The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals
Chapter 162 : Much done, but nothing to record. It is quite enough to set down my thoughts,--my acti

Much done, but nothing to record. It is quite enough to set down my thoughts,--my actions will rarely bear retrospection.

December 17, 18.

Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentality in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our respective and various opinions on him and other _hommes marquans_, and mine was this:--"Whatever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has been, _par excellence_, always the _best_ of its kind. He has written the _best_ comedy (_School for Scandal_), the _best_ drama (in my mind, far before that St. Giles's lampoon, the _Beggar's Opera_), the best farce (the _Critic_--it is only too good for a farce), and the best Address (Monologue on Garrick), and, to crown all, delivered the very best Oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country." Somebody told S. this the next day, and on hearing it he burst into tears!

Poor Brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, I would rather have said these few, but most sincere, words than have written the Iliad or made his own celebrated Philippic. Nay, his own comedy never gratified me more than to hear that he had derived a moment's gratification from any praise of mine, humble as it must appear to "my elders and my betters."

Went to my box at Covent Garden to-night; and my delicacy felt a little shocked at seeing S----'s mistress (who, to my certain knowledge, was actually educated, from her birth, for her profession) sitting with her mother, "a three-piled b----d, b----d Major to the army," in a private box opposite. I felt rather indignant; but, casting my eyes round the house, in the next box to me, and the next, and the next, were the most distinguished old and young Babylonians of quality;--so I burst out a laughing. It was really odd; Lady----_divorced_--Lady----and her daughter, Lady----, both _divorceable_--Mrs.----, in the next the _like_, and still nearer------! [1] What an a.s.semblage to _me_, who know all their histories. It was as if the house had been divided between your public and your _understood_ courtesans;--but the intriguantes much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On the other side were only Pauline and _her_ mother, and, next box to her, three of inferior note. Now, where lay the difference between _her_ and _mamma_, and Lady----and daughter? except that the two last may enter Carleton and any _other house_, and the two first are limited to the opera and b----house. How I do delight in observing life as it really is!--and myself, after all, the worst of any. But no matter--I must avoid egotism, which, just now, would be no vanity.

I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called "_The Devil's Drive_" the notion of which I took from Person's "_Devil's Walk_." [2]

Redde some Italian, and wrote two Sonnets on----. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise--and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions. I detest the Petrarch so much, that I would not be the man even to have obtained his Laura, which the metaphysical, whining dotard never could.

[Footnote 1: "These names are all left blank in the original" (Moore).]

[Footnote 2: Richard Person did not write 'The Devil's Walk', which was written by Coleridge and Southey, and published in the 'Morning Post'

for September 6, 1799, under the t.i.tle of 'The Devil's Thoughts'.]

January 16, 1814.

To-morrow I leave town for a few days. I saw Lewis to-day, who is just returned from Oatlands, where he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about himself, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me. My homage has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have agreed still worse. I don't talk--I can't flatter, and won't listen, except to a pretty or a foolish woman. She bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened--found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh the first man in England. There I agree, at least _one_ of the first--but Lewis did not.

As to Clarissa, I leave to those who can read it to judge and dispute. I could not do the one, and am, consequently, not qualified for the other.

She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that I was affected, in the first place; and that, in the next place, I committed the heinous offence of sitting at dinner with my _eyes_ shut, or half shut. I wonder if I really have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. One insensibly acquires awkward habits, which should be broken in time. If this is one, I wish I had been told of it before. It would not so much signify if one was always to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as well see some of one's neighbours, as well as the plate upon the table.

I should like, of all things, to have heard the Amabaean eclogue between her and Lewis--both obstinate, clever, odd, garrulous, and shrill. In fact, one could have heard nothing else. But they fell out, alas!--and now they will never quarrel again. Could not one reconcile them for the "nonce?" Poor Corinne--she will find that some of her fine sayings won't suit our fine ladies and gentlemen.

I am getting rather into admiration of [Lady C. Annesley] the youngest sister of [Lady F. Webster]. A wife would be my salvation. I am sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done me little good. Catherine is beautiful, but very young, and, I think, a fool. But I have not seen enough to judge; besides, I hate an _esprit_ in petticoats. That she won't love me is very probable, nor shall I love her. But, on my system, and the modern system in general, that don't signify. The business (if it came to business) would probably be arranged between papa and me. She would have her own way; I am good-humoured to women, and docile; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which I should try to prevent, we should be a very comfortable couple. As to conduct, _that_ she must look to. But _if_ I love, I shall be jealous;--and for that reason I will not be in love. Though, after all, I doubt my temper, and fear I should not be so patient as becomes the _bienseance_ of a married man in my station. Divorce ruins the poor _femme_, and damages are a paltry compensation. I do fear my temper would lead me into some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, at any rate, into a summary appeal to the court of twelve paces. So "I'll none on't," but e'en remain single and solitary;--though I should like to have somebody now and then to yawn with one.

Ward, and, after him,----, has stolen one of my buffooneries about Mde.

de Stael's Metaphysics and the Fog, and pa.s.sed it, by speech and letter, as their own. As Gibbet says, "they are the most of a gentleman of any on the road." [1] W. is in sad enmity with the Whigs about this Review of Fox [2] (if he _did_ review him);--all the epigrammatists and essayists are at him. I hate _odds_, and wish he may beat them. As for me, by the blessing of indifference, I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better nor worse for a _people_ than another. I shall adhere to my party, because it would not be honourable to act otherwise; but, as to _opinions_, I don't think politics _worth_ an _opinion_. _Conduct_ is another thing:--if you begin with a party, go on with them. I have no consistency, except in politics; and _that_ probably arises from my indifference on the subject altogether.

[Footnote 1: The 'Beaux' Stratagem', by George Farquhar (act iv. sc. 3):

"'Gibbet'.

"And I can a.s.sure you, friend, there's a great deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady: I am most a gentleman that way that ever travelled the road."]

[Footnote 2: An article by Ward on 'The Correspondence of Gilbert Wakefield with Mr. Fox', in the 'Quarterly Review' for July, 1813.]

Feb. 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, 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. [1] 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, [2] the destruction of the Customhouse, [3] and a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vituperative, as usual. [4]

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, etc., 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.

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," [5] 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." [6]--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 pa.s.sions 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." [7]--"They fool me to the top of my bent." [8]

Midnight.