Byroniana53
By favour of a friend just arrived from the Mediterranean we have received exclusively some most interesting papers relative to Lord Byron; they consist of anecdotes, which have never been known, and some original letters, which have never been out of the hands of the individual by whom we are favoured. Some of his Lordship’s more recent conversations are detailed, which will be found highly amusing and characteristic. We submit a few extracts, which we trust will prove acceptable to our readers.
“Lord Byron,” says our correspondent, “had several peculiarities; he reduced himself from corpulency to the contrary extreme, by eating raisins, and occasionally sipping brandy. He used frequently to observe that brandy was a very ardent spirit, and remarked that to persons anxious to conceal the strength of their potations, hollands was better adapted, inasmuch as being of a similar colour with the water, the quantity mixed with that liquid was less easily detectable by the eye.
“Lord Byron was perhaps more sensible of approaching changes in the weather than any other man living. One day, on a voyage to Athens to eat beef-steaks, a dark cloud appeared to windward of the vessel; his Lordship regarded it steadily for some time, until at length, feeling a few drops of rain fall, he called to Fletcher to bring his cloak, so certain he was of an approaching shower. Byron always slept with his eyes closed, and if by any accident he lay on his back, snored remarkably loud; he was very particular in his toothpicks, and generally used those of a peculiar kind of wood, in preference to quills.
“In writing letters of an ordinary cast, his style was plain, clear, and perspicuous; a specimen follows, it is addressed to a friend:—
Tuesday.
‘Dear ——,
Will you dine with me to-morrow?—
Yours truly,
Noel Byron.’
The next is to a person who had been recommended to his notice, and whom he felt it necessary to invite. We suppress the name of the party, lest Mr. Hobhouse should get an injunction.
‘Lord Byron’s compliments to Mr. ——, requests the pleasure of his company at dinner on Wednesday next.’
“These sort of notes he would secure indiscriminately with wafers or wax, as the case might be.
“One day conversing with him upon the state of Greece, and the great struggle in which we were all engaged, he observed to me, ‘that a very small proportion of the population of London had been in the Archipelago.’ When I assented, he said—with a sigh which went to my heart, and in a tone which I shall never forget—‘It would be very strange if they had.’
“He had a strong antipathy to pork when underdone or stale, and nothing could induce him to partake of fish which had been caught more than ten days—indeed, he had a singular dislike even to the smell of it; some of his observations upon this subject will be given in a new quarto work about to be published by a very eminent bookseller.
“He spoke of Harrow with strong feelings of affection, and of the lovely neighbours of Dr. Bowen—(who they were he carefully concealed from us)—they were tenants of the same house with the late Duke of Dorset, who was Byron’s fag. To a lady of the name of Enoch, who lived in a cottage at Roxeth, he had addressed some of his early productions, but had destroyed them. He used to ask me why Mr. Procter called himself Cornwall? ‘he might as well call himself Cumberland,’ said Byron, with his accustomed acumen.
“It has been remarked that Byron spoke of his own child with affection. Strange and unnatural as this may appear, it is literally the fact. It seems, however, to have excited so much surprise, that it is absolutely necessary to be particular in impressing the truth upon the British nation, who are so deeply interested in everything which relates to the immortal poet departed.
“The poem which he wrote upon the close of his thirty-sixth year has been published and republished so often, that we do not think it worth printing here. But the observation made by its great author to our correspondent is curious and striking:—
“‘I have written these verses on closing my thirty-sixth year,’ said Byron. ‘I was always superstitious—thirty-six is an ominous number—four times nine are thirty-six; three times twelve are thirty-six; the figures thirty-six are three and six—six and three make nine, so do five and four’—he paused and said—‘Mrs. Williams, the old lady who told my fortune, is right. The chances are, I shall not live six and thirty years more.’ The fact has proved that he was not ungifted with the power of divination.
“Byron died, as I have just said, in his thirty-sixth year. What makes this coincidence the more curious is, that if he had lived till January, 1844, he would have completed his fifty-sixth, a circumstance which, curious as it is, we believe has not been noticed by any of his biographers.
“I once proposed to him to take a companion on a tour he was about to make; he answered me snappishly—‘No; Hobhouse once went with me on a tour—I had enough of him. No more travelling companions for me.’
“He used frequently to compare himself to Buonaparte—so did we, to please him. Buonaparte had a head, so had Byron, so has Mr. Hayne of Burderop Park, Wilts, so has a pin; he was tickled with the comparison, and we lived with him, and swallowed toads at discretion.
“Moore, the author of the ‘Fudge Family,’ was a great favourite of Byron’s; he had not discovered that it was Moore who persuaded Hunt—the man who made Rimini—that he was a mighty clever fellow, and that if he set up a periodical work, he (Moore) would contribute to it: Moore constantly abused Hunt to Byron at the same time—called him a stupid Cockney, and swore that Byron was ruining himself by associating with him. This was kind and liberal, and justifies what Douglas Kinnaird and everybody else indeed say of Moore just now—Byron would not have liked Moore the better for this—poor Hunt had a wife and children, and was in needy circumstances, and Byron did them great service—and what harm could Hunt do Byron, or anybody else?
“The Greeks think Byron will come to life again after a while, and one poet in the Chronicle, probably Moore, talks of having seen his manes in George-street, Westminster, and of the possibility of his yet wandering about Greece, in a white dressing-gown, singing ‘Liberty Hall;’ but I, who know Byron well, and all his expectations, doubt the fact. I was surprised to find, considering how right and fashionable it is to praise my departed friend, that his wife declined seeing his body, and all his family declined attending his funeral.
“He told me one night that —— told —— that if —— would only —— him ——. She would —— without any compunction; for her ——, who though an excellent man, was no ——, and that she never ——, and this she told —— and —— as well as Lady —— herself. Byron told me this in confidence, and I may be blamed for repeating it; but —— can corroborate it if he happens not to be gone to ——.”