Life of Lord Byron, Vol. 6 (of 6) by Thomas Moore

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I have to apologise to the House, who will, I trust, pardon one, not
often in the habit of intruding upon their indulgence, for so long
attempting to engage their attention. My most decided opinion is, as
my vote will be, in favour of the motion.

* * * * *

DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHT'S PETITION, JUNE 1. 1813.

Lord BYRON rose and said:--

My Lords,--The petition which I now hold for the purpose of
presenting to the House, is one which I humbly conceive requires the
particular attention of your Lordships, inasmuch as, though signed
but by a single individual, it contains statements which (if not
disproved) demand most serious investigation. The grievance of which
the petitioner complains is neither selfish nor imaginary. It is not
his own only, for it has been, and is still felt by numbers. No one
without these walls, nor indeed within, but may to-morrow be made
liable to the same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of an
imperious duty for the restoration of the true constitution of these
realms, by petitioning for reform in parliament. The petitioner, my
Lords, is a man whose long life has been spent in one unceasing
struggle for the liberty of the subject, against that undue influence
which has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished; and
whatever difference of opinion may exist as to his political tenets,
few will be found to question the integrity of his intentions. Even
now oppressed with years, and not exempt from the infirmities
attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in talent, and unshaken in
spirit--"_frangas non fleetes_"--he has received many a wound in the
combat against corruption; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of
which he complains, may inflict another scar, but no dishonour. The
petition is signed by John Cartwright, and it was in behalf of the
people and parliament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the
representation, which is the best service to be rendered both to
parliament and people, that he encountered the wanton outrage which
forms the subject-matter of his petition to your Lordships. It is
couched in firm, yet respectful language--in the language of a man,
not regardless of what is due to himself, but at the same time, I
trust, equally mindful of the deference to be paid to this House. The
petitioner states, amongst other matter of equal, if not greater
importance, to all who are British in their feelings, as well as
blood and birth, that on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield,
himself and six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, had
waited on him merely as a testimony of respect, were seized by a
military and civil force, and kept in close custody for several
hours, subjected to gross and abusive insinuation from the commanding
officer, relative to the character of the petitioner; that he (the
petitioner) was finally carried before a magistrate, and not released
till an examination of his papers proved that there was not only no
just, but not even statutable charge against him; and that,
notwithstanding the promise and order from the presiding magistrates
of a copy of the warrant against your petitioner, it was afterwards
withheld on divers pretexts, and has never until this hour been
granted. The names and condition of the parties will be found in the
petition. To the other topics touched upon in the petition, I shall
not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon the time of the
House; but I do most sincerely call the attention of your Lordships
to its general contents--it is in the cause of the parliament and
people that the rights of this venerable freeman have been violated,
and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect that could be
paid to the House, that to your justice, rather than by appeal to any
inferior court, he now commits, himself. Whatever may be the fate of
his remonstrance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mixed with
regret for the occasion, that I have this opportunity of publicly
stating the obstruction to which the subject is liable, in the
prosecution of the most lawful and imperious of his duties, the
obtaining by petition reform in parliament. I have shortly stated his
complaint; the petitioner has more fully expressed it. Your Lordships
will, I hope, adopt some measure fully to protect and redress him,
and not him alone, but the whole body of the people, insulted and
aggrieved in his person, by the interposition of an abused civil, and
unlawful military force between them and their right of petition to
their own representatives.

His Lordship then presented the petition from Major Cartwright, which
was read, complaining of the circumstances at Huddersfield, and of
interruptions given to the right of petitioning in several places in
the northern parts of the kingdom, and which his Lordship moved
should be laid on the table.

Several lords having spoken on the question,

Lord Byron replied, that he had, from motives of duty, presented this
petition to their Lordships' consideration. The noble Earl had
contended, that it was not a petition, but a speech; and that, as it
contained no prayer, it should not be received. What was the
necessity of a prayer? If that word were to be used in its proper
sense, their Lordships could not expect that any man should pray to
others. He had only to say, that the petition, though in some parts
expressed strongly perhaps, did not contain any improper mode of
address, but was couched in respectful language towards their
Lordships; he should therefore trust their Lordships would allow the
petition to be received.

A FRAGMENT.[1]

[Footnote 1: During a week of rain at Diodati, in the summer of 1816,
the party having amused themselves with reading German ghost stories,
they agreed at last to write something in imitation of them. "You and
I," said Lord Byron to Mrs. Shelley, "will publish ours together." He
then began his tale of the Vampire; and, having the whole arranged in
his head, repeated to them a sketch of the story one evening;--but,
from the narrative being in prose, made but little progress in
filling up his outline. The most memorable result, indeed, of their
storytelling compact, was Mrs. Shelley's wild and powerful romance of
Frankenstein.--MOORE.

"I began it," says Lord Byron, "in an old account book of Miss
Milbanke's, which I kept because it contains the word 'Household,'
written by her twice on the inside blank page of the covers; being
the only two scraps I have in the world in her writing, except her
name to the Deed of Separation."]

_June_ 17. 1816.

In the year 17--, having for some time determined on a journey
through countries not hitherto much frequented by travellers, I set
out, accompanied by a friend, whom I shall designate by the name of
Augustus Darvell. He was a few years my elder, and a man of
considerable fortune and ancient family; advantages which an
extensive capacity prevented him alike from undervaluing or
overrating. Some peculiar circumstances in his private history had
rendered him to me an object of attention, of interest, and even of
regard, which neither the reserve of his manners, nor occasional
indications of an inquietude at times nearly approaching to
alienation of mind, could extinguish.

I was yet young in life, which I had begun early; but my intimacy
with him was of a recent date: we had been educated at the same
schools and university; but his progress through these had preceded
mine, and he had been deeply initiated, into what is called the
world, while I was yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I heard
much both of his past and present life; and, although in these
accounts there were many and irreconcileable contradictions, I could
still gather from the whole that he was a being of no common order,
and one who, whatever pains he might take to avoid remark, would
still be remarkable. I had cultivated his acquaintance subsequently,
and endeavoured to obtain his friendship, but this last appeared to
be unattainable; whatever affections he might have possessed, seemed
now, some to have been extinguished, and others to be concentred:
that his feelings were acute, I had sufficient opportunities of
observing; for, although he could control, he could not altogether
disguise them: still he had a power of giving to one passion the
appearance of another, in such a manner that it was difficult to
define the nature of what was working within him; and the expressions
of his features would vary so rapidly, though slightly, that it was
useless to trace them to their sources. It was evident that he was a
prey to some cureless disquiet; but whether it arose from ambition,
love, remorse, grief, from one or all of these, or merely from a
morbid temperament akin to disease, I could not discover: there were
circumstances alleged, which might have justified the application to
each of these causes; but, as I have before said, these were so
contradictory and contradicted, that none could be fixed upon with
accuracy. Where there is mystery, it is generally supposed that there
must also be evil: I know not how this may be, but in him there
certainly was the one, though I could not ascertain the extent of the
other--and felt loth, as far as regarded himself, to believe in its
existence. My advances were received with sufficient coldness; but I
was young, and not easily discouraged, and at length succeeded in
obtaining, to a certain degree, that common-place intercourse and
moderate confidence of common and every-day concerns, created and
cemented by similarity of pursuit and frequency of meeting, which is
called intimacy, or friendship, according to the ideas of him who
uses those words to express them.

Darvell had already travelled extensively; and to him I had applied
for information with regard to the conduct of my intended journey. It
was my secret wish that he might be prevailed on to accompany me; it
was also a probable hope, founded upon the shadowy restlessness which
I observed in him, and to which the animation which he appeared to
feel on such subjects, and his apparent indifference to all by which
he was more immediately surrounded, gave fresh strength. This wish I
first hinted, and then expressed: his answer, though I had partly
expected it, gave me all the pleasure of surprise--he consented; and,
after the requisite arrangement, we commenced our voyages. After
journeying through various countries of the south of Europe, our
attention was turned towards the East, according to our original
destination; and it was in my progress through those regions that the
incident occurred upon which will turn what I may have to relate.

The constitution of Darvell, which must from his appearance have been
in early life more than usually robust, had been for some time
gradually giving way, without the intervention of any apparent
disease: he had neither cough nor hectic, yet he became daily more
enfeebled: his habits were temperate, and he neither declined nor
complained of fatigue; yet he was evidently wasting away: he became
more and more silent and sleepless, and at length so seriously
altered, that my alarm grew proportionate to what I conceived to be
his danger.

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on an excursion to the
ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, from which I endeavoured to dissuade him
in his present state of indisposition--but in vain: there appeared to
be an oppression on his mind, and a solemnity in his manner, which
ill corresponded with his eagerness to proceed on what I regarded as
a mere party of pleasure, little suited to a valetudinarian; but I
opposed him no longer--and in a few days we set off together,
accompanied only by a serrugee and a single janizary.

We had passed halfway towards the remains of Ephesus, leaving behind
us the more fertile environs of Smyrna, and were entering upon that
wild and tenantless track through the marshes and defiles which lead
to the few huts yet lingering over the broken columns of Diana--the
roofless walls of expelled Christianity, and the still more recent
but complete desolation of abandoned mosques--when the sudden and
rapid illness of my companion obliged us to halt at a Turkish
cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of which were the sole indication
that human life had ever been a sojourner in this wilderness. The
only caravansera we had seen was left some hours behind us, not a
vestige of a town or even cottage was within sight or hope, and this
"city of the dead" appeared to be the sole refuge for my unfortunate
friend, who seemed on the verge of becoming the last of its
inhabitants.

In this situation, I looked round for a place where he might most
conveniently repose:--contrary to the usual aspect of Mahometan
burial-grounds, the cypresses were in this few in number, and these
thinly scattered over its extent: the tombstones were mostly fallen,
and worn with age:--upon one of the most considerable of these, and
beneath one of the most spreading trees, Darvell supported himself,
in a half-reclining posture, with great difficulty. He asked for
water. I had some doubts of our being able to find any, and prepared
to go in search of it with hesitating despondency: but he desired me
to remain; and turning to Suleiman, our janizary, who stood by us
smoking with great tranquillity, he said, "Suleiman, verbana su,"
(_i.e._ bring some water,) and went on describing the spot where it
was to be found with great minuteness, at a small well for camels, a
few hundred yards to the right: the janizary obeyed. I said to
Darvell, "How did you know this?"--He replied, "From our situation;
you must perceive that this place was once inhabited, and could not
have been so without springs: I have also been here before."

"You have been here before!--How came you never to mention this to
me? and what could you be doing in a place where no one would remain
a moment longer than they could help it?"

To this question I received no answer. In the mean time Suleiman
returned with the water, leaving the serrugee and the horses at the
fountain. The quenching of his thirst had the appearance of reviving
him for a moment; and I conceived hopes of his being able to proceed,
or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He was silent--and
appeared to be collecting his spirits for an effort to speak. He
began.

"This is the end of my journey, and of my life;--I came here to die:
but I have a request to make, a command--for such my last words must
be.--You will observe it?"

"Most certainly; but have better hopes."

"I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this--conceal my death from every
human being."

"I hope there will be no occasion; that you will recover, and----"

"Peace!--it must be so: promise this."

"I do."

"Swear it, by all that"----He here dictated an oath of great
solemnity.

"There is no occasion for this--I will observe your request; and to
doubt me is----"

"It cannot be helped,--you must swear."

I took the oath: it appeared to relieve him. He removed a seal ring
from his finger, on which were some Arabic characters, and presented
it to me. He proceeded--

"On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely (what month you
please, but this must be the day), you must fling this ring into the
salt springs which run into the Bay of Eleusis: the day after, at the
same hour, you must repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and
wait one hour."

"Why?"

"You will see."

"The ninth day of the month, you say?"

"The ninth."

As I observed that the present was the ninth day of the month; his
countenance changed, and he paused. As he sat, evidently becoming
more feeble, a stork, with a snake in her beak, perched upon a
tombstone near us; and, without devouring her prey, appeared to be
steadfastly regarding us. I know not what impelled me to drive it
away, but the attempt was useless; she made a few circles in the air,
and returned exactly to the same spot. Darvell pointed to it, and
smiled: he spoke--I know not whether to himself or to me--but the
words were only, "'Tis well!"

"What is well? what do you mean?"

"No matter: you must bury me here this evening, and exactly where
that bird is now perched. You know the rest of my injunctions."

He then proceeded to give me several directions as to the manner in
which his death might be best concealed. After these were finished,
he exclaimed, "You perceive that bird?"

"Certainly."

"And the serpent writhing in her beak?"

"Doubtless: there is nothing uncommon in it; it is her natural prey.
But it is odd that she does not devour it."

He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, faintly, "It is not yet
time!" As he spoke, the stork flew away. My eyes followed it for a
moment--it could hardly be longer than ten might be counted. I felt
Darvell's weight, as it were, increase upon my shoulder, and, turning
to look upon his face, perceived that he was dead!

I was shocked with the sudden certainty which could not be
mistaken--his countenance in a few minutes became nearly black. I
should have attributed so rapid a change to poison, had I not been
aware that he had no opportunity of receiving it unperceived. The day
was declining, the body was rapidly altering, and nothing remained
but to fulfil his request. With the aid of Suleiman's ataghan and my
own sabre, we scooped a shallow grave upon the spot which Darvell had
indicated: the earth easily gave way, having already received some
Mahometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the time permitted us, and
throwing the dry earth upon all that remained of the singular being
so lately departed, we cut a few sods of greener turf from the less
withered soil around us, and laid them upon his sepulchre.

Between astonishment and grief, I was tearless.

* * * * *

LETTER

TO JOHN MURRAY, ESQ. ON THE REV. W.L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON THE LIFE
AND WRITINGS OF POPE.

* * * * *

"I'll play at _Bowls_ with the sun and moon."--OLD SONG.

"My mither's auld, Sir, and she has rather forgotten hersel in
speaking to my Leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit,
(as I ken nobody likes it, if they could help themsels.)"

TALES OF MY LANDLORD, _Old Mortality_, vol. ii. p. 163.

* * * * *

Ravenna, February 7. 1821.

Dear Sir,

In the different pamphlets which you have had the goodness to send
me, on the Pope and Bowles' controversy, I perceive that my name is
occasionally introduced by both parties. Mr. Bowles refers more than
once to what he is pleased to consider "a remarkable circumstance,"
not only in his letter to Mr. Campbell, but in his reply to the
Quarterly. The Quarterly also and Mr. Gilchrist have conferred on me
the dangerous honour of a quotation; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes
a kind of appeal to me personally, by saying, "Lord Byron, _if he
remembers_ the circumstance, will _witness_"--_(witness_ IN ITALICS,
an ominous character for a testimony at present).

I shall not avail myself of a "non mi ricordo," even after so long a
residence in Italy;--I _do_ "remember the circumstance,"--and have no
reluctance to relate it (since called upon so to do), as correctly as
the distance of time and the impression of intervening events will
permit me. In the year 1812, more than three years after the
publication of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," I had the honour
of meeting Mr. Bowles in the house of our venerable host of "Human
Life," &c. the last Argonaut of classic English poetry, and the
Nestor of our inferior race of living poets. Mr. Bowles calls this
"soon after" the publication; but to me three years appear a
considerable segment of the immortality of a modern poem. I recollect
nothing of "the rest of the company going into another room,"--nor,
though I well remember the topography of our host's elegant and
classically furnished mansion, could I swear to the very room where
the conversation occurred, though the "taking _down_ the poem" seems
to fix it in the library. Had it been "taken _up_" it would probably
have been in the drawing-room. I presume also that the "remarkable
circumstance" took place _after_ dinner; as I conceive that neither
Mr. Bowles's politeness nor appetite would have allowed him to detain
"the rest of the company" standing round their chairs in the "other
room," while we were discussing "the Woods of Madeira," instead of
circulating its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's "good humour" I have a full
and not ungrateful recollection; as also of his gentlemanly manners
and agreeable conversation. I speak of the _whole_, and not of
particulars; for whether he did or did not use the precise words
printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor could he with accuracy. Of
"the tone of seriousness" I certainly recollect nothing: on the
contrary, I thought Mr. Bowles rather disposed to treat the subject
lightly: for he said (I have no objection to be contradicted if
incorrect), that some of his good-natured friends had come to him and
exclaimed, "Eh! Bowles! how came you to make the Woods of Madeira?"
&c. &c. and that he had been at some pains and pulling down of the
poem to convince them that he had never made "the Woods" do any thing
of the kind. He was right, and _I was wrong,_ and have been wrong
still up to this acknowledgment; for I ought to have looked twice
before I wrote that which involved an inaccuracy capable of giving
pain. The fact was, that, although I had certainly before read "the
Spirit of Discovery," I took the quotation from the review. But the
mistake was mine, and not the _review's,_ which quoted the passage
correctly enough, I believe. I blundered--God knows how--into
attributing the tremors of the lovers to "the Woods of Madeira," by
which they were surrounded. And I hereby do fully and freely declare
and asseverate, that the Woods did _not_ tremble to a kiss, and that
the lovers did. I quote from memory--

------"A kiss
Stole on the listening silence, &c. &c.
They [the lovers] trembled, even as if the power," &c.

And if I had been aware that this declaration would have been in the
smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. Bowles, I should not have waited
nine years to make it, notwithstanding that "English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers" had been suppressed some time previously to my meeting him
at Mr. Rogers's. Our worthy host might indeed have told him as much,
as it was at his representation that I suppressed it. A new edition
of that lampoon was preparing for the press, when Mr. Rogers
represented to me, that "I was _now_ acquainted with many of the
persons mentioned in it, and with some on terms of intimacy;" and
that he knew "one family in particular to whom its suppression would
give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment, it was cancelled
instantly; and it is no fault of mine that it has ever been
republished. When I left England, in April, 1816, with no very
violent intentions of troubling that country again, and amidst scenes
of various kinds to distract my attention,--almost my last act, I
believe, was to sign a power of attorney, to yourself, to prevent or
suppress any attempts (of which several had been made in Ireland) at
a republication. It is proper that I should state, that the persons
with whom I was subsequently acquainted, whose names had occurred in
that publication, were made my acquaintances at their own desire, or
through the unsought intervention of others. I never, to the best of
my knowledge, sought a personal introduction to any. Some of them to
this day I know only by correspondence; and with one of those it was
begun by myself, in consequence, however, of a polite verbal
communication from a third person.

I have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances, because it has
sometimes been made a subject of bitter reproach to me to have
endeavoured to _suppress_ that satire. I never shrunk, as those who
know me know, from any personal consequences which could be attached
to its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I possessed the
copyright, I was the best judge and the sole master. The
circumstances which occasioned the suppression I have now stated; of
the motives, each must judge according to his candour or malignity.
Mr. Bowles does me the honour to talk of "noble mind," and "generous
magnanimity;" and all this because "the circumstance would have been
explained had not the book been suppressed." I see no "nobility of
mind" in an act of simple justice; and I hate the word
"_magnanimity,"_ because I have sometimes seen it applied to the
grossest of impostors by the greatest of fools; but I would have
"explained the circumstance," notwithstanding "the suppression of the
book," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any desire that I should. As the
"gallant Galbraith" says to "Baillie Jarvie," "Well, the devil take
the mistake, and all that occasioned it." I have had as great and
greater mistakes made about me personally and poetically, once a
month for these last ten years, and never cared very much about
correcting one or the other, at least after the first eight and forty
hours had gone over them.

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