“Murray tells me that C—r asked him why the thing was called the Bride of Abydos? It is a cursed awkward question, being unanswerable. She is not a bride, only about to be one; but for, &c. &c. &c.
“I don’t wonder at his finding out the Bull; but the detection * * * is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to make it, and am ashamed of not being an Irishman. * * * * *
“C—l last night seemed a little nettled at something or other—I know not what. We were standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other room a vessel of some composition similar to that which is used in catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, ‘Here is some incense for you.’ C—l answered—‘Carry it to Lord Byron—he is used to it.’ * * *
“Now, this comes of ‘bearing no brother near the throne.’ I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one now—whatever I may have done—am at perfect peace with all the poetical fraternity;—or, at least, if I dislike any, it is not poetically, but personally. Surely the field of thought is infinite;—what does it signify who is before or behind in a race where there is no goal? The temple of Fame is like that of the Persians, the Universe;—our altar, the tops of mountains. I should be equally content with Mount Caucasus or Mount Anything; and those who like it may have Mont Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation.
“I think I may now speak thus; for I have just published a Poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is likely to be liked or not. I have hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can downright abuse it to one’s face, except in print. It can’t be good, or I should not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very title. But I begun it with my heart full of * * *, and my head of orientalities (I can’t call them isms), and wrote on rapidly, * * * * *
“This journal is a relief. When I am tired—as I generally am—out comes this, and down goes every thing. But I can’t read it over;—and God knows what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I fear one lies more to one’s self than to any one else), every page should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.
“Another scribble from Martin
Baldwin the petitioner: I have
| 464 | NOTICES OF THE | A. D. 1813. |
“To-day saw W. His uncle is dying, and W. don’t much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided l’oncle is not dined upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicures, before that day. I wish he may recover—not for our dinner’s sake, but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles that may well wait, since they will dine at last.
“Gell called—he of Troy—after I was out. Mem.—to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very land-marks of forgetfulness;—something like a lighthouse, with a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to forget. Mem.—I have forgotten to pay Pitt’s taxes, and suppose I shall be surcharged. ‘An I do not turn rebel when thou art king’—’oons! I believe my very biscuit is leavened with that Impostor’s imposts.
“Ly. Me. returns from Jersey’s to-morrow;—I must call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, which I must applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence;—and yet I hate lettering.
“Saw Lord Glenbervie and his Prospectus at Murray’s, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a man more useful than all the historians and rhymers ever planted. For by preserving our woods and forests, he furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth reading, and all the odes worth nothing.
“Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is crammed
with the most useless lumber. It is odd that when I do read, I can only bear the chicken
broth of—any thing but Novels. It is many a year since I have
looked into one (though they are sometimes ordered, by way of experiment, but never
taken) till I looked yesterday at the worst parts of the Monk. These descriptions ought to have been written
by Tiberius at Caprea—they are forced—the philtred ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to me inconceivable
how they could have been composed by a man of only twenty—his age when he wrote them.
They have no nature—all
| A. D. 1813. | LIFE OF LORD BYRON. | 465 |
“Called this evening on my agent—my business as usual. Our strange adventures are the only inheritances of our family that have not diminished. * * * *
“I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. The cigars don’t keep well here. They get as old as a donna di quaranti anni in the sun of Africa. The Havannah are the best;—but neither are so pleasant as a hooka or chibouque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, and their horses entire—two things as they should be. I am so far obliged to this Journal, that it preserves me from verse,—at least from keeping it. I have just thrown a Poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my great comfort), and have smoked out of my head the plan of another. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, at least, the confusion of thought.
