Chapter II (3)

Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of your _Menagerie_ go _on_,
and if my publication goes _off_ well: do the quadrupeds _growl_?
Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased--"Flesh both of cur and man is
grass." Address your answer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be
forwarded. Sad news just arrived--Russians beat [5]--a bad set, eat
nothing but _oil_, consequently must melt before a _hard fire_. I get
awkward in my academic habiliments for want of practice. Got up in a
window to hear the oratorio at St. Mary's, popped down in the middle
of the _Messiah_, tore a _woeful_ rent in the back of my best black
silk gown, and damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem.--never
tumble from a church window during service. Adieu, dear----! do
not remember me to any body:--to _forget_ and be forgotten by the
people of Southwell is all I aspire to.

[Footnote 1: The allusion is to the farce _Better Late than Never_ (attributed to Miles Peter Andrews, but really, according to Reynolds (_Life_, vol. ii. pp. 79, 80), by himself, Topham, and Andrews), in which Pallet, an artist, is a prominent character. It was played at Drury Lane for the first time October 17, 1790, with Kemble as "Saville" and Mrs. Jordan as "Augusta."]

[Footnote 2: "The hero of _my Cornelian_" was a Cambridge chorister named Edleston, whose life, as Harness has recorded in a MS. note, Byron saved from drowning. This began their acquaintance. (See Byron's lines on "The Cornelian," _Poems_, vol. i. 66-67.) Edleston died of consumption in May, 1811. Byron, writing to Mrs. Pigot, gives the following account of his death:--

"Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811.

Dear Madam,--I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I
cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a _cornelian_, which some
years ago I consigned to Miss Pigot, indeed _gave_ to her, and now I
am going to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who
gave it to me, when I was very young, is _dead_, and though a long
time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed
of that person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a
value by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my
eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must,
under these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be
transmitted to me at No. 8, St. James's Street, London, and I will
replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she
was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him that
formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the
giver of that cornelian died in May last of a consumption, at the age
of twenty-one, making the sixth, within four months, of friends and
relatives that I have lost between May and the end of August.

"Believe me, dear Madam, yours very sincerely,

"BYRON.

"P.S.--I go to London to-morrow."

The cornelian heart was, of course, returned, and Lord Byron, at the same time, reminded that he had left it with Miss Pigot as a deposit, _not_ a gift (Moore).]

[Footnote 3: See page 182 [Letter 94], [Foot]note 1 [2].]

[Footnote 4: See "Thoughts suggested by a College Examination" (_Poems_, vol. i. pp. 28-31), also "Granta: a Medley" (_Poems_, vol. i. pp. 56-62).]

[Footnote 5: The Battle of Friedland, June 15, 1807. This is almost the first allusion that Byron makes to the war.]

75.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5, 1807.

Since my last letter I have determined to reside _another year_ at
Granta, as my rooms, etc., etc., are finished in great style, several
old friends come up again, and many new acquaintances made;
consequently my inclination leads me forward, and I shall return to
college in October if still _alive_. My life here has been one
continued routine of dissipation--out at different places every day,
engaged to more dinners, etc., etc., than my _stay_ would permit me to
fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in my _head_
and _tears_ in my _eyes_; for I have just parted with my "_Cornelian_"
who spent the evening with me. As it was our last interview, I
postponed my engagement to devote the hours of the _Sabbath_ to
friendship:--Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my
mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for London:
you will address your answer to "Gordon's Hotel, Albemarle Street,"
where I _sojourn_ during my visit to the metropolis.

I rejoice to hear you are interested in my _protégé_; he has been my
_almost constant_ associate since October, 1805, when I entered
Trinity College. His _voice_ first attracted my attention, his
_countenance_ fixed it, and his _manners_ attached me to him for ever.
He departs for a _mercantile house_ in _town_ in October, and we shall
probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall
leave to his decision either entering as a _partner_ through my
interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his
present frame of mind prefer the _latter_, but he may alter his
opinion previous to that period;--however, he shall have his choice.
I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time nor
distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable
disposition. In short, we shall, put _Lady E. Butler_ and _Miss
Ponsonby_ [1] to the blush, _Pylades_ and _Orestes_ out of
countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe like _Nisus_ and
_Euryalus_, to give _Jonathan_ and _David_ the "go by." He certainly
is perhaps more attached to _me_ than even I am in return. During the
whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and
winter, without passing _one_ tiresome moment, and separated each time
with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see us together.
He is the only being I esteem, though I _like_ many.

The Marquis of Tavistock [2] was down the other day; I supped with him
at his tutor's--entirely a Whig party. The opposition muster strong
here now, and Lord Hartington, the Duke of Leinster, etc., etc., are
to join us in October, so every thing will be _splendid_. The _music_
is all over at present. Met with another "_accidency_"--upset a
butter-boat in the lap of a lady--look'd very _blue_--_spectators_
grinned--"curse 'em!" Apropos, sorry to say, been _drunk_ every day,
and not quite _sober_ yet--however, touch no meat, nothing but fish,
soup, and vegetables, consequently it does me no harm--sad dogs all
the _Cantabs_. Mem.--_we mean_ to reform next January. This place is a
_monotony of endless variety_--like it--hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold
well? or do the ancients demur? What ladies have bought?

Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne----, [3] thought it was
her--all in the wrong--the lady stared, so did I--I _blushed_, so did
_not_ the lady,--sad thing--wish women had _more modesty_. Talking of
women, puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny--how is she? Got a
headache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. My
_protégé_ breakfasts with me; parting spoils my appetite--excepting
from Southwell. Mem. _I hate Southwell_.

Yours, etc.

[Footnote 1: Lady Eleanor Butler (c. 1745-1829), sister of the seventeenth Earl of Ormonde, and Sarah Ponsonby (circ. 1755-1831), cousin of the Earl of Bessborough, were the two "Ladies of the Vale," or "Ladies of Llangollen." About the year 1779 they settled in a cottage at Plasnewydd, in the Vale of Llangollen, where they lived, with their maidservant, Mary Caryll, for upwards of half a century. They are buried, with their servant, in the churchyard of Plasnewydd, under a triangular pyramid. Though they had withdrawn from the world, they watched its proceedings with the keenest interest.

"If," writes Mrs. Piozzi, from Brynbella, July 9, 1796, "Mr. Bunbury's
'Little Gray Man' is printed, do send it hither; the ladies at
Llangollen are dying for it. They like those old Scandinavian tales
and the imitations of them exceedingly; and tell me about the prince
and princess of 'this' loyal country, one province of which alone had
disgraced itself"

('Life and Writings of Mrs. Piozzi', vol. ii. p. 234). Nor did they despise the theatre. Charles Mathews ('Memoirs', vol. iii. pp. 150, 151), writing from Oswestry, September 4, 1820, says,

"The dear inseparable inimitables, Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby, were
in the boxes here on Friday. They came twelve miles from Llangollen,
and returned, as they never sleep from home. Oh, such curiosities! I
was nearly convulsed.... As they are seated, there is not one point to
distinguish them from men; the dressing and powdering of the hair;
their well-starched neckcloths; the upper part of their habits, which
they always wear, even at a dinner-party, made precisely like men's
coats; and regular black beaver men's hats. They looked exactly like
two respectable superannuated old clergymen.... I was highly
flattered, as they never were in the theatre before."

Among the many people who visited them in their retreat, and have left descriptions of them, are Madame de Genlis, De Quincey, Prince Pückler-Muskau. Their friendships were sung by Sotheby and Anne Seward, and their cottage was depicted by Pennant.

"It is very singular," writes John Murray, August 24, 1829, to his son
('Memoir of John Murray', vol. ii. p. 304),

"that the ladies, intending to 'retire' from the world, absolutely
brought all the world to visit them, for after a few years of
seclusion their strange story was the universal subject of
conversation, and there has been no person of rank, talent, and
importance in any way who did not procure introductions to them."

[Footnote 2: Lord Tavistock's experience at Cambridge resembled that of Byron. He had received only a "pretended education," and the Duke of Bedford had come to the conclusion that "nothing was learned at English Universities." "Tavistock left Cambridge in May," Lord J. Russell notes in his Diary for 1808, "having been there in supposition two years" (Walpole's 'Life of Lord John Russell', vol. i. pp. 44 and 35).]

[Footnote 3: Probably Miss Anne Houson, daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell. She married the Rev. Luke Jackson, died December 25, 1821, and is buried at Hucknall Torkard. (For verses addressed to her, see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 70-2, 244-45, 246-47, 251-52, 253.)]

76.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

Gordon's Hotel, July 13, 1807.

You write most excellent epistles--a fig for other correspondents,
with their nonsensical apologies for "_knowing nought about it_"--you
send me a delightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of
dissipation (very pleasant for all that), and, strange to tell, I get
thinner, being now below eleven stone considerably. Stay in town a
_month_, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a favour,
_irradiate_ Southwell for three days with the light of my countenance;
but nothing shall ever make me _reside_ there again. I positively
return to Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, or in
truth I should _cut_ the University. An extraordinary circumstance
occurred to me at Cambridge; a girl so very like----made her
appearance, that nothing but the most _minute inspection_ could have
undeceived me. I wish I had asked if _she_ had ever been at H----

What the devil would Ridge have? is not fifty in a fortnight, before
the advertisements, a sufficient sale? [1] I hear many of the London
booksellers have them, and Crosby [2] has sent copies to the principal
watering places. Are they liked or not in Southwell? ... I wish
Boatswain had _swallowed_ Damon! How is Bran? by the immortal gods,
Bran ought to be a _Count_ of the _Holy Roman Empire_.

The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to you, who have
rusticated all your life--the annals of routs riots, balls and
boxing-matches, cards and crim. cons., parliamentary discussion,
political details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle Street Institution
and aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brookes's and Buonaparte,
opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax-work, and weathercocks,
can't accord with your _insulated_ ideas of decorum and other _silly
expressions_ not inserted in _our vocabulary_.

Oh! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left thee, and how I
curse the heavy hours I dragged along, for so many months, among the
Mohawks who inhabit your kraals!--However, one thing I do not regret,
which is having _pared off_ a sufficient quantity of flesh to enable
me to slip into "an eel-skin," and vie with the _slim_ beaux of modern
times; though I am sorry to say, it seems to be the mode amongst
_gentlemen_ to grow _fat_, and I am told I am at least fourteen pound
below the fashion. However, I _decrease_ instead of enlarging, which
is extraordinary, as _violent_ exercise in London is impracticable;
but I attribute the _phenomenon_ to our _evening squeezes_ at public
and private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning (the 14th, my
letter was begun yesterday): he says the poems go on as well as can be
wished; the seventy-five sent to town are circulated, and a demand for
fifty more complied with, the day he dated his epistle, though the
advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu.

P.S.--Lord Carlisle, on receiving my poems, sent, before he opened the
book, a tolerably handsome letter:[1]--I have not heard from him
since. His opinions I neither know nor care about: if he is the least
insolent, I shall enrol him with _Butler_ and the other worthies. He
is in Yorkshire, poor man! and very ill! He said he had not had time
to read the contents, but thought it necessary to acknowledge the
receipt of the volume immediately. Perhaps the Earl "_bears no brother
near the throne"--if so_, I will make his _sceptre_ totter _in his
hands_.--Adieu!

[Footnote 1: This is probably the third collection of early verse, 'Hours of Idleness', the first collection published with Byron's name (see page 104 [Letter 53], [Foot]note 1).]

[Footnote 2: B. Crosby & Co., of Stationers' Court, were the London agents of Ridge, the Newark bookseller. Crosby was also the publisher of a magazine called 'Monthly Literary Recreations', in which (July, 1807) appeared a highly laudatory notice of 'Hours of Idleness', and Byron's review of Wordsworth's 'Poems' (2 vols. 1807. See Appendix I.), and his "Stanzas to Jessy" (see 'Poems', vol. i. pp. 234-236). These lines were enclosed with the following letter, addressed to "Mr. Crosby, Stationers' Court:"--

"July 21, 1807.

Sir,--I have sent according to my promise some Stanzas for
'Literary Recreations'. The insertion I leave to the option of the
Editors. They have never appeared before. I should wish to
know whether they are admitted or not, and when the work will
appear, as I am desirous of a copy.

Etc., etc.,

BYRON.

P.S.--Send your answer when convenient."]

[Footnote 3:

"My Dear Lord,--Your letter of yesterday found me an invalid, and
unable to do justice to your poems by a dilligent ['sic'] perusal of
them. In the meantime I take the first occasion to thank you for
sending them to me, and to express a sincere satisfaction in finding
you employ your leisure in such occupations. Be not disconcerted if
the reception of your works should not be that you may have a right to
look for from the public. Persevere, whatever that reception may be,
and tho' the Public maybe found very fastidious, ... you will stand
better with the world than others who only pursue their studies in
Bond St. or at Tatershall's.

Believe me to be, yours most sincerely,

CARLISLE.

July 8th, 1807."]

77.--To John Hanson.

July 20th, 1807.

Sir,--Your proposal to make Mrs. Byron my _Treasurer_ is very kind,
but does not meet with my approbation. Mrs. Byron has already made
more _free_ with my _funds_ than suits my convenience & I do not chuse
to expose her to the Danger of Temptation.

Things will therefore stand as they are; the remedy would be worse
than the Disease.

I wish you would order your Drafts payable to me and not Mrs. B. This
is worse than Hannibal Higgins; [1] who the Devil could suppose that
any Body would have mistaken him for a _real personage?_ & what
earthly consequence could it be whether the Blank in the Draft was
filled up with _Wilkins, Tomkyns, Simkins, Wiggins, Spriggins,
Jiggins_, or _Higgins?_ If I had put in _James Johnson_ you would not
have demurred, & why object to Hannibal Higgins? particularly after
his _respectable Endorsements_. As to Business, I make no pretensions
to a Knowledge of any thing but a Greek Grammer or a Racing Calendar;
but if the _Quintessence_ of information on that head consists in
unnecessary & unpleasant delays, explanations, rebuffs, retorts,
repartees, & recriminations, the House of H.& B. stands pre-eminent in
the profession, as from the Bottom of his Soul testifies

Yours, etc., etc.,

BYRON.

P.S--Will you dine with me on Sunday Tête a Tête at six o'clock? I
should be happy to see you before, but my Engagements will not permit
me, as on Wednesday I go to the House. I shall have Hargreaves & his
Brother on some day after you; I don't like to annoy Children with the
_formal_ Faces of _legal_ papas.

[Footnote 1: The point of the allusion is that Byron had endorsed one of Hanson's drafts with the name of "Hannibal Higgins," and had been solemnly warned of the consequences of so tampering with the dignity of the law.]

78.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

August 2, 1807.

London begins to disgorge its contents--town is empty--consequently I
can scribble at leisure, as occupations are less numerous. In a
fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but expect
two epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does not proceed
rapidly in Notts--very possible. In town things wear a more promising
aspect, and a man whose works are praised by _reviewers_, admired by
_duchesses_, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not
dedicate much consideration to _rustic readers_. I have now a review
before me, entitled _Literary Recreations_ [1] where my _hardship_ is
applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but
think _him_ a very discerning gentleman, and _myself_ a devilish
_clever_ fellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is
of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just
to give an agreeable _relish_ to the praise. You know I hate insipid,
unqualified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it,
order the 13th Number of _Literary Recreations_ for the last month. I
assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the
article--it is printed in a periodical publication--and though I have
written a paper (a review of Wordsworth), which appears in the same
work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it--even the
editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord Alexander Gordon,
who resided in the same hotel, told me his mother, her Grace of
Gordon, [2] requested he would introduce my _Poetical_ Lordship to her
_Highness_, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly, in
common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim her
relationship with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an excursion
for some days afterwards; and, as the Duchess was on the eve of
departing for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction till the
winter, when I shall favour the lady, _whose taste I shall not
dispute_, with my most sublime and edifying conversation. She is now
in the Highlands, and Alexander took his departure, a few days ago,
for the same _blessed_ seat of "_dark rolling winds_."

Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation,
and has sent to Ridge for a _third_--at least so he says. In every
bookseller's window I see my _own name_, and _say nothing_, but enjoy
my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my
determination of writing no more: and "A Friend to the Cause of
Literature" begs I will _gratify_ the _public_ with some new work "at
no very distant period." Who would not be a bard?--that is to say, if
all critics would be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I
doubt not, for this _gentle_ encouragement. If so, have at 'em? By the
by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after two in the
morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily
got Hutton's account. [3] I shall extend the poem to eight or ten
books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be
published or not must depend on circumstances. So much for _egotism!_
My _laurels_ have turned my brain, but the _cooling acids_ of
forthcoming criticism will probably restore me to _modesty_.

Southwell is a damned place--I have done with it--at least in all
probability; excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts.
You were my only _rational_ companion; and in plain truth, I had more
respect for you than the whole _bevy_, with whose foibles I amused
myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. You gave
yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousand
_dolls_ would have done.

Believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature in _this circle_ of
_sin_, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince my gratitude.
Adieu.

Yours, etc.

P.S.--Remember me to Dr. P.

[Footnote 1: See page 137 [Letter 76], [Foot]note 2.]

[Footnote 2: The Duchess of Gordon (1748-1812), 'née' Jean Maxwell of Monreith, daughter of Sir W. Maxwell, Bart., married in 1767 the Duke of Gordon. The most successful matchmaker of the age, she married three of her daughters to three dukes--Manchester, Richmond, and Bedford. A fourth daughter was Lady Mandalina Sinclair, afterwards, by a second marriage, Lady Mandalina Palmer. A fifth was married to Lord Cornwallis (see the extraordinary story told in the 'Recollections of Samuel Rogers', pp. 145-146). According to Wraxall ('Posthumous Memoirs', vol. ii. p. 319), she schemed to secure Pitt for her daughter Lady Charlotte, and Eugène Beauharnais for Lady Georgiana, afterwards Duchess of Bedford. Cyrus Redding ('Memoirs of William Beckford', vol. ii. pp. 337-339) describes her attack upon the owner of Fonthill, where she stayed upwards of a week, magnificently entertained, without once seeing the wary master of the house.

She was also the social leader of the Tories, and her house in Pall Mall, rented from the Duke of Buckingham, was the meeting-place of the party. Malcontents accused her of using her power tyrannically:--

"Not Gordon's broad and brawny Grace,
The last new Woman in the Place
With more contempt could blast."
'Pandolfo Attonito' (1800).

Lord Alexander Gordon died in 1808.]

[Footnote 3: William Hutton (1723-1815), a Birmingham bookseller, who took to literature and became a voluminous writer of poems, and of topographical works which still have their value. In his 'Trip to Redcar and Coatham' (Preface, p. vi.) he says,

"I took up my pen at the advanced age of fifty-six ... I drove the
quill thirty years, during which time I wrote and published thirty
books."

'The Battle of Bosworth Field' was published in 1788. A new edition, with additions by John Nichols, appeared in 1813. Byron's poem was never published.]

79.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

London, August 11, 1807.

On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands. [1] A friend of mine
accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it,
and proceed in a _tandem_ (a species of open carriage) though the
western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase _shelties_, to
enable us to view places inaccessible to _vehicular conveyances_. On
the coast we shall hire a vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the
Hebrides; and, if we have time and favourable weather, mean to sail as
far as Iceland, only 300 miles from the northern extremity of
Caledonia, to peep at _Hecla_. This last intention you will keep a
secret, as my nice _mamma_ would imagine I was on a Voyage of
_Discovery_, and raised the accustomed _maternal warwhoop_.

Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth through the two bridges,
Westminster and Blackfriars, a distance, including the different turns
and tracks made on the way, of three miles! [2] You see I am in
excellent training in case of a _squall_ at sea. I mean to collect all
the Erse traditions, poems, etc., etc., and translate, or expand the
subject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring under the
denomination of _"The Highland "Harp"_ or some title equally
_picturesque_. Of Bosworth Field, one book is finished, another just
began. It will be a work of three or four years, and most probably
never _conclude_. What would you say to some stanzas on Mount Hecla?
they would be written at least with _fire_. How is the immortal Bran?
and the Phoenix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain? I have lately
purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the coadjutor of the
aforesaid celestials--his name is _Smut!_

"Bear it, ye breezes, on your _balmy_ wings."

Write to me before I set off, I conjure you, by the fifth rib of your
grandfather. Ridge goes on well with the books--I thought that worthy
had not done much in the country. In town they have been very
successful; Carpenter (Moore's publisher) told me a few days ago they
sold all their's immediately, and had several enquiries made since,
which, from the books being gone, they could not supply. The Duke of
York, the Marchioness of Headfort, the Duchess of Gordon, etc., etc.,
were among the purchasers; and Crosby says the circulation will be
still more extensive in the winter, the summer season being very bad
for a sale, as most people are absent from London. However, they have
gone off extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on my
journey through Newark, but cannot approach. Don't tell this to Mrs.
B, who supposes I travel a different road. If you have a letter, order
it to be left at Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or the post-office,
Newark, about six or eight in the evening. If your brother would ride
over, I should be devilish glad to see him--he can return the same
night, or sup with us and go home the next morning--the Kingston Arms
is my inn. Adieu.

Yours ever,

BYRON.

[Footnote 1: This projected trip to the Highlands, mentioned in his letter to Augusta Byron of August 30, 1805, seems to have become a joke among Byron's friends. Moore quotes ('Life', p. 56) a letter written by Miss Pigot to her brother:

"How can you ask if Lord B. is going to visit the Highlands in the
summer? Why, don't _you_ know that he never knows his own mind
for ten minutes together? I tell him he is as fickle as the winds, and
as uncertain as the waves."]

[Footnote 2:

"The first time I saw Lord Byron," says Leigh Hunt ('Lord Byron and
his Contemporaries', p. 1), "he was rehearsing the part of Leander,
under the auspices of Mr. Jackson the prize-fighter. It was in the
river Thames, before he went to Greece. I had been bathing, and was
standing on the floating machine adjusting my clothes, when I noticed
a respectable-looking manly person who was eyeing something at a
distance. This was Mr. Jackson waiting for his pupil. The latter was
swimming with somebody for a wager."

On this occasion, however, Hunt only saw "his Lordship's head bob up and down in the water, like a "buoy."]

80.--To John Hanson.

Dorant's Hotel, October 19th, 1807.

Dear Hanson,--I will thank you to disburse the quarter due as soon as
possible, for I am at this moment contemplating with woeful visage,
one _solitary Guinea, two bad sixpences_ and a shilling, being _all_
the _cash_ at present in possession of

Yours very truly,

BYRON.

81.--To Elizabeth Bridget Pigot.

Trinity College, Cambridge, October 26, 1807.

My Dear Elizabeth,--Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning
for the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen to inquire how your
highness and the rest of my female acquaintance at the seat of
archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I know I deserve a scolding for my
negligence in not writing more frequently; but racing up and down the
country for these last three months, how was it possible to fulfil the
duties of a correspondent? Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, as
_thin_ as ever (not having gained an ounce since my reduction), and
rather in better humour;--but, after all, Southwell was a detestable
residence. Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it: I have been twice
within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on myself to
_suffocate_ in its heavy atmosphere. This place is wretched enough--a
villainous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothing but hazard and
burgundy, hunting, mathematics, and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it
is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of Southwell. Oh! the
misery of doing nothing but make _love, enemies_, and _verses_.

Next January (but this is _entre nous only_, and pray let it be so, or
my maternal persecutor will be throwing her tomahawk at any of my
curious projects,) I am going to _sea_ for four or five months, with
my cousin Captain Bettesworth, [1] who commands the _Tartar_, the
finest frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish to look
at a naval life. We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the
West Indies, or--to the devil; and if there is a possibility of taking
me to the latter, Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four and
twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a
letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only
officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself.

I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a _tame bear_. [2]
When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him,
and my reply was, "he should _sit for a fellowship._" Sherard will
explain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This answer
delighted them not. We have several parties here, and this evening a
large assortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and
poets, sup with me,--a precious mixture, but they go on well together;
and for me, I am a _spice_ of every thing except a jockey; by the bye,
I was dismounted again the other day.

Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I have written 214
pages of a novel--one poem of 380 lines, [3] to be published (without
my name) in a few weeks, with notes,--560 lines of Bosworth Field, and
250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller
pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. _Apropos_, I have been
praised to the skies in the _Critical Review_, [4] and abused greatly
in another publication. [5] So much the better, they tell me, for the
sale of the book: it keeps up controversy, and prevents it being
forgotten. Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share,
nor do the humblest escape;--so I bear it like a philosopher. It is
odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five
pages of abuse, my censor only quotes _two lines_ from different
poems, in support of his opinion. Now, the proper way to _cut up_, is
to quote long passages, and make them appear absurd, because simple
allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of
praise, and more than _my modesty_ will allow said on the subject.
Adieu.

P.S.--Write, write, write!!!

[Footnote 1: George Edmund Byron Bettesworth (1780-1808), as lieutenant of the 'Centaur', was wounded (1804) in the capture of the 'Curieux'. In command of the latter vessel he captured the 'Dame Ernouf' (1805), and was again wounded. He was made a post-captain in the latter year, when he brought home despatches from Nelson at Antigua, announcing Villeneuve's return to Europe. He was killed off Bergen in 1808, while in command of the 'Tartar'. Captain Bettesworth, whose father assumed the name of Bettesworth in addition to that of Trevanion, married, in 1807, Lady Alethea Grey, daughter of Earl Grey. Through his grandmother, Sophia Trevanion, Byron was Captain Bettesworth's cousin.]

[Footnote 2: See 'Poems', vol. i. p. 406. ]

[Footnote 3: This poem, printed in book form, but not published, under the title of 'British Bards', is the foundation of 'English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers'. The MS. is in the possession of Mr. Murray.]

[Footnote 4: For September, 1807. In noticing the Elegy on Newstead Abbey, the writer says, "We could not but hail, with something of prophetic rapture, the hope conveyed in the closing stanza:--

"'Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray.'"]

[Footnote 5: The first number of 'The Satirist: A Monthly Meteor' (October, 1807).]

82.--To J. Ridge.

Trinity College, Cambridge, November 20, 1807.

Sir,--I am happy to hear every thing goes on so well, and I presume
you will soon commence, though I am still of opinion the first Edition
had better be entirely sold, before you risk the printing of a second.
As Curly recommends fine wove Foolscap, let it be used, and I will
order a design in London for a plate, my own portrait would perhaps be
best, but as that would take up so long a time in completing we will
substitute probably a view of Harrow, [1] or Newstead in its stead.

You will omit the poems mentioned below:

Stanzas on a view of Harrow.
To a Quaker.
The First Kiss of Love.
College Examinations.
Lines to the Rev. J. T. Becher.

To be inserted, not exactly in the place, but in different parts of
the volume, I will send you five poems never yet published. Two of
tolerable length, at least much longer than any of the above, which
are ordered to be omitted.

Mention in your answer when you would like to receive the manuscripts
that they may be sent. By the bye, I must have the proofs of the
Manuscripts sent to Cambridge as they occur; the proofs from the
printed copy you can manage with care, if Mr. Becher will assist you.
Attend to the list of _Errata_, that we may not have a _Second
Edition_ of them also.

The Preface we have done with, perhaps I may send an Advertisement, a
dedication shall be forthcoming in due Season.

You will send a proof of the first Sheet for Inspection, and soon too,
for I am about to set out for London next week. If I remain there any
time, I shall apprize you where to send the Manuscript Proofs.

Do you think the others will be sold before the next are ready, what
says Curly? remember I have advised you not to risk it a second time,
and it is not too late to retract. However, you must abide by your own
discretion:

Etc., etc.,

BYRON.

P.S.--You will print from the Copy I sent you with the alterations,
pray attend to these, and be careful of mistakes. In my last I gave
you directions concerning the Title page and Mottoes.

[Footnote 1: A view of Harrow was given.]

83.--To John Hanson.

Trin. Coll., Cambridge, Dec. 2nd, 1807.

My Dear Sir,--I hope to take my New Years Day dinner with you _en
famille_. Tell Hargreaves I will bring his Blackstones, and shall have
no objection to see my Daniel's _Field Sports_, if they have not
escaped his recollection.--I certainly wish the expiration of my
minority as much as you do, though for a reason more nearly affecting
my magisterial person at this moment, namely, the want of twenty
pounds, for no spendthrift peer, or unlucky poet, was ever less
indebted to _Cash_ than George Gordon is at present, or is more likely
to continue in the same predicament.--My present quarter due on the
25th was drawn long ago, and I must be obliged to you for the loan of
twenty on my next, to be deducted when the whole becomes tangible,
that is, probably, some months after it is exhausted. Reserve Murray's
quarter, [1] of course, and I shall have just 100 _!_. to receive at
Easter, but if the risk of my demand is too great, inform me, that I
may if possible convert my Title into cash, though I am afraid twenty
pounds will be too much to ask as Times go, if I were an Earl ... but
a Barony must fetch ten, perhaps fifteen, and that is something when
we have not as many pence. Your answer will oblige

Yours very truly,

BYRON.

P.S.--Remember me to Mrs. H. in particular, and the family in general.

[Footnote 1: Joe Murray. (See page 21 [Letter 7], [Foot]note 3 [4].)]

84.--To John Murray. [1]

Ravenna, 9bre 19, 1820.

What you said of the late Charles Skinner Matthews [2] has set me to
my recollections; but I have not been able to turn up any thing which
would do for the purposed Memoir of his brother,--even if he had
previously done enough during his life to sanction the introduction of
anecdotes so merely personal. He was, however, a very extraordinary
man, and would have been a great one. No one ever succeeded in a more
surpassing degree than he did as far as he went. He was indolent, too;
but whenever he stripped, he overthrew all antagonists. His conquests
will be found registered at Cambridge, particularly his _Downing_ one,
which was hotly and highly contested, and yet easily _won_. Hobhouse
was his most intimate friend, and can tell you more of him than any
man. William Bankes [3] also a great deal. I myself recollect more of
his oddities than of his academical qualities, for we lived most
together at a very idle period of _my_ life. When I went up to
Trinity, in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable
and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I
had become attached during the two last years of my stay there;
wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford (there were no rooms
vacant at Christchurch); wretched from some private domestic
circumstances of different kinds, and consequently about as unsocial
as a wolf taken from the troop. So that, although I knew Matthews, and
met him often _then_ at Bankes's, (who was my collegiate pastor, and
master, and patron,) and at Rhode's, Milnes's, Price's, Dick's,
Macnamara's, Farrell's, Gally Knight's, and others of that _set_ of
contemporaries, yet I was neither intimate with him nor with any one
else, except my old schoolfellow Edward Long [4] (with whom I used to
pass the day in riding and swimming), and William Bankes, who was
good-naturedly tolerant of my ferocities.

It was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of a year away from
Cambridge, to which I had returned again to _reside_ for my degree,
that I became one of Matthews's familiars, by means of Hobhouse, [5]
who, after hating me for two years, because I wore a _white hat_, and
a _grey_ coat, and rode a _grey_ horse (as he says himself), took me
into his good graces because I had written some poetry. I had always
lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, in their company--but
now we became really friends in a morning. Matthews, however, was not
at this period resident in College. I met _him_ chiefly in London, and
at uncertain periods at Cambridge. Hobhouse, in the mean time, did
great things: he founded the Cambridge "Whig Club" (which he seems to
have forgotten), and the "Amicable Society," which was dissolved in
consequence of the members constantly quarrelling, and made himself
very popular with "us youth," and no less formidable to all tutors,
professors, and heads of Colleges. William Bankes was gone; while he
stayed, he ruled the roast--or rather the _roasting_--and was father
of all mischiefs.

Matthews and I, meeting in London, and elsewhere, became great
cronies. He was not good tempered--nor am I--but with a little tact
his temper was manageable, and I thought him so superior a man, that I
was willing to sacrifice something to his humours, which were often,
at the same time, amusing and provoking. What became of his _papers_
(and he certainly had many), at the time of his death, was never
known. I mention this by the way, fearing to skip it over, and _as_ he
_wrote_ remarkably well, both in Latin and English. We went down to
Newstead together, [6] where I had got a famous cellar, and _Monks'_
dresses from a masquerade warehouse. We were a company of some seven
or eight, with an occasional neighbour or so for visiters, and used to
sit up late in our friars' dresses, drinking burgundy, claret,
champagne, and what not, out of the _skull-cup_, and all sorts of
glasses, and buffooning all round the house, in our conventual
garments. [7] Matthews always denominated me "the Abbot," and never
called me by any other name in his good humours, to the day of his
death. The harmony of these our symposia was somewhat interrupted, a
few days after our assembling, by Matthews's threatening to throw
Hobhouse out of a _window_, in consequence of I know not what commerce
of jokes ending in this epigram. Hobhouse came to me and said, that
"his respect and regard for me as host would not permit him to call
out any of my guests, and that he should go to town next morning." He
did. It was in vain that I represented to him that the window was not
high, and that the turf under it was particularly soft. Away he went.

Matthews and myself had travelled down from London together, talking
all the way incessantly upon one single topic. When we got to
Loughborough, I know not what chasm had made us diverge for a moment
to some other subject, at which he was indignant. "Come," said he,
"don't let us break through--let us go on as we began, to our
journey's end;" and so he continued, and was as entertaining as ever
to the very end. He had previously occupied, during my year's absence
from Cambridge, my rooms in Trinity, with the furniture; and Jones,
[8] the tutor, in his odd way, had said, on putting him in,

"Mr. Matthews, I recommend to your attention not to damage any of
the moveables, for Lord Byron, Sir, is a young man of _tumultuous
passions_."

Matthews was delighted with this; and whenever anybody came to visit
him, begged them to handle the very door with caution; and used to
repeat Jones's admonition in his tone and manner. There was a large
mirror in the room, on which he remarked, "that he thought his friends
were grown uncommonly assiduous in coming to _see him_, but he soon
discovered that they only came to _see themselves_." Jones's phrase of
"_tumultuous passions_" and the whole scene, had put him into such
good humour, that I verily believe that I owed to it a portion of his
good graces.

When at Newstead, somebody by accident rubbed against one of his white
silk stockings, one day before dinner; of course the gentleman
apologised.

"Sir," answered Matthews, "it may be all very well for you, who have
a great many silk stockings, to dirty other people's; but to me, who
have only this _one pair_, which I have put on in honour of the
Abbot here, no apology can compensate for such carelessness;
besides, the expense of washing."

He had the same sort of droll sardonic way about every thing. A wild
Irishman, named Farrell, one evening began to say something at a large
supper at Cambridge, Matthews roared out "Silence!" and then, pointing
to Farrell, cried out, in the words of the oracle, "Orson is endowed
with reason." You may easily suppose that Orson lost what reason he
had acquired, on hearing this compliment. When Hobhouse published his
volume of poems, the _Miscellany_ (which Matthews would call the
"_Miss-sell-any_"), all that could be drawn from him was, that the
preface was "extremely like _Walsh_." Hobhouse thought this at first a
compliment; but we never could make out what it was, [9] for all we
know of _Walsh_ is his Ode to King William, [10] and Pope's epithet of
"_knowing Walsh_." [11] When the Newstead party broke up for London,
Hobhouse and Matthews, who were the greatest friends possible, agreed,
for a whim, to _walk together_ to town. They quarrelled by the way,
and actually walked the latter half of the journey, occasionally
passing and repassing, without speaking. When Matthews had got to
Highgate, he had spent all his money but three-pence halfpenny, and
determined to spend that also in a pint of beer, which I believe he
was drinking before a public-house, as Hobhouse passed him (still
without speaking) for the last time on their route. They were
reconciled in London again.

One of Matthews's passions was "the fancy;" and he sparred uncommonly
well. But he always got beaten in rows, or combats with the bare fist.
In swimming, too, he swam well; but with _effort_ and _labour_, and
_too high_ out of the water; so that Scrope Davies [1] and myself, of
whom he was therein somewhat emulous, always told him that he would be
drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass in the water. He was so;
but surely Scrope and myself would have been most heartily glad that

"the Dean had lived,
And our prediction proved a lie."

His head was uncommonly handsome, very like what _Pope's_ was in his
youth.

His voice, and laugh, and features, are strongly resembled by his
brother Henry's, if Henry be _he_ of _King's College_. His passion for
boxing was so great, that he actually wanted me to match him with
Dogherty [13] (whom I had backed and made the match for against Tom
Belcher [14]), and I saw them spar together at my own lodgings with
the gloves on. As he was bent upon it, I would have backed Dogherty to
please him, but the match went off. It was of course to have been a
private fight, in a private room.

On one occasion, being too late to go home and dress, he was equipped
by a friend (Mr. Baillie, I believe,) in a magnificently fashionable
and somewhat exaggerated shirt and neckcloth. He proceeded to the
Opera, and took his station in Fop's Alley. During the interval
between the opera and the ballet, an acquaintance took his station by
him and saluted him:

"Come round," said Matthews, "come round."

"Why should I come round?" said the other; "you have only to turn
your head--I am close by you."

"That is exactly what I cannot do," said Matthews; "don't you see
the state I am in?"

pointing to his buckram shirt collar and inflexible cravat,--and there
he stood with his head always in the same perpendicular position
during the whole spectacle.

One evening, after dining together, as we were going to the Opera, I
happened to have a spare Opera ticket (as subscriber to a box), and
presented it to Matthews.

"Now, sir," said he to Hobhouse afterwards, "this I call _courteous_
in the Abbot--another man would never have thought that I might do
better with half a guinea than throw it to a door-keeper;--but here
is a man not only asks me to dinner, but gives me a ticket for the
theatre."

These were only his oddities, for no man was more liberal, or more
honourable in all his doings and dealings, than Matthews. He gave
Hobhouse and me, before we set out for Constantinople, a most splendid
entertainment, to which we did ample justice. One of his fancies was
dining at all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Somebody popped upon him
in I know not what coffee-house in the Strand--and what do you think
was the attraction? Why, that he paid a shilling (I think) to _dine
with his hat on_. This he called his "_hat_ house," and used to boast
of the comfort of being covered at meal times.

When Sir Henry Smith [15] was expelled from Cambridge for a row with a
tradesman named "Hiron," Matthews solaced himself with shouting under
Hiron's windows every evening,

"Ah me! what perils do environ
The man who meddles with _hot Hiron_."

He was also of that band of profane scoffers who, under the auspices
of----, used to rouse Lort Mansel (late Bishop of Bristol) from his
slumbers in the lodge of Trinity; and when he appeared at the window
foaming with wrath, and crying out, "I know you, gentlemen, I know
you!" were wont to reply, "We beseech thee to hear us, good
Lort!"--"Good Lort deliver us!" (Lort was his Christian name.) As he
was very free in his speculations upon all kinds of subjects, although
by no means either dissolute or intemperate in his conduct, and as I
was no less independent, our conversation and correspondence used to
alarm our friend Hobhouse to a considerable degree.

You must be almost tired of my packets, which will have cost a mint of
postage.

Salute Gifford and all my friends.

Yours, etc.

[Footnote 1: This letter, though written twelve years later, belongs to the Cambridge period of Byron's life. It is therefore introduced here. (For John Murray, see [Foot]note [1] to letter to R. C. Dallas [Letter 167] of August 21, 1811.)]

[Footnote 2: Charles Skinner Matthews was known at Eton as Matthews 'major', his 'minor' being his brother Henry, the author of 'The Diary of an Invalid', afterwards a Judge in the Supreme Court of Ceylon, who died in 1828. They were the sons of John Matthews of Belmont, Herefordshire, M.P. for that county (1802-6). C. S. Matthews became a Scholar of Trinity, Cambridge; Ninth Wrangler in 1805; First Members' Prizeman in 1807; Fellow of Downing in 1808. He was drowned in the Cam in August, 1811. He at the time contemplated standing as Member for the University of Cambridge. For a description of the accident, see letter from Henry Drury to Francis Hodgson ('Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson', vol. i. pp. 182-185). In the note to 'Childe Harold', Canto I. stanza xci., Byron speaks of Matthews:

"I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles
Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge, were he not
too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the
attainment of greater honours, against the ablest candidates, than
those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently
established his fame on the spot where it was acquired; while his
softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too
well to envy his superiority."]

[Footnote 3: See page 120 [Letter 67], [Foot]note 1.]

[Footnote 4: See page 73 [Letter 31], [Foot]note 2.]

[Footnote 5: See page 163 [Letter 83], note 1 [5].]

[Footnote 6: Of this visit to Newstead, Matthews wrote the following account to his sister:--

"London, May 22, 1809.

"My Dear----,--I must begin with giving you a few particulars of the
singular place which I have lately quitted.

Newstead Abbey is situate 136 miles from London,--four on this side
Mansfield. It is so fine a piece of antiquity, that I should think
there must be a description, and, perhaps, a picture of it in Grose.
The ancestors of its present owner came into possession of it at the
time of the dissolution of the monasteries,--but the building itself
is of a much earlier date. Though sadly fallen to decay, it is still
completely an _abbey_, and most part of it is still standing in the
same state as when it was first built. There are two tiers of
cloisters, with a variety of cells and rooms about them, which, though
not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, might easily be made so;
and many of the original rooms, amongst which is a fine stone hall,
are still in use. Of the abbey church only one end remains; and the
old kitchen, with a long range of apartments, is reduced to a heap of
rubbish. Leading from the abbey to the modern part of the habitation
is a noble room, seventy feet in length, and twenty-three in breadth;
but every part of the house displays neglect and decay, save those
which the present Lord has lately fitted up.

The house and gardens are entirely surrounded by a wall with
battlements. In front is a large lake, bordered here and there with
castellated buildings, the chief of which stands on an eminence at the
further extremity of it. Fancy all this surrounded with bleak and
barren hills, with scarce a tree to be seen for miles, except a
solitary clump or two, and you will have some idea of Newstead. For
the late Lord, being at enmity with his son, to whom the estate was
secured by entail, resolved, out of spite to the same, that the estate
should descend to him in as miserable a plight as he could possibly
reduce it to; for which cause, he took no care of the mansion, and
fell to lopping of every tree he could lay his hands on, so furiously,
that he reduced immense tracts of woodland country to the desolate
state I have just described. However, his son died before him, so that
all his rage was thrown away.