But perhaps it might be mentioned that I went to prison from all but a sick bed, having been just ordered by the physician _to go to the seaside_, and _ride_ for the benefit of my health (pleasing dramatic contrast to the _verdict_!). I also declined, as I told you, to try avoiding the imprisonment by the help of Perry's offer of the famous secret 'Book'; and I further declined (as I think I also told you) to avail myself of an offer on the part of a royal agent (made, of course, in the guarded, though obvious manner in which such offers are conveyed), to drop the prosecution, provided we would agree to drop all future hostile mention of the Regent. But of this, too, governments could not be expected to take notice--perhaps would regard it as an addition to the offence. This, however, I must add, that the whole attack on the Regent was owing, not merely to the nonsense of the _Post_, but to his violation of those promises of conceding the Catholic claims, to which his princely word stood pledged. The subject of the article was the '_Dinner on St. Patrick's day_'. All the Whig world was indignant at that violation; so were the Irish, of course, _vehemently_; and it was on the spur of this publicly indignant movement that I wrote what I did,--as angrily and as much in earnest in the serious part of what I said as I was derisive in the rest.

I did not care for any factious object, nor was I what is called anti-monarchical. I didn't know Cobbett, or Henry Hunt, or any demagogue, _even by sight_, except Sir Francis Burdett, and him by sight alone. Nor did I ever see, or speak a word with them, afterwards. I knew nothing, in fact, of politics themselves, except in some of those large and, as it appeared to me, obvious phases, which, at all events, _have since become obvious to most people_, and in fighting for which (if a man can be said to fight for a 'phase'!) I suffered all that Tories could inflict upon me,--by expenses in law and calumnies in literature;--reform, Catholic claims, free trade, abolition of flogging, right of free speech, as opposed by attorneys-general. I was, in fact, all the while nothing but a poetic student, appearing in politics once a week, but given up entirely to letters almost all the rest of it, and loving nothing so much as a book and a walk in the fields. I was precisely the sort of person, in these respects, which I am at this moment. As to George the Fourth, I aided, years afterwards, in publicly wishing him well--'years having brought the philosophic mind'. I believe I even expressed regret at not having given him the excuses due to all human beings (the pa.s.sage, I take it, is in the book which Colburn called _Lord Byron and his Contemporaries_); _and when I consider that Moore has been pensioned, not only in spite of all his libels on him, but perhaps by very reason of their Whig partisanship, I should think it hard to be refused a pension purely because I openly suffered for what I had earnestly said_. I knew George the Fourth's physician, Sir William Knighton, who had been mine before I was imprisoned (it was _not_ he who was the royal agent alluded to); and, if my memory does not deceive me, Sir William told me that George had been gratified by the book above mentioned. Perhaps he had found out, by Sir William's help, that I was not an ill-natured man, or one who could not outlive what was mistaken in himself or resentful in others. As to my opinions about Governments, the bad conduct of the Allies, and of Napoleon, and the old Bourbons, certainly made them waver as to what might be ultimately best, monarchy or republicanism; but they ended in favour of their old predilections; and no man, for a long while, has been less a republican than myself, monarchies and courts appearing to me salutary for the good and graces of mankind, and Americanisms anything but either. But n.o.body, I conceive, that knew my writings, or heard of me truly from others, ever took me for a republican. William the Fourth saw or heard nothing of me to hinder his letting Lord Melbourne give me 200 out of the Royal Fund. Queen Victoria gave me another, through the same kind friend. She also went twice to see my play; and everybody knows how I praise and love her. _I do not think, therefore, in reference to the pension, that the public would care twopence about George the Fourth, one way or the other; or that if any remembered the case at all, they would connect the pension in the least with anything about him, but attribute it solely to the Queen's and Minister's goodness, and the wants of a sincere and not undeserving man of letters, distinguished for his loyal attachment_. I certainly think the 500 fine ought not to have been taken out of my pocket, or the other two 125 either; and I think also, that a liberal Whig minister might reasonably and _privately_ think some compensation on those accounts due to me. _I have been fighting his own fight from first to last, and helping to prepare matters for his triumph_. But still the above, in my opinion, is what the public would think of the matter, _and my friends of the press could lay it entirely to the literary account_.

GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON

1788-1824

To MR. HODGSON

_Travel in Portugal_

Lisbon, 16 _July_, 1809.

Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c.,--which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not antic.i.p.ate by smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and clandestine manner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world.

I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own,--and I goes into society (with my pocket pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an a.s.s or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and have got bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that?

Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a-pleasuring.

When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say '_Carracho_!'--the great oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of 'Damme!'--and when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I p.r.o.nounce him '_Ambra di merdo_'. With these two phrases, and a third,'_Avra bouro_', which signifieth 'Get an a.s.s', I am universally understood to be a person of degree and a master of languages. How merrily we lives that travellers be!--if we had food and raiment. But, in sober sadness, anything is better than England, and I am infinitely amused with my pilgrimage, as far as it has gone.

To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and Byzantium. A letter to Malta will find me, or to be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and Dwyer, and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler's donative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility.

Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and defeats and capital crimes and the misfortunes of one's friends; and let us hear of literary matters, and the controversies and the criticisms. All this will be pleasant--'_Suave mari magno_, &c.' Talking of that, I have been sea-sick, and sick of the sea. Adieu.

TO THOMAS MOORE

_Announces his engagement_

Newstead Abbey, 20 _Sept._ 1814.

Here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh!

The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.

MY DEAR MOORE,

I am going to be married--that is, I am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that _are_ to be), _you_ think too strait-laced for me, although the paragon of only children, and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men', and full of 'most blest conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss Milbanke is the lady, and I have her father's invitation to proceed there in my elect capacity,--which, however, I cannot do until I have settled some business in London, and got a blue coat.

She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know nothing certainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, that she has talents and excellent qualities; and you will not deny her judgement, after having refused six suitors and taken me.

Now, if you have anything to say against this, pray do; my mind's made up, positively fixed, determined, and therefore I will listen to reason, because now it can do no harm. Things may occur to break it off, but I will hope not. In the meantime I tell you (a _secret_, by the by,--at least till I know she wishes it to be public) that I have proposed and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish me joy, for one mayn't be married for months. I am going to town to-morrow, but expect to be here, on my way there, within a fortnight.

If this had not happened, I should have gone to Italy. In my way down, perhaps you will meet me at Nottingham, and come over with me here.

I need not say that nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of course, reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute to her happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a person that--that--in short, I wish I was a better.

TO JOHN MURRAY

_No bid for sweet voices_

Venice, 6 _April_, 1819.

The second canto of Don Juan was sent, on Sat.u.r.day last, by post, in four packets, two of four, and two of three sheets each, containing in all two hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. But I will permit no curtailments.... You shan't make _canticles_ of my cantos.

The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is stupid, it will fail; but I will have none of your d.a.m.ned cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish _anonymously_; it will perhaps be better; but I will battle my way against them all, like a porcupine.

So you and Mr. Foscolo, etc., want me to undertake what you call a 'great work'? an Epic Poem, I suppose or some such pyramid. I'll try no such thing; I hate tasks. And then 'seven or eight years'! G.o.d send us all well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years can't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man had better be a ditcher. And works, too!--is _Childe Harold_ nothing? You have so many '_divine_' poems, is it nothing to have written a _human_ one? without any of your worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun the thoughts of the four cantos of that poem into twenty, had I wanted to book-make, and its pa.s.sion into as many modern tragedies. Since you want _length_, you shall have enough of _Juan_, for I'll make fifty cantos....

Besides, I mean to write my best work in _Italian_, and it will take me nine years more thoroughly to master the language; and then if my fancy exist, and I exist too, I will try what I _can_ do _really_. As to the estimation of the English which you talk of, let them calculate what it is worth, before they insult me with their insolent condescension.

I have not written for their pleasure. If they are pleased, it is that they chose to be so; I have never flattered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. Neither will I make 'Ladies' books' '_al dilettar le femine e la plebe_'. I have written from the fullness of my mind, from pa.s.sion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their 'sweet voices'.

I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few scribblers have had more of it; and if I chose to swerve into their paths, I could retain it, or resume it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye; and though I buy with ye and sell with ye, and talk with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a species of popular idol; they, without reason or judgement, beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the image from its pedestal; it was not broken with the fall, and they would, it seems, again replace it,--but they shall not.

You ask about my health: about the beginning of the year I was in a state of great exhaustion ... and I was obliged to reform my 'way of life', which was conducting me from the 'yellow leaf' to the ground, with all deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and very much yours, &c.--

PS. I have read Hodgson's '_Friends_'. He is right in defending Pope against the b.a.s.t.a.r.d pelicans of the poetical winter day, who add insult to their parricide, by sucking the blood of the parent of English _real_ poetry,--poetry without fault,--and then spurning the bosom which fed them.

TO THE SAME

_The cemetery at Bologna_

Bologna, 7 _June_, 1819.

... I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous Domenichino and Guido, both of which are superlative. I afterwards went to the beautiful cemetery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, besides the superb burial-ground, an original of a Custode, who reminded me of the grave-digger in _Hamlet_. He has a collection of capuchins'

skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of them, said, 'This was Brother Desiderio Berro, who died at forty--one of my best friends. I begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went, he brought joy; and whenever any one was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again. He walked so actively, you might have taken him for a dancer--he joked--he laughed--oh! he was such a Frate as I never saw before, nor ever shall again!'

He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons.

In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Bartorini, dead two centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found her hair complete, and 'as yellow as gold'. Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance:--

'_Martini Luigi Implora pace.'

'Lucrezia Picini Implora eterna quiete_.'

Can anything be more full of pathos? Those few words say all that can be said or sought: the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this they _implore_! There is all the helplessness, and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave--'_implora pace_'. I hope, whoever may survive me, and shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, put over me. I trust they won't think of 'pickling, and bringing me home to Clod or Blunderbuss Hall'. I am sure my bones would not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carca.s.s back to your soil. I would not even feed your worms, if I could help it.

So, as Shakespeare says of Mowbray, the banished Duke of Norfolk, who died at Venice (see _Richard II_), that he, after fighting