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

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"There are some other reasons," but "the author is now _not_
unknown." Mr. Bowles has so totally exhausted himself upon Octavius
Gilchrist, that he has not a word left for the real quarterer of his
edition, although now "deterre."

The following page refers to a mysterious charge of "duplicity, in
regard to the publication of Pope's letters." Till this charge is
made in proper form, we have nothing to do with it: Mr. Gilchrist
hints it--Mr. Bowles denies it; there it rests for the present. Mr.
Bowles professes his dislike to "Pope's duplicity, _not_ to Pope"--a
distinction apparently without a difference. However, I believe that
I understand him. We have a great dislike to Mr. Bowles's edition of
Pope, but _not_ to Mr. Bowles; nevertheless, he takes up the subject
as warmly as if it was personal. With regard to the fact of "Pope's
duplicity," it remains to be proved--like Mr. Bowles's benevolence
towards his memory.

In page 14. we have a large assertion, that "the 'Eloisa' alone is
sufficient to convict him of _gross licentiousness_." Thus, out it
comes at last. Mr. Bowles _does_ accuse Pope of "_gross_
licentiousness," and grounds the charge upon a poem. The
_licentiousness_ is a "grand peut-etre," according to the turn of the
times being. The grossness I deny. On the contrary, I do believe that
such a subject never was, nor ever could be, treated by any poet with
so much delicacy, mingled with, at the same time, such true and
intense passion. Is the "Atys" of Catullus _licentious_? No, nor even
gross; and yet Catullus is often a coarse writer. The subject is
nearly the same, except that Atys was the suicide of his manhood, and
Abelard the victim.

The "licentiousness" of the story was _not_ Pope's,--it was a fact.
All that it had of gross, he has softened;--all that it had of
indelicate, he has purified;--all that it had of passionate, he has
beautified;--all that it had of holy, he has hallowed. Mr. Campbell
has admirably marked this in a few words (I quote from memory), in
drawing the distinction between Pope and Dryden, and pointing out
where Dryden was wanting "I fear," says he, "that had the subject of
'Eloisa' fallen into his (Dryden's) hands, that he would have given
us but a _coarse_ draft of her passion." Never was the delicacy of
Pope so much shown as in this poem. With the facts and the letters of
"Eloisa" he has done what no other mind but that of the best and
purest of poets could have accomplished with such materials. Ovid,
Sappho (in the Ode called hers)--all that we have of ancient, all
that we have of modern poetry, sinks into nothing compared with him
in this production.

Let us hear no more of this trash about "licentiousness." Is not
"Anacreon" taught in our schools?--translated, praised, and edited?
Are not his Odes the amatory praises of a boy? Is not Sappho's Ode on
a girl? Is not this sublime and (according to Longinus) fierce love
for one of her own sex? And is not Phillips's translation of it in
the mouths of all your women? And are the English schools or the
English women the more corrupt for all this? When you have thrown the
ancients into the fire it will be time to denounce the moderns.
"Licentiousness!"--there is more real mischief and sapping
licentiousness in a single French prose novel, in a Moravian hymn, or
a German comedy, than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned,
or poured forth, since the rhapsodies of Orpheus. The sentimental
anatomy of Rousseau and Mad. de S. are far more formidable than any
quantity of verse. They are so, because they sap the principles, by
_reasoning_ upon the _passions_; whereas poetry is in itself passion,
and does not systematise. It assails, but does not argue; it may be
wrong, but it does not assume pretensions to Optimism.

Mr. Bowles now has the goodness "to point out the difference between
a _traducer_ and him who sincerely states what he sincerely
believes." He might have spared himself the trouble. The one is a
liar, who lies knowingly; the other (I speak of a scandal-monger of
course) lies, charitably believing that he speaks truth, and very
sorry to find himself in falsehood;--because he

"Would rather that the dean should die,
Than his prediction prove a lie."

After a definition of a "traducer," which was quite superfluous
(though it is agreeable to learn that Mr. Bowles so well understands
the character), we are assured, that "he feels equally indifferent,
Mr. Gilchrist, for what your malice can invent, or your impudence
utter." This is indubitable; for it rests not only on Mr. Bowles's
assurance, but on that of Sir Fretful Plagiary, and nearly in the
same words,--"and I shall treat it with exactly the same calm
indifference and philosophical contempt, and so your servant."

"One thing has given Mr. Bowles concern." It is "a passage which
might seem to reflect on the patronage a young man has received."
MIGHT seem!! The passage alluded to expresses, that if Mr. Gilchrist
be the reviewer of "a certain poet of nature," his praise and blame
are equally contemptible."--Mr. Bowles, who has a peculiarly
ambiguous style, where it suits him, comes off with a "_not_ to the
_poet_, but the critic," &c. In my humble opinion, the passage
referred to both. Had Mr. Bowles really meant fairly, he would have
said so from the first--he would have been eagerly transparent.--"A
certain poet of nature" is not the style of commendation. It is the
very prologue to the most scandalous paragraphs of the newspapers,
when

"Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike."

"A certain high personage,"--"a certain peeress,"--"a certain
illustrious foreigner,"--what do these words ever precede, but
defamation? Had he felt a spark of kindling kindness for John Clare,
he would have named him. There is a sneer in the sentence as it
stands. How a favourable review of a deserving poet can "rather
injure than promote his cause" is difficult to comprehend. The
article denounced is able and amiable, and it _has_ "served" the
poet, as far as poetry can be served by judicious and honest
criticism.

With the two next paragraphs of Mr. Bowles's pamphlet it is pleasing
to concur. His mention of "Pennie," and his former patronage of
"Shoel," do him honour. I am not of those who may deny Mr. Bowles to
be a benevolent man. I merely assert, that he is not a candid editor.

Mr. Bowles has been "a writer occasionally upwards of thirty years,"
and never wrote one word in reply in his life "to criticisms, merely
_as_ criticisms." This is Mr. Lofty in Goldsmith's Good-natured Man;
"and I vow by all that's honourable, my resentment has never done the
men, as mere men, any manner of harm,--that is, _as mere men_."

"The letter to the editor of the newspaper" is owned; but "it was not
on account of the criticism. It was because the criticism came down
in a frank _directed_ to Mrs. Bowles!!!"--(the italics and three
notes of admiration appended to Mrs. Bowles are copied verbatim from
the quotation), and Mr. Bowles was not displeased with the criticism,
but with the frank and the address. I agree with Mr. Bowles that the
intention was to annoy him; but I fear that this was answered by his
notice of the reception of the criticism. An anonymous letter-writer
has but one means of knowing the effect of his attack. In this he has
the superiority over the viper; he knows that his poison has taken
effect, when he hears the victim cry;--the adder is _deaf_. The best
reply to an anonymous intimation is to take no notice directly nor
indirectly. I wish Mr. Bowles could see only one or two of the
thousand which I have received in the course of a literary life,
which, though begun early, has not yet extended to a third part of
his existence as an author. I speak of _literary_ life only. Were I
to add _personal_, I might double the amount of _anonymous_ letters.
If he could but see the violence, the threats, the absurdity of the
whole thing, he would laugh, and so should I, and thus be both
gainers.

To keep up the farce,--within the last month of this present writing
(1821), I have had my life threatened in the same way which menaced
Mr. Bowles's fame,--excepting that the anonymous denunciation was
addressed to the Cardinal Legate of Romagna, instead of to Mrs.
Bowles. The Cardinal is, I believe, the elder lady of the two. I
append the menace in all its barbaric but literal Italian, that Mr.
Bowles may be convinced; and as this is the only "promise to pay,"
which the Italians ever keep, so my person has been at least as much
exposed to a "shot in the gloaming," from "John Heatherblutter" (see
Waverley), as ever Mr. Bowles's glory was from an editor. I am,
nevertheless, on horseback and lonely for some hours (_one_ of them
twilight) in the forest daily; and this, because it was my "custom in
the afternoon," and that I believe if the tyrant cannot escape amidst
his guards (should it be so written?), so the humbler individual
would find precautions useless.

Mr. Bowles has here the humility to say, that "he must succumb; for
with Lord Byron turned against him, he has no chance,"--a declaration
of self-denial not much in unison with his "promise," five lines
afterwards, that "for every twenty-four lines quoted by Mr.
Gilchrist, or his friend, to greet him with as many from the
'Gilchrisiad';" but so much the better. Mr. Bowles has no reason to
"succumb" but to Mr. Bowles. As a poet, the author of "The
Missionary" may compete with the foremost of his cotemporaries. Let
it be recollected, that all my previous opinions of Mr. Bowles's
poetry were _written_ long before the publication of his last and
best poem; and that a poet's _last_ poem should be his best, is his
highest praise. But, however, he may duly and honourably rank with
his living rivals. There never was so complete a proof of the
superiority of Pope, as in the lines with which Mr. Bowles closes his
"_to be concluded in our next_."

Mr. Bowles is avowedly the champion and the poet of nature. Art and
the arts are dragged, some before, and others behind his chariot.
Pope, where he deals with passion, and with the nature of the
naturals of the day, is allowed even by themselves to be sublime; but
they complain that too soon--

"He stoop'd to truth and moralised his song,"

and _there_ even _they_ allow him to be unrivalled. He has succeeded,
and even surpassed them, when he chose, in their own _pretended_
province. Let us see what their Coryphaeus effects in Pope's. But it
is too pitiable, it is too melancholy, to see Mr. Bowles "_sinning_"
not "_up_" but "_down_" as a poet to his lowest depth as an editor.
By the way, Mr. Bowles is always quoting Pope. I grant that there is
no poet--not Shakspeare himself--who can be so often quoted, with
reference to life;--but his editor is so like the devil quoting
Scripture, that I could wish Mr. Bowles in his proper place, quoting
in the pulpit.

And now for his lines. But it is painful--painful--to see such a
suicide, though at the shrine of Pope. I can't copy them all:--

"Shall the rank, loathsome miscreant of the age
Sit, like a night-mare, grinning o'er a page."

"Whose pye-bald character so aptly suit
The two extremes of Bantam and of Brute,
Compound grotesque of sullenness and show,
The chattering magpie, and the croaking crow."

"Whose heart contends with thy Saturnian head,
A root of hemlock, and a lump of lead.
Gilchrist proceed," &c. &c.

"And thus stand forth, spite of thy venom'd foam,
To give thee _bite for bite_, or lash thee limping home."

With regard to the last line, the only one upon which I shall venture
for fear of infection, I would advise Mr. Gilchrist to keep out of
the way of such reciprocal morsure--unless he has more faith in the
"Ormskirk medicine" than most people, or may wish to anticipate the
pension of the recent German professor, (I forget his name, but it is
advertised and full of consonants,) who presented his memoir of an
infallible remedy for the hydrophobia to the German diet last month,
coupled with the philanthropic condition of a large annuity, provided
that his cure cured. Let him begin with the editor of Pope, and
double his demand.

Yours ever,

BYRON.

_To John Murray, Esq_.

P.S. Amongst the above-mentioned lines there occurs the following,
_applied_ to Pope--

"The assassin's vengeance, and the coward's lie."

And Mr. Bowles persists that he is a well-wisher to Pope!!! He has,
then, edited an "assassin" and a "coward" wittingly, as well as
lovingly. In my former letter I have remarked upon the editor's
forgetfulness of Pope's benevolence. But where he mentions his faults
it is "with sorrow"--his tears drop, but they do not blot them out.
The "recording angel" differs from the recording clergyman. A fulsome
editor is pardonable though tiresome, like a panegyrical son whose
pious sincerity would demi-deify his father. But a detracting editor
is a paricide. He sins against the nature of his office, and
connection--he murders the life to come of his victim. If his author
is not worthy to be mentioned, do not edit at all: if he be, edit
honestly, and even flatteringly. The reader will forgive the weakness
in favour of mortality, and correct your adulation with a smile. But
to sit down "mingere in patrios cineres," as Mr. Bowles has done,
merits a reprobation so strong, that I am as incapable of expressing
as of ceasing to feel it.

_Further Addenda_.

It is worthy of remark that, after all this outcry about "_in-door_
nature" and "artificial images," Pope was the principal inventor of
that boast of the English, _Modern Gardening_. He divides this honour
with Milton. Hear Warton:--"It hence appears, that this _enchanting_
art of modern gardening, in which this kingdom claims a preference
over every nation in Europe, chiefly owes _its origin_ and its
improvements to two great poets, Milton and _Pope_."

Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope formed _Kent's_ taste,
and that Kent was the artist to whom the English are chiefly indebted
for diffusing "a taste in laying out grounds." The design of the
Prince of Wales's garden was copied from _Pope's_ at Twickenham.
Warton applauds "his singular effort of art and taste, in impressing
so much variety and scenery on a spot of five acres." Pope was the
_first_ who ridiculed the "formal, French, Dutch, false and unnatural
taste in gardening," both in _prose_ and verse. (See, for the former,
"The Guardian.")

"Pope has given not only some of our _first_ but _best_ rules and
observations on _Architecture_ and _Gardening_." (See Warton's Essay,
vol. ii. p. 237, &c. &c.)

Now, is it not a shame, after this, to hear our Lakers in "Kendal
Green," and our Bucolical Cockneys, crying out (the latter in a
wilderness of bricks and mortar) about "Nature," and Pope's
"artificial in-door habits?" Pope had seen all of nature that
_England_ alone can supply. He was bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst
the beautiful scenery of Eton; he lived familiarly and frequently at
the country seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Burlington, Peterborough,
Digby, and Bolingbroke; amongst whose seats was to be numbered
_Stowe_. He made his own little "five acres" a model to princes, and
to the first of our artists who imitated nature. Warton thinks "that
the most engaging of _Kent_'s works was also planned on the model of
Pope's,--at least in the opening and retiring shades of Venus's
Vale."

It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed; but he could walk, and
he could ride (he rode to Oxford from London at a stretch), and he
was famous for an exquisite eye. On a tree at Lord Bathurst's is
carved "Here Pope sang,"--he composed beneath it. Bolingbroke, in one
of his letters, represents them both writing in the hay-field. No
poet ever admired Nature more, or used her better, than Pope has
done, as I will undertake to prove from his works, _prose_ and
_verse_, if not anticipated in so easy and agreeable a labour. I
remember a passage in Walpole, somewhere, of a gentleman who wished
to give directions about some willows to a man who had long served
Pope in his grounds: "I understand, sir," he replied: "you would have
them hang down, sir, _somewhat poetical_." Now, if nothing existed
but this little anecdote, it would suffice to prove Pope's taste for
_Nature_, and the impression which he had made on a common-minded
man. But I have already quoted Warton and Walpole (_both_ his
enemies), and, were it necessary, I could amply quote Pope himself
for such tributes to _Nature_ as no poet of the present day has even
approached.

His various excellence is really wonderful: architecture, painting,
_gardening_, all are alike subject to his genius. Be it remembered,
that English _gardening_ is the purposed perfectioning of niggard
_Nature_, and that without it England is but a hedge-and-ditch,
double-post-and-rail, Hounslow Heath and Clapham Common sort of
country, since the principal forests have been felled. It is, in
general, far from a picturesque country. The case is different with
Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; and I except also the lake counties and
Derbyshire, together with Eton, Windsor, and my own dear Harrow on
the Hill, and some spots near the coast. In the present rank
fertility of "great poets of the age," and "schools of poetry"--a
word which, like "schools of eloquence" and of "philosophy," is never
introduced till the decay of the art has increased with the number of
its professors--in the present day, then, there have sprung up two
sorts of Naturals;--the Lakers, who whine about Nature because they
live in Cumberland; and their _under-sect_ (which some one has
maliciously called the "Cockney School"), who are enthusiastical for
the country because they live in London. It is to be observed, that
the rustical founders are rather anxious to disclaim any connexion
with their metropolitan followers, whom they ungraciously review, and
call cockneys, atheists, foolish fellows, bad writers, and other hard
names not less ungrateful than unjust. I can understand the
pretensions of the aquatic gentlemen of Windermere to what Mr. Braham
terms "_entusumusy_," for lakes, and mountains, and daffodils, and
buttercups; but I should be glad to be apprised of the foundation of
the London propensities of their imitative brethren to the same "high
argument." Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge have rambled over half
Europe, and seen Nature in most of her varieties (although I think
that they have occasionally not used her very well); but what on
earth--of earth, and sea, and Nature--have the others seen? Not a
half, nor a tenth part so much as Pope. While they sneer at his
Windsor Forest, have they ever seen any thing of Windsor except its
_brick_?

The most rural of these gentlemen is my friend Leigh Hunt, who lives
at Hampstead. I believe that I need not disclaim any personal or
poetical hostility against that gentleman. A more amiable man in
society I know not; nor (when he will allow his sense to prevail over
his sectarian principles) a better writer. When he was writing his
"Rimini," I was not the last to discover its beauties, long before it
was published. Even then I remonstrated against its vulgarisms; which
are the more extraordinary, because the author is any thing but a
vulgar man. Mr. Hunt's answer was, that he wrote them upon principle;
they made part of his "_system!!_" I then said no more. When a man
talks of his system, it is like a woman's talking of her _virtue_. I
let them talk on. Whether there are writers who could have written
"Rimini," as it might have been written, I know not; but Mr. Hunt is,
probably, the only poet who could have had the heart to spoil his own
Capo d'Opera.

With the rest of his young people I have no acquaintance, except
through some things of theirs (which have been sent out without my
desire), and I confess that till I had read them I was not aware of
the full extent of human absurdity. Like Garrick's "Ode to
Shakspeare," _they "defy criticism_." These are of the personages who
decry Pope. One of them, a Mr. John Ketch, has written some lines
against him, of which it were better to be the subject than the
author. Mr. Hunt redeems himself by occasional beauties; but the rest
of these poor creatures seem so far gone that I would not "march
through Coventry with them, that's flat!" were I in Mr. Hunt's place.
To be sure, he has "led his ragamuffins where they will be well
peppered;" but a system-maker must receive all sorts of proselytes.
When they have really seen life--when they have felt it--when they
have travelled beyond the far distant boundaries of the wilds of
Middlesex--when they have overpassed the Alps of Highgate, and traced
to its sources the Nile of the New River--then, and not till then,
can it properly he permitted to them to despise Pope; who had, if not
_in Wales_, been _near_ it, when he described so beautifully the
"_artificial_" works of the Benefactor of Nature and mankind, the
"Man of Ross," whose picture, still suspended in the parlour of the
inn, I have so often contemplated with reverence for his memory, and
admiration of the poet, without whom even his own still existing good
works could hardly have preserved his honest renown.

I would also observe to my friend Hunt, that I shall be very glad to
see him at Ravenna, not only for my sincere pleasure in his company,
and the advantage which a thousand miles or so of travel might
produce to a "natural" poet, but also to point out one or two little
things in "Rimini," which he probably would not have placed in his
opening to that poem, if he had ever seen Ravenna;--unless, indeed,
it made "part of his system!!" I must also crave his indulgence for
having spoken of his disciples--by no means an agreeable or
self-sought subject. If they had said nothing of _Pope_, they might
have remained "alone with their glory" for aught I should have said
or thought about them or their nonsense. But if they interfere with
the "little Nightingale" of Twickenham, they may find others who will
bear it--_I_ won't. Neither time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age,
can ever diminish my veneration for him, who is the great moral poet
of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of
existence. The delight of my boyhood, the study of my manhood,
perhaps (if allowed to me to attain it) he may be the consolation of
my age. His poetry is the Book of Life. Without canting, and yet
without neglecting religion, he has assembled all that a good and
great man can gather together of moral wisdom clothed in consummate
beauty. Sir William Temple observes, "that of all the members of
mankind that live within the compass of a thousand years, for one man
that is born capable of making a _great poet_, there may be a
_thousand_ born capable of making as great generals and ministers of
state as any in story." Here is a statesman's opinion of poetry: it
is honourable to him and to the art. Such a "poet of a thousand
years" was _Pope_. A thousand years will roll away before such
another can be hoped for in our literature. But it can _want_
them--he himself is a literature.

One word upon his so brutally abused translation of Homer. "Dr.
Clarke, whose critical exactness is well known, has _not been_ able
to point out above three or four mistakes _in the sense_ through the
whole Iliad. The real faults of the translation are of a different
kind." So says Warton, himself a scholar. It appears by this, then,
that he avoided the chief fault of a translator. As to its other
faults, they consist in his having made a beautiful English poem of a
sublime Greek one. It will always hold. Cowper and all the rest of
the blank pretenders may do their best and their worst: they will
never wrench Pope from the hands of a single reader of sense and
feeling.

The grand distinction of the under forms of the new school of poets
is their _vulgarity_. By this I do not mean that they are _coarse_,
but "shabby-genteel," as it is termed. A man may be _coarse_ and yet
not _vulgar_, and the reverse. Burns is often coarse, but never
_vulgar_. Chatterton is never vulgar, nor Wordsworth, nor the higher
of the Lake school, though they treat of low life in all its
branches. It is in their _finery_ that the new under school are
_most_ vulgar, and they may be known by this at once; as what we
called at Harrow "a Sunday blood" might be easily distinguished from
a gentleman, although his clothes might be the better cut, and his
boots the best blackened, of the two;--probably because he made the
one, or cleaned the other, with his own hands.

In the present case, I speak of writing, not of persons. Of the
latter, I know nothing; of the former, I judge as it is found. Of my
friend Hunt, I have already said, that he is any thing but vulgar in
his manners; and of his disciples, therefore, I will not judge of
their manners from their verses. They may be honourable and
_gentlemanly_ men, for what I know; but the latter quality is
studiously excluded from their publications. They remind me of Mr.
Smith and the Miss Broughtons at the Hampstead Assembly, in
"Evelina." In these things (in private life, at least,) I pretend to
some small experience; because, in the course of my youth, I have
seen a little of all sorts of society, from the Christian prince and
the Mussulman sultan and pacha, and the higher ranks of their
countries, down to the London boxer, the "_flash and the swell_," the
Spanish muleteer, the wandering Turkish dervise, the Scotch
highlander, and the Albanian robber;--to say nothing of the curious
varieties of Italian social life. Far be it from me to presume that
there ever was, or can be, such a thing as an _aristocracy_ of
_poets_; but there _is_ a nobility of thought and of style, open to
all stations, and derived partly from talent, and partly from
education,--which is to be found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Burns,
no less than in Dante and Alfieri, but which is nowhere to be
perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. Hunt's little chorus. If
I were asked to define what this gentlemanliness is, I should say
that it is only to be defined by _examples_--of those who have it,
and those who have it not. In _life_, I should say that most
_military_ men have it, and few _naval_;--that several men of rank
have it, and few lawyers;--that it is more frequent among authors
than divines (when they are not pedants); that _fencing_-masters have
more of it than dancing-masters, and singers than players; and that
(if it be not an Irishism to say so) it is far more generally
diffused among women than among men. In poetry, as well as writing in
general, it will never _make_ entirely a poet or a poem; but neither
poet nor poem will ever be good for any thing without it. It is the
_salt_ of society, and the seasoning of composition. _Vulgarity_ is
far worse than downright _blackguardism_; for the latter comprehends
wit, humour, and strong sense at times; while the former is a sad
abortive attempt at all things, "signifying nothing." It does not
depend upon low themes, or even low language, for Fielding revels in
both;--but is he ever _vulgar_? No. You see the man of education, the
gentleman, and the scholar, sporting with his subject,--its master,
not its slave. Your vulgar writer is always most vulgar, the higher,
his subject; as the man who showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was
wont to say,--"This, gentlemen, is the _eagle_ of the _sun_, from
Archangel, in Russia; the _otterer_ it is, the _igherer_ he flies."
But to the proofs. It is a thing to be felt more than explained. Let
any man take up a volume of Mr. Hunt's subordinate writers, read (if
possible) a couple of pages, and pronounce for himself, if they
contain not the kind of writing which may be likened to
"shabby-genteel" in actual life. When he has done this, let him take
up Pope;--and when he has laid him down, take up the cockney
again--if he can.

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