Chapter II: Letter 395: To Mr. Murray

"Ravenna, 8bre 25°, 1820.

"Pray forward the enclosed to Lady Byron. It is on business.

"In thanking you for the Abbot, I made four grand mistakes, Sir
John Gordon was not of Gight, but of Bogagicht, and a son of
Huntley's. He suffered _not_ for his loyalty, but in an
insurrection. He had _nothing_ to do with Loch Leven, having been
dead some time at the period of the Queen's confinement: and,
fourthly, I am not sure that he was the Queen's paramour or no, for
Robertson does not allude to this, though _Walter Scott does_, in
the list he gives of her admirers (as unfortunate) at the close of
'The Abbot.'

"I must have made all these mistakes in recollecting my mother's
account of the matter, although she was more accurate than I am,
being precise upon points of genealogy, like all the aristocratical
Scotch. She had a long list of ancestors, like Sir Lucius
O'Trigger's, most of whom are to be found in the old Scotch
Chronicles, Spalding, &c. in arms and doing mischief. I remember
well passing Loch Leven, as well as the Queen's Ferry: we were on
our way to England in 1798.

"Yours.

"You had better not publish Blackwood and the Roberts' prose,
except what regards Pope;--you have let the time slip by."

* * * * *

The Pamphlet in answer to Blackwood's Magazine, here mentioned, was occasioned by an article in that work, entitled "Remarks on Don Juan," and though put to press by Mr. Murray, was never published. The writer in the Magazine having, in reference to certain passages in Don Juan, taken occasion to pass some severe strictures on the author's matrimonial conduct, Lord Byron, in his reply, enters at some length into that painful subject; and the following extracts from his defence,--if defence it can be called, where there has never yet been any definite charge,--will be perused with strong interest:--

"My learned brother proceeds to observe, that 'it is in vain for
Lord B. to attempt in any way to justify his own behaviour in that
affair: and now that he has so _openly_ and _audaciously_ invited
enquiry and reproach, we do not see any good reason why he should
not be plainly told so by the voice of his countrymen.' How far the
'openness' of an anonymous poem, and the 'audacity' of an imaginary
character, which the writer supposes to be meant for Lady B. may be
deemed to merit this formidable denunciation from their 'most sweet
voices,' I neither know nor care; but when he tells me that I
cannot 'in any way _justify_ my own behaviour in that affair,' I
acquiesce, because no man can '_justify_' himself until he knows of
what he is accused; and I have never had--and, God knows, my whole
desire has ever been to obtain it--any specific charge, in a
tangible shape, submitted to me by the adversary, nor by others,
unless the atrocities of public rumour and the mysterious silence
of the lady's legal advisers may be deemed such.[2] But is not the
writer content with what has been already said and done? Has not
'the general voice of his countrymen' long ago pronounced upon the
subject--sentence without trial, and condemnation without a
charge? Have I not been exiled by ostracism, except that the shells
which proscribed me were anonymous? Is the writer ignorant of the
public opinion and the public conduct upon that occasion? If he is,
I am not: the public will forget both long before I shall cease to
remember either.

"The man who is exiled by a faction has the consolation of thinking
that he is a martyr; he is upheld by hope and the dignity of his
cause, real or imaginary: he who withdraws from the pressure of
debt may indulge in the thought that time and prudence will
retrieve his circumstances: he who is condemned by the law has a
term to his banishment, or a dream of its abbreviation; or, it may
be, the knowledge or the belief of some injustice of the law or of
its administration in his own particular: but he who is outlawed by
general opinion, without the intervention of hostile politics,
illegal judgment, or embarrassed circumstances, whether he be
innocent or guilty, must undergo all the bitterness of exile,
without hope, without pride, without alleviation. This case was
mine. Upon what grounds the public founded their opinion, I am not
aware; but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me or of mine
they knew little, except that I had written what is called poetry,
was a nobleman, had married, became a father, and was involved in
differences with my wife and her relatives, no one knew why,
because the persons complaining refused to state their grievances.
The fashionable world was divided into parties, mine consisting of
a very small minority; the reasonable world was naturally on the
stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, as was most proper
and polite. The press was active and scurrilous; and such was the
rage of the day, that the unfortunate publication of two copies of
verses rather complimentary than otherwise to the subjects, of
both, was tortured into a species of crime, or constructive petty
treason. I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and
private rancour: my name, which had been a knightly or a noble one
since my fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for William the
Norman, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and
muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if
false, England was unfit for me. I withdrew: but this was not
enough. In other countries, in Switzerland, in the shadow of the
Alps, and by the blue depth of the lakes, I was pursued and
breathed upon by the same blight. I crossed the mountains, but it
was the same; so I went a little farther, and settled myself by the
waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who betakes him to the
waters.

"If I may judge by the statements of the few friends who gathered
round me, the outcry of the period to which I allude was beyond all
precedent, all parallel, even in those cases where political
motives have sharpened slander and doubled enmity. I was advised
not to go to the theatres, lest I should be hissed, nor to my duty
in parliament, lest I should be insulted by the way; even on the
day of my departure, my most intimate friend told me afterwards
that he was under apprehensions of violence from the people who
might be assembled at the door of the carriage. However, I was not
deterred by these counsels from seeing Kean in his best characters,
nor from voting according to my principles; and, with regard to the
third and last apprehensions of my friends, I could not share in
them, not being made acquainted with their extent till some time
after I had crossed the Channel. Even if I had been so, I am not of
a nature to be much affected by men's anger, though I may feel hurt
by their aversion. Against all individual outrage, I could protect
or redress myself; and against that of a crowd, I should probably
have been enabled to defend myself, with the assistance of others,
as has been done on similar occasions.

"I retired from the country, perceiving that I was the object of
general obloquy; I did not indeed imagine, like Jean Jacques
Rousseau, that all mankind was in a conspiracy against me, though I
had perhaps as good grounds for such a chimera as ever he had; but
I perceived that I had to a great extent become personally
obnoxious in England, perhaps through my own fault, but the fact
was indisputable; the public in general would hardly have been so
much excited against a more popular character, without at least an
accusation or a charge of some kind actually expressed or
substantiated; for I can hardly conceive that the common and
every-day occurrence of a separation between man and wife could in
itself produce so great a ferment. I shall say nothing of the usual
complaints of 'being prejudged,' 'condemned unheard,' 'unfairness,'
'partiality,' and so forth, the usual changes rung by parties who
have had, or are to have, a trial; but I was a little surprised to
find myself condemned without being favoured with the act of
accusation, and to perceive in the absence of this portentous
charge or charges, whatever it or they were to be, that every
possible or impossible crime was rumoured to supply its place, and
taken for granted. This could only occur in the case of a person
very much disliked, and I knew no remedy, having already used to
their extent whatever little powers I might possess of pleasing in
society. I had no party in fashion, though I was afterwards told
that there was one--but it was not of my formation, nor did I then
know of its existence--none in literature; and in politics I had
voted with the Whigs, with precisely that importance which a Whig
vote possesses in these Tory days, and with such personal
acquaintance with the leaders in both houses as the society in
which I lived sanctioned, but without claim or expectation of
anything like friendship from any one, except a few young men of my
own age and standing, and a few others more advanced in life, which
last it had been my fortune to serve in circumstances of
difficulty. This was, in fact, to stand alone: and I recollect,
some time after, Madame de Staël said to me in Switzerland, 'You
should not have warred with the world--it will not do--it is too
strong always for any individual: I myself once tried it in early
life, but it will not do.' I perfectly acquiesce in the truth of
this remark; but the world had done me the honour to begin the war;
and, assuredly, if peace is only to be obtained by courting and
paying tribute to it, I am not qualified to obtain its countenance.
I thought, in the words of Campbell,

"'Then wed thee to an exil'd lot,
And if the world hath loved thee not,
Its absence may be borne.'

"I have heard of, and believe, that there are human beings so
constituted as to be insensible to injuries; but I believe that the
best mode to avoid taking vengeance is to get out of the way of
temptation. I hope that I may never have the opportunity, for I am
not quite sure that I could resist it, having derived from my
mother something of the '_perfervidum ingenium Scotorum_.' I have
not sought, and shall not seek it, and perhaps it may never come in
my path. I do not in this allude to the party, who might be right
or wrong; but to many who made her cause the pretext of their own
bitterness. She, indeed, must have long avenged me in her own
feelings, for whatever her reasons may have been (and she never
adduced them to me at least), she probably neither contemplated nor
conceived to what she became the means of conducting the father of
her child, and the husband of her choice.

"So much for 'the general voice of his countrymen:' I will now
speak of some in particular.

"In the beginning of the year 1817, an article appeared in the
Quarterly Review, written, I believe, by Walter Scott, doing great
honour to him, and no disgrace to me, though both poetically and
personally more than sufficiently favourable to the work and the
author of whom it treated. It was written at a time when a selfish
man would not, and a timid one dared not, have said a word in
favour of either; it was written by one to whom temporary public
opinion had elevated me to the rank of a rival--a proud
distinction, and unmerited; but which has not prevented me from
feeling as a friend, nor him from more than corresponding to that
sentiment. The article in question was written upon the third Canto
of Childe Harold, and after many observations, which it would as
ill become me to repeat as to forget, concluded with 'a hope that I
might yet return to England.' How this expression was received in
England itself I am not acquainted, but it gave great offence at
Rome to the respectable ten or twenty thousand English travellers
then and there assembled. I did not visit Rome till some time
after, so that I had no opportunity of knowing the fact; but I was
informed, long afterwards, that the greatest indignation had been
manifested in the enlightened Anglo-circle of that year, which
happened to comprise within it--amidst a considerable leaven of
Welbeck Street and Devonshire Place, broken loose upon their
travels--several really well-born and well-bred families, who did
not the less participate in the feeling of the hour. 'Why should he
return to England?' was the general exclamation--I answer _why_? It
is a question I have occasionally asked myself, and I never yet
could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then no thoughts of
returning, and if I have any now, they are of business, and not of
pleasure. Amidst the ties that have been dashed to pieces, there
are links yet entire, though the chain itself be broken. There are
duties, and connections, which may one day require my presence--and
I am a father. I have still some friends whom I wish to meet again,
and, it may be, an enemy. These things, and those minuter details
of business, which time accumulates during absence, in every man's
affairs and property, may, and probably will, recall me to England;
but I shall return with the same feelings with which I left it, in
respect to itself, though altered with regard to individuals, as I
have been more or less informed of their conduct since my
departure; for it was only a considerable time after it that I was
made acquainted with the real facts and full extent of some of
their proceedings and language. My friends, like other friends,
from conciliatory motives, withheld from me much that they could,
and some things which they _should_ have unfolded; however, that
which is deferred is not lost--but it has been no fault of mine
that it has been deferred at all.

"I have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome merely to
show that the sentiment which I have described was not confined to
the English in England, and as forming part of my answer to the
reproach cast upon what has been called my 'selfish exile,' and my
'voluntary exile.' 'Voluntary' it has been; for who would dwell
among a people entertaining strong hostility against him? How far
it has been 'selfish' has been already explained."

[Footnote 2: While these sheets are passing through the press, a printed statement has been transmitted to me by Lady Noel Byron, which the reader will find inserted in the Appendix to this volume. (_First Edition_.)]

* * * * *

The following passages from the same unpublished pamphlet will be found, in a literary point of view, not less curious.

"And here I wish to say a few words on the present state of English
poetry. That this is the age of the decline of English poetry will
be doubted by few who have calmly considered the subject. That
there are men of genius among the present poets makes little
against the fact, because it has been well said, that 'next to him
who forms the taste of his country, the greatest genius is he who
corrupts it.' No one has ever denied genius to Marino, who
corrupted not merely the taste of Italy, but that of all Europe for
nearly a century. The great cause of the present deplorable state
of English poetry is to be attributed to that absurd and systematic
depreciation of Pope, in which, for the last few years, there has
been a kind of epidemical concurrence. Men of the most opposite
opinions have united upon this topic. Warton and Churchill began
it, having borrowed the hint probably from the heroes of the
Dunciad, and their own internal conviction that their proper
reputation can be as nothing till the most perfect and harmonious
of poets--he who, having no fault, has had REASON made his
reproach--was reduced to what they conceived to be his level; but
even they dared not degrade him below Dryden. Goldsmith, and
Rogers, and Campbell, his most successful disciples; and Hayley,
who, however feeble, has left one poem 'that will not be willingly
let die' (the Triumphs of Temper), kept up the reputation of that
pure and perfect style; and Crabbe, the first of living poets, has
almost equalled the master. Then came Darwin, who was put down by a
single poem in the Antijacobin; and the Cruscans, from Merry to
Jerningham, who were annihilated (if _Nothing_ can be said to be
annihilated) by Gifford, the last of the wholesome English
satirists. * * *

"These three personages, S * *, W * *, and C * *, had all of them a
very natural antipathy to Pope, and I respect them for it, as the
only original feeling or principle which they have contrived to
preserve. But they have been joined in it by those who have joined
them in nothing else: by the Edinburgh Reviewers, by the whole
heterogeneous mass of living English poets, excepting Crabbe,
Rogers, Gifford, and Campbell, who, both by precept and practice,
have proved their adherence; and by me, who have shamefully
deviated in practice, but have ever loved and honoured Pope's
poetry with my whole soul, and hope to do so till my dying day. I
would rather see all I have ever written lining the same trunk in
which I actually read the eleventh book of a modern Epic poem at
Malta in 1811, (I opened it to take out a change after the paroxysm
of a tertian, in the absence of my servant, and found it lined with
the name of the maker, Eyre, Cockspur-street, and with the Epic
poetry alluded to,) than sacrifice what I firmly believe in as the
Christianity of English poetry, the poetry of Pope.

"Nevertheless, I will not go so far as * * in his postscript, who
pretends that no great poet ever had immediate fame, which, being
interpreted, means that * * is not quite so much read by his
contemporaries as might be desirable. This assertion is as false
as it is foolish. Homer's glory depended upon his present
popularity: he recited,--and without the strongest impression of
the moment, who would have gotten the Iliad by heart, and given it
to tradition? Ennius, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius, Horace, Virgil,
Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, Anacreon, Theocritus, all
the great poets of antiquity, were the delight of their
contemporaries.[3] The very existence of a poet, previous to the
invention of printing, depended upon his present popularity; and
how often has it impaired his future fame? Hardly ever. History
informs us, that the best have come down to us. The reason is
evident: the most popular found the greatest number of transcribers
for their MSS.; and that the taste of their contemporaries was
corrupt can hardly be avouched by the moderns, the mightiest of
whom have but barely approached them. Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and
Tasso, were all the darlings of the contemporary reader. Dante's
poem was celebrated long before his death; and, not long after it,
States negotiated for his ashes, and disputed for the sites of the
composition of the Divina Commedia. Petrarch was crowned in the
Capitol. Ariosto was permitted to pass free by the public robber
who had read the Orlando Furioso. I would not recommend Mr. * * to
try the same experiment with his Smugglers. Tasso, notwithstanding
the criticisms of the Cruscanti, would have been crowned in the
Capitol, but for his death.

"It is easy to prove the immediate popularity of the chief poets of
the only modern nation in Europe that has a poetical language, the
Italian. In our own, Shakspeare, Spenser, Jonson, Waller, Dryden,
Congreve, Pope, Young, Shenstone, Thomson, Johnson, Goldsmith,
Gray, were all as popular in their lives as since. Gray's Elegy
pleased instantly, and eternally. His Odes did not, nor yet do they
please like his Elegy. Milton's politics kept him down; but the
Epigram of Dryden, and the very sale of his work, in proportion to
the less reading time of its publication, prove him to have been
honoured by his contemporaries. I will venture to assert, that the
sale of the Paradise Lost was greater in the first four years after
its publication than that of 'The Excursion,' in the same number,
with the difference of nearly a century and a half between them of
time, and of thousands in point of general readers.

"It may be asked, why, having this opinion of the present state of
poetry in England, and having had it long, as my friends and others
well know--possessing, or having possessed too, as a writer, the
ear of the public for the time being--I have not adopted a
different plan in my own compositions, and endeavoured to correct
rather than encourage the taste of the day. To this I would answer,
that it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the right,
and that I have never contemplated the prospect 'of filling (with
Peter Bell, see its Preface,) permanently a station in the
literature of the country.' Those who know me best, know this, and
that I have been considerably astonished at the temporary success
of my works, having flattered no person and no party, and expressed
opinions which are not those of the general reader. Could I have
anticipated the degree of attention which has been accorded,
assuredly I would have studied more to deserve it. But I have lived
in far countries abroad, or in the agitating world at home, which
was not favourable to study or reflection; so that almost all I
have written has been mere passion,--passion, it is true, of
different kinds, but always passion: for in me (if it be not an
Irishism to say so) my _indifference_ was a kind of passion, the
result of experience, and not the philosophy of nature. Writing
grows a habit, like a woman's gallantry: there are women who have
had no intrigue, but few who have had but one only; so there are
millions of men who have never written a book, but few who have
written only one. And thus, having written once, I wrote on;
encouraged no doubt by the success of the moment, yet by no means
anticipating its duration, and I will venture to say, scarcely even
wishing it. But then I did other things besides write, which by no
means contributed either to improve my writings or my prosperity.

"I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of the day the
opinion I have long entertained and expressed of it to all who have
asked it, and to some who would rather not have heard it; as I told
Moore not very long ago, 'we are all wrong except Rogers, Crabbe,
and Campbell.'[4] Without being old in years, I am in days, and do
not feel the adequate spirit within me to attempt a work which
should show what I think right in poetry, and must content myself
with having denounced what is wrong. There are, I trust, younger
spirits rising up in England, who, escaping the contagion which has
swept away poetry from our literature, will recall it to their
country, such as it once was and may still be.

"In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will be repentance,
and new and frequent editions of Pope and Dryden.

"There will be found as comfortable metaphysics and ten times more
poetry in the 'Essay on Man,' than in the 'Excursion.' If you
search for passion, where is it to be found stronger than in the
epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, or in Palamon and Arcite? Do you
wish for invention, imagination, sublimity, character? seek them in
the Rape of the Lock, the Fables of Dryden, the Ode on Saint
Cecilia's Day, and Absalom and Achitophel: you will discover in
these two poets only, _all_ for which you must ransack innumerable
metres, and God only knows how many _writers_ of the day, without
finding a tittle of the same qualities,--with the addition, too, of
wit, of which the latter have none. I have not, however, forgotten
Thomas Brown the Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor Whistlecraft;
but that is not wit--it is humour. I will say nothing of the
harmony of Pope and Dryden in comparison, for there is not a living
poet (except Rogers, Gifford, Campbell, and Crabbe) who can write
an heroic couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite beauty of their
versification has withdrawn the public attention from their other
excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest more upon the splendour of
the uniform than the quality of the troops. It is this very
harmony, particularly in Pope, which has raised the vulgar and
atrocious cant against him:--because his versification is perfect,
it is assumed that it is his only perfection; because his truths
are so clear, it is asserted that he has no invention; and because
he is always intelligible, it is taken for granted that he has no
genius. We are sneeringly told that he is the 'Poet of Reason,' as
if this was a reason for his being no poet. Taking passage for
passage, I will undertake to cite more lines teeming with
_imagination_ from Pope than from any two living poets, be they who
they may. To take an instance at random from a species of
composition not very favourable to imagination--Satire: set down
the character of Sporus, with all the wonderful play of fancy which
is scattered over it, and place by its side an equal number of
verses, from any two existing poets, of the same power and the same
variety--where will you find them?

"I merely mention one instance of many in reply to the injustice
done to the memory of him who harmonised our poetical language. The
attorneys clerks, and other self-educated genii, found it easier to
distort themselves to the new models than to toil after the
symmetry of him who had enchanted their fathers. They were besides
smitten by being told that the new school were to revive the
language of Queen Elizabeth, the true English; as every body in the
reign of Queen Anne wrote no better than French, by a species of
literary treason.

"Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one except Milton ever
wrote who could rhyme, became the order of the day,--or else such
rhyme as looked still blanker than the verse without it. I am aware
that Johnson has said, after some hesitation, that he could not
'prevail upon himself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer.' The
opinions of that truly great man, whom it is also the present
fashion to decry, will ever be received by me with that deference
which time will restore to him from all; but, with all humility, I
am not persuaded that the Paradise Lost would not have been more
nobly conveyed to posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets,
although even _they_ could sustain the subject if well balanced,
but in the stanza of Spenser, or of Tasso, or in the terza rima of
Dante, which the powers of Milton could easily have grafted on our
language. The Seasons of Thomson would have been better in rhyme,
although still inferior to his Castle of Indolence; and Mr.
Southey's Joan of Arc no worse, although it might have taken up six
months instead of weeks in the composition. I recommend also to the
lovers of lyrics the perusal of the present laureate's odes by the
side of Dryden's on Saint Cecilia, but let him be sure to read
_first_ those of Mr. Southey.

"To the heaven-born genii and inspired young scriveners of the day
much of this will appear paradox; it will appear so even to the
higher order of our critics; but it was a truism twenty years ago,
and it will be a re-acknowledged truth in ten more. In the mean
time, I will conclude with two quotations, both intended for some
of my old classical friends who have still enough of Cambridge
about them to think themselves honoured by having had John Dryden
as a predecessor in their college, and to recollect that their
earliest English poetical pleasures were drawn from the 'little
nightingale' of Twickenham.

"The first is from the notes to a Poem of the 'Friends[5],' pages
181, 182.

"'It is only within the last twenty or thirty years that those
notable discoveries in criticism have been made which have taught
our recent versifiers to undervalue this energetic, melodious, and
moral poet. The consequences of this want of due esteem for a
writer whom the good sense of our predecessors had raised to his
proper station have been NUMEROUS AND DEGRADING ENOUGH. This is not
the place to enter into the subject, even as far as it _affects our
poetical numbers alone_, and there is matter of more importance
that requires present reflection.'

"The second is from the volume of a young person learning to write
poetry, and beginning by teaching the art. Hear him[6]:

"'But ye were dead
To things ye knew not of--were closely wed
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
And compass vile; so that ye taught a school[7]
Of _dolts_ to _smooth_, _inlay_, and _chip_, and _fit_,
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
_Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:_
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race,
That blasphemed the bright lyrist to his face,
And did not know it; no, they went about
Holding a poor _decrepit_ standard out
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large
The name of _one_ Boileau.'

"A little before the manner of Pope is termed

"'A _scism_[8],
Nurtured by _foppery_ and barbarism,
Made great Apollo blush for this his land.'

"I thought '_foppery_' was a consequence of _refinement_; but
_n'importe_.

"The above will suffice to show the notions entertained by the new
performers on the English lyre of him who made it most tunable,
and the great improvements of their own _variazioni_.

"The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a young disciple of
the six or seven new schools, in which he has learnt to write such
lines and such sentiments as the above. He says, 'easy was the
task' of imitating Pope, or it may be of equalling him, I presume.
I recommend him to try before he is so positive on the subject, and
then compare what he will have _then_ written and what he has _now_
written with the humblest and earliest compositions of Pope,
produced in years still more youthful than those of Mr. K. when he
invented his new 'Essay on Criticism,' entitled 'Sleep and Poetry'
(an ominous title), from whence the above canons are taken. Pope's
was written at nineteen, and published at twenty-two.

"Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and such their scholars.
The disciples of Pope were Johnson, Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell,
Crabbe, Gifford, Matthias, Hayley, and the author of the Paradise
of Coquettes; to whom may be added Richards, Heber, Wrangham,
Bland, Hodgson, Merivale, and others who have not had their full
fame, because 'the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle
to the strong,' and because there is a fortune in fame as in all
other things. Now of all the new schools--I say _all_, for, 'like
Legion, they are many'--has there appeared a single scholar who has
not made his master ashamed of him? unless it be * *, who has
imitated every body, and occasionally surpassed his models. Scott
found peculiar favour and imitation among the fair sex: there was
Miss Holford, and Miss Mitford, and Miss Francis; but with the
greatest respect be it spoken, none of his imitators did much
honour to the original except Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, until the
appearance of 'The Bridal of Triermain,' and 'Harold the
Dauntless,' which in the opinion of some equalled if not surpassed
him; and lo! after three or four years they turned out to be the
Master's own compositions. Have Southey, or Coleridge, or
Wordsworth, made a follower of renown? Wilson never did well till
he set up for himself in the 'City of the Plague.' Has Moore, or
any other living writer of reputation, had a tolerable imitator, or
rather disciple? Now it is remarkable that almost all the followers
of Pope, whom I have named, have produced beautiful and standard
works, and it was not the number of his imitators who finally hurt
his fame, but the despair of imitation, and the _ease_ of _not_
imitating him sufficiently. This, and the same reason which induced
the Athenian burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristides,
'because he was tired of always hearing him called _the Just_,'
have produced the temporary exile of Pope from the State of
Literature. But the term of his ostracism will expire, and the
sooner the better; not for him, but for those who banished him, and
for the coming generation, who

"Will blush to find their fathers were his foes."

[Footnote 3: As far as regards the poets of ancient times, this assertion is, perhaps, right; though, if there be any truth in what Ælian and Seneca have left on record, of the obscurity, during their lifetime, of such men as Socrates and Epicurus, it would seem to prove that, among the ancients, contemporary fame was a far more rare reward of literary or philosophical eminence than among us moderns. When the "Clouds" of Aristophanes was exhibited before the assembled deputies of the towns of Attica, these personages, as Ælian tells us, were unanimously of opinion, that the character of an unknown person, called Socrates, was uninteresting upon the stage; and Seneca has given the substance of an authentic letter of Epicurus, in which that philosopher declares that nothing hurt him so much, in the midst of all his happiness, as to think that Greece,--"illa nobilis Græcia,"--so far from knowing him, had scarcely even heard of his existence.--Epist. 79.]

[Footnote 4: I certainly ventured to differ from the judgment of my noble friend, no less in his attempts to depreciate that peculiar walk of the art in which he himself so grandly trod, than in the inconsistency of which I thought him guilty, in condemning all those who stood up for particular "schools" of poetry, and yet, at the same time, maintaining so exclusive a theory of the art himself. How little, however, he attended to either the grounds or degrees of my dissent from him, will appear by the following wholesale report of my opinion, in his "Detached Thoughts:"

"One of my notions different from those of my contemporaries, is, that the present is not a high age of English poetry. There are _more_ poets (soi-disant) than ever there were, and proportionally _less_ poetry.

"This _thesis_ I have maintained for some years, but, strange to say, it meeteth not with favour from my brethren of the shell. Even Moore shakes his head, and firmly believes that it is the grand age of British poesy."]

[Footnote 5: Written by Lord Byron's early friend, the Rev. Francis Hodgson.]

[Footnote 6: The strange verses that follow are from a poem by Keats.--In a manuscript note on this passage of the pamphlet, dated November 12. 1821, Lord Byron says, "Mr. Keats died at Rome about a year after this was written, of a decline produced by his having burst a blood-vessel on reading the article on his 'Endymion' in the Quarterly Review. I have read the article before and since; and, although it is bitter, I do not think that a man should permit himself to be killed by it. But a young man little dreams what he must inevitably encounter in the course of a life ambitious of public notice. My indignation at Mr. Keats's depreciation of Pope has hardly permitted me to do justice to his own genius, which, malgrè all the fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great promise. His fragment of 'Hyperion' seems actually inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as Æschylus. He is a loss to our literature; and the more so, as he himself, before his death, is said to have been persuaded that he had not taken the right line, and was reforming his style upon the more classical models of the language."]

[Footnote 7: "It was at least a _grammar_ 'school.'"]

[Footnote 8: "So spelt by the author."]

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