LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF LORD BYRON, WITH NOTICES OF HIS LIFE,
from February, 1814, to April, 1817.Pg 1
"JOURNAL, 1814.
"February 18.
"Better than a month since I last journalised:—most of it out of Londonand at Notts., but a busy one and a pleasant, at least three weeks ofit. On my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics[1], Pg 2and townin an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on PrincessCharlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 1812. They aredaily at it still;—some of the abuse good, all of it hearty. They talkof a motion in our House upon it—be it so.
"Got up—redde the Morning Post, containing the battle of Buonaparte,the destruction of the Custom-house, and a paragraph on me as long as mypedigree, and vituperative, as usual.
"Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best friend, the most lively,and a man of the most sterling talents extant.
"'The Corsair' has been conceived, written, published, &c. since I lasttook up this journal. They tell me it has great success;—it was writtencon amore, and much from existence. Murray is satisfied with itsprogress; and if the public are equally so with the perusal, there's anend of the matter.
"Nine o'clock.
"Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers, and had a note from LadyMelbourne, who says, itPg 3 is said I am 'much out of spirits.' I wonder ifI really am or not? I have certainly enough of 'that perilous stuffwhich weighs upon the heart,' and it is better they should believe it tobe the result of these attacks than of the real cause; but—ay, ay,always but, to the end of the chapter.
"Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of Napoleon, all good andtrue. My friend H. is the most entertaining of companions, and a finefellow to boot.
"Redde a little—wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Lockesays, is bad company. 'Be not solitary, be not idle.'—Um!—the idlenessis troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. Themore I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of womentoo, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; mypassions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough towither them,—and yet—and yet—always yet and but—'Excellent well,you are a fishmonger—get thee to a nunnery.'—'They fool me to the topof my bent.'
"Midnight.
"Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde—but to littlepurpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as I promised and ought. No matter, theloss is mine. Smoked cigars.
"Napoleon!—this week will decide his fate. All seems against him; but Ibelieve and hope he will win—at least, beat back the invaders. Whatright have we to prescribe sovereigns to France? Oh forPg 4 a Republic!'Brutus, thou sleepest.' Hobhouse abounds in continental anecdotes ofthis extraordinary man; all in favour of his intellect and courage, butagainst his bonhommie. No wonder;—how should he, who knows mankindwell, do other than despise and abhor them?
"The greater th