence;—and yet I hate
lettering
.
Lord Glenbervie
and this Prospectus, at Murray's, of a new
Treatise on Timber. Now here is a man more useful than all the
historians and rhymers ever planted. For, by preserving our woods and
forests, he furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth
reading, and all the odes worth nothing.
Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is crammed with the most
useless lumber. It is odd that when I do read, I can only bear the
chicken broth of—
any thing
but Novels. It is many a year since
I looked into one, (though they are sometimes ordered, by way of
experiment, but never taken,) till I looked yesterday at the worst parts
of the
Monk
. These descriptions ought to have been written by
Tiberius at Caprea—they are forced—the
philtered
ideas of a
jaded voluptuary. It is to me inconceivable how they could have been
composed by a man of only twenty—his age when he wrote them. They have
no nature—all the sour cream of cantharides. I should have suspected
Buffon of writing them on the death-bed of his detestable dotage. I had
never redde this edition, and merely looked at them from curiosity and
recollection of the noise they made, and the name they had left to
Lewis. But they could do no harm, except ——.
Called this evening on my agent—my business as usual. Our strange
adventures are the only inheritances of our family that have not
diminished.
I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. The cigars don't keep
well here. They get as old as a
donna di quaranti anni
in the sun
of Africa. The Havannah are the best;—but neither are so pleasant as a
hooka or chiboque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, and their horses
entire—two things as they should be. I am so far obliged to this
Journal, that it preserves me from verse,—at least from keeping it. I
have just thrown a poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my
great comfort), and have smoked out of my head the plan of another. I
wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, at least, the confusion
of thought.
Pope's
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot
, line 197.
William Bosville (1745-1813), called colonel, but really
only lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, was a noted
bon vivant
,
whose maxim for life was "Better never than late." He was famous for his
hospitality in Welbeck Street. A friend of Horne Tooke, he dined with
him at Wimbledon every Sunday in the spring and autumn. See
Diversions of Purley
, ed. 1805, ii. 490:
"Your friend Bosville and I have entered into a strict engagement to
belong for ever to the established government, to the Established
Church, and to the established language of our country, because they
are established."
Sylvester Douglas (1743-1823), created in 1800 Baron
Glenbervie, married, in September, 1789, Catherine, eldest daughter of
Lord North, afterwards Earl of Guildford. He was educated at Leyden for
the medical profession, a circumstance to which Sheridan alludes in the
lines:
"Glenbervie, Glenbervie,
What's good for the scurvy?
For ne'er be your old trade forgot."
Gibbon writes of him, October 4, 1788 (
Letters
, vol. ii. p. 180),
"He has been curious, attentive, agreeable; and in every place where
he has resided some days, he has left acquaintance who esteem and
regret him; I never knew so clear and general an impression."
Glenbervie was Surveyor-General of Woods and Forests, 1803-1806, and
again from 1807 to 1810. In that year he became First Commissioner of
Land Revenue and Woods and Forests, and held the appointment till
August, 1814.
List of Journal Entries
Contents
Tuesday, December 7th [1813]
Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not refreshingly. Awoke, and up
an hour before being called; but dawdled three hours in dressing. When
one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation),—sleep, eating,
and swilling—buttoning and unbuttoning—how much remains of downright
existence? The summer of a dormouse.
Redde the papers and
tea
-ed and soda-watered, and found out that
the fire was badly lighted. Lord Glenbervie wants me to go to
Brighton—um!
This morning, a very pretty billet from the Stael about meeting her at
Ld. H.'s to-morrow. She has written, I dare say, twenty such this
morning to different people, all equally flattering to each. So much the
better for her and those who believe all she wishes them, or they wish
to believe. She has been pleased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in
the note annexed to
The Bride
. This is to be accounted for in
several ways,—firstly, all women like all, or any, praise; secondly,
this was unexpected, because I have never courted her; and,
, as
Scrub
says, those who have been all their lives regularly praised,
by regular critics, like a little variety, and are glad when any one
goes out of his way to say a civil thing; and, fourthly, she is a very
good-natured creature, which is the best reason, after all, and,
perhaps, the only one.
A knock—knocks single and double. Bland called. He says Dutch society
(he has been in Holland) is second-hand French; but the women are like
women every where else. This is a bore: I should like to see them a
little
un
like; but that can't be expected.
Went out—came home—this, that, and the other— and "all is vanity,
saith the preacher," and so say I, as part of his congregation.
of vanity, whose praise do I prefer? Why, Mrs. Inchbald's
, and that
of the Americans. The first, because her
Simple Story
and
Nature and Art
are, to me,
true
to their
titles
;
and, consequently, her short note to Rogers about
The Giaour
delighted me more than any thing, except the
Edinburgh Review
. I
like the Americans, because
I
happened to be in
Asia
, while
the
English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers
were redde in
America
. If I
have had a speech against the
Slave Trade
in Africa
, and an epitaph on a dog in
Europe
(i.e. in the
Morning Post
), my
vertex sublimis
would certainly have
displaced stars enough to overthrow the Newtonian system.
The reference is only to the form of the sentence. "Scrub,"
in
The Beaux' Stratagem
(act iv. se. 2), says,
"First, it must
be a plot, because there's a woman in't; secondly, it must be a plot,
because there's a priest in't; thirdly, it must be a plot, because
there's French gold in't; and fourthly, it must be a plot, because I
don't know what to make on't."
Elizabeth Simpson (1753-1821), daughter of a Suffolk
farmer, married (1772) Joseph Inchbald, actor and portrait-painter.
Actress, dramatist, and novelist, she was one of the most attractive
women of the day. Winning in manner, quick in repartee, an admirable
teller of stories, she always gathered all the men round her chair.
"It was vain," said Mrs. Shelley, "for any other woman to attempt to
gain attention."
Miss Edgeworth wished to see her first among living celebrities; her
charm fascinated Sheridan, and overcame the prejudice of Lamb; even
Peter Pindar wrote verse in her praise. From the age of eighteen she was
wooed on and off the stage, where her slight stammer hindered her
complete success; but no breath of scandal tarnished her name. Had John
Kemble, the hero of
A Simple Story
, proposed to her, she probably would
have married him. Mrs. Butler records that her uncle John once asked the
actress, when matrimony was the subject of green-room conversation,
"Well, Mrs. Inchbald, would you have had me?" "Dear heart," said the
stammering beauty, turning her sunny face up at him," I'd have
j-j-j-jumped at you." Mrs. Inchbald's
Simple Story
(1791) wears a
more modern air than any previously written novel. Her dramatic
experience stood her in good stead. "Dorriforth," the priest, educated,
like Kemble, at Douay, impressed himself upon Macaulay's mind as the
true type of the Roman Catholic peer.
Nature and Art
(1796) was
written when Mrs. Inchbald was most under the influence of the French
Revolution. Of two boys who come to London to seek their fortunes,
Nature makes one a musician, and Art raises the other into a dean. The
trial and condemnation of "Agnes" perhaps suggested to Lytton the scene
in
Paul Clifford
, where "Brandon" condemns his own son.
Horace,
Odes
, I. i. 36.
List of Journal Entries
Contents
Friday, December 10th, 1813
I am
ennuyé
beyond my usual tense of that yawning verb, which I
am always conjugating; and I don't find that society much mends the
matter. I am too lazy to shoot myself—and it would annoy Augusta, and
perhaps ——; but it would be a good thing for George, on the other
side, and no bad one for me; but I won't be tempted.
I have had the kindest letter from Moore. I
do
think that man is
the best-hearted, the only
hearted
being I ever encountered; and,
then, his talents are equal to his feelings.
on Wednesday at Lord H.'s—the Staffords, Staels, Cowpers,
Ossulstones, Melbournes, Mackintoshes, etc., etc.—and was introduced to
the Marquis and Marchioness of Stafford
,—an unexpected event. My
quarrel with Lord Carlisle (their or his brother-in-law) having rendered
it improper, I suppose, brought it about. But, if it was to happen at
all, I wonder it did not occur before. She is handsome, and must have
been beautiful—and her manners are
princessly
.
The Stael was at the other end of the table, and less loquacious than
heretofore. We are now very good friends; though she asked Lady
Melbourne whether I had really any
bonhommie
. She might as well
have asked that question before she told C. L. "
c'est un demon
."
True enough, but rather premature, for
she
could not have found
it out, and so—she wants me to dine there next Sunday.
Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my part, I adhere (in
liking) to my Fragment. It is no wonder that I wrote one—my mind is a
fragment.
Lord Gower, Tierney
, etc., in the square. Took leave of Lord
Gower, who is going to Holland and Germany. He tells me that he carries
with him a parcel of
Harolds
and
Giaours
, etc., for the
readers of Berlin, who, it seems, read English, and have taken a caprice
for mine. Um!—have I been
German
all this time, when I thought
myself
Oriental
?
Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow; and received a new comedy sent by
Lady C. A.—but
not hers
. I must read it, and endeavour not to
displease the author. I hate annoying them with cavil; but a comedy I
take to be the most difficult of compositions, more so than tragedy.
Galt says there is a coincidence between the first part of
The
Bride
and some story of his—whether published or not, I know not,
never having seen it. He is almost the last person on whom any one would
commit literary larceny, and I am not conscious of any
witting
thefts on any of the genus. As to
, all pretensions are
ludicrous,—"there is nothing new under the sun."
Went last night to the play. Invited out to a party, but did not
go;—right. Refused to go to Lady ——'s on Monday;—right again. If I
must fritter away my life, I would rather do it alone. I was much
tempted;— C—— looked so Turkish with her red turban, and her regular,
dark, and clear features. Not that
she
and
I
ever were, or
could be, any thing; but I love any aspect that reminds me of the
"children of the sun."
To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for which I have some appetite,
not having tasted food for the preceding forty-eight hours. I wish I
could leave off eating altogether.
George Granville Leveson Gower (1758-1833) succeeded his
father, in 1803, as second Marquis of Stafford. He married, in 1785,
Elizabeth, Countess of Sutherland, and was created, in 1833, first Duke
of Sutherland. Lord Carlisle had married, in 1770 Margaret Caroline,
sister of the second Marquis of Stafford.
George Tierney (1761-1830) entered Parliament as Member for
Colchester in 1789. In 1796 he was returned for Southwark. A useful
speaker and political writer, he was Treasurer of the Navy in the
Addington administration, and President of the Board of Control in that
of "All the Talents." His drafting of the petition of the "Society of
the Friends of the People," his duel with Pitt in 1798, and his
leadership of the Opposition after 1817, are almost forgotten; but he is
remembered as the "Friend of Humanity" in
The Needy
Knife-Grinder
.
Eccles
. i. 9.
List of Journal Entries
Contents
Sunday, December 12th, 1813
By Galt's answer, I find it is some story in
real life
, and not
any work with which my late composition coincides. It is still more
singular, for mine is drawn from
existence
also.
I have sent an excuse to Madame de Stael. I do not feel sociable enough
for dinner to-day;—and I will not go to Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not
that I do not admire and prefer his unequalled conversation; but—that
"
but
" must only be intelligible to thoughts I cannot write.
Sheridan was in good talk at Rogers's the other night, but I only stayed
till
nine
. All the world are to be at the Stael's to-night, and I
am not sorry to escape any part of it. I only go out to get me a fresh
appetite for being alone. Went out—did not go to the Stael's but to Ld.
Holland's. Party numerous—conversation general. Stayed late—made a
blunder—got over it—came home and went to bed, not having eaten.
Rather empty, but
fresco
, which is the great point with me.
List of Journal Entries
Contents
Monday, December 13th, 1813
Called at three places—read, and got ready to leave town to-morrow.
has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who
says, "he is lucky in having such a
poet
"—something as if one
was a packhorse, or "ass, or any thing that is his;" or, like Mrs.
Packwood
, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on
Razors,—"Laws, sir, we keeps a poet." The
illustrious Edinburgh
bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this
agreeable postscript—"The
Harold and Cookery
are much
wanted." Such is fame, and, after all, quite as good as any other "life
in others' breath." 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah
Glasse or Hannah More.
Some editor of some magazine has
announced