"ACTION AND BLOOD NOW GET THE GAME" 127 I by no means rank poetry or poets high in the scale of intellect. This may look like affectation, but it is my real opinion. It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake. They say poets rarely or never go mad. Cowper and Collins are instances to the contrary (but Cowper was no poet). It is, however, to be remarked that they rarely do, but are generally so near it that I cannot help thinking rhyme is so far useful in anticipating and preventing the disorder. I prefer the talents of action -of war, or the senate, or even of science,—to all the speculations of those mere dreamers of another existence (I don't mean religiously but fancifully) and spectators of this apathy. Disgust and perhaps incapacity have rendered me now a mere spectator; but I have occasionally mixed in the active and tumultuous departments of existence, and in these alone my recollection rests with any satisfaction, though not the best parts of it. (1813, November 10, Correspondence with Miss Milbanke. Letter 5, Vol. III., p. 405.) Redde the Ruminator-a collection of Essays, by a strange, but able, old man (Sir Egerton Brydges), and a half-wild young one, author of a poem on the Highlands, called Childe Alarique. The word "sensibility" (always my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays; and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discontent. This young man can know nothing of life; and, if he cherishes the disposition which runs through his papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after all, which he seems determined to be. God help him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might have all been agents and leaders, now mere spectators. For, though they may have other ostensible avocations, these last are reduced to a secondary consideration. (1813, November 23. "Journal, 1813-1814," Vol. II., p. 337.) Sharpe (a man of elegant mind, and who has lived much with the best-Fox, Horne Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agitators of other times and tongues,) told us the particulars of his last interview with Windham, a few days before the fatal operation which sent "that gallant spirit to aspire the skies." Windham, the first in one department of oratory and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond the intellect of half his hearers,-Windham, half his life an active participator in the events of the earth, and one of those who governed nations,—he regretted, and dwelt much on that regret, that “he had not entirely devoted himself to literature and science!!!" His mind certainly would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere;-but I cannot comprehend what debility of that mind could suggest such a wish. I, who have heard him, cannot regret any thing but that I shall never hear him again. What would he have been a plodder? a metaphysician? perhaps a rhymer? a scribbler? Such an exchange must have been suggested by illness. WRITERS VERSUS AGENTS 129 But he is gone, and Time “shall not look upon his like again." (1813, November 24. "Journal, 1813-1814," Vol. II., p. 341.) Rogers thinks the Quarterly will attack me next. Let them. I have been "peppered so highly" in my time, both ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. I can sincerely say, that I am not very much alive now to criticism. But-in tracing this-I rather believe that it proceeds from my not attaching that importance to authorship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. "One gets tired of every thing, my angel," says Valmont. The "angels" are the only things of which I am not a little sick-but I do think the preference of writers to agents-the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by themselves and others—a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, who had any thing better to do? "Action-actionaction," said Demosthenes : "Actions-actions," I say, and not writing,-least of all, rhyme. Look at the querulous and monotonous lives of the "genus; except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, Kleist (who were brave and active citizens), Eschylus, Sophocles, and some other of the antiques also-what a worthless, idle brood it is! (1813, November 24. "Journal, 1813-1814,” Vol. II., p. 344.) Campbell 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 I 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." Campbell 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 Mount Blanc or Chimborazo, without my envy of their elevation. (1813, December 6. "Journal, 1813-1814," Vol. II., p. 365.) Redde the Quarrels of Authors (another sort of sparring)-a new work, by that most entertaining and researching writer, Israeli. They seem to be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. "I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat." What the devil had I to do with scribbling? It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. But, an it were to do again,-I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share of it;-though I shall think better of myself, if I have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son-by any body--I will bring up mine heir in the most anti THE COPYRIGHT OF THE CORSAIR 131 poetical way-make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or— any thing. But, if he writes too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him off with a Bank token. (1814, March 17. "Journal, 1813-1814," Vol. II., p. 401.) I will answer your letter this evening; in the mean time, it may be sufficient to be sufficient to say, that [in giving Dallas the copyright of The Corsair, with permission to dispose of the poem to any bookseller he pleased] there was no intention on my part to annoy you, but merely to serve Dallas, and also to rescue myself from a possible imputation that I had other objects than fame in writing so frequently. Whenever I avail myself of any profit arising from my pen, depend upon it, it is not for my own convenience; at least it never has been so, and I hope never will. (1814, January. Letter 381, to John Murray, Vol. III., p. 2.) . I have redde Roncesvaux with very great pleasure, and (if I were so disposed) see very little room for criticism. Only if you wish to have all the success you deserve, never listen to friends, and—as I am not the least troublesome of the number-least of all to me. (1814, January. Letter 385, It doubtless gratifies me much that our Finale has pleased, and that the Curtain drops gracefully [on The Corsair]. You deserve it should, for your promptitude and good nature in arranging im |