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'books to-morrow. Luckily this room will hold 'them-with "ample room and verge, &c. the charac'ters of hell to trace." I must set about some em'ployment soon; my heart begins to eat itself again. 'April 8th.
'Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedes'tal; the thieves are in Paris. It is his own fault. 'Like Milo, he would rend the oak*; but it closed ' again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts-lion, 'bear, down to the dirtiest jackall—may all tear him. "That Muscovite winter wedged his arms;-ever since,
he has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may 'still leave their marks; and "I guess now" (as the 'Yankies say) that he will yet play them a pass. He 6 is in their rear-between them and their homes. 'Query-will they ever reach them?
•Saturday, April 9th, 1814.
'I mark this day!
Napoleon Buonaparte has abdicated the throne of 'the world. "Excellent well." Methinks Sylla did
better; for he revenged, and resigned in the height ' of his sway, red with the slaughter of his foes-the 'finest instance of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Dioclesian did well too-Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a dervise'Charles the Fifth but so so-but Napoleon, worst of 'all. What! wait till they were in his capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up what is already gone!! "What whining monk art thou-what holy 'cheat?" 'Sdeath!-Dionysius at Corinth was yet a king to this. The "Isle of Elba " to retire to!
He adopted this thought afterwards in his Ode to Napoleon, as well as most of the historical examples in the following paragraph.
Well-if it had been Caprea, I should have mar'velled less. "I see men's minds are but a parcel of 'their fortunes." I am utterly bewildered and con' founded.
'I don't know-but I think I, even I (an insect compared with this creature), have set my life on 'casts not a millionth part of this man's. But, after 'all, a crown may be not worth dying for. ' outlive Lodi for this!!! Oh that Juvenal or Johnson " could rise from the dead! 66 Expende-quot libras ' in duce summo invenies?" I knew they were light in 'the balance of mortality; but I thought their living 'dust weighed more carats. Alas! this imperial dia'mond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to stick ' in a glazier's pencil:-the pen of the historian won't 'rate it worth a ducat.
"Psha!" something too much of this." But I 'won't give him up even now; though all his admirers have, "like the Thanes, fallen from him."
'I do not know that I am happiest when alone; but this I am sure of, that I never am long in the 'society even of her I love (God knows too well, and the Devil probably too), without a yearning for the company of my lamp and my utterly confused and 'tumbled-over library*. Even in the day, I send
away my carriage oftener than I use or abuse it. 'Per esempio,-I have not stirred out of these rooms
for these four days past: but I have sparred for 'exercise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, 'to attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me.
*As much company,' says Pope, as I have kept, and as much as I love it, I love reading better, and would rather be employed in reading
than in the most agreeable conversation.'
"The more violent the fatigue, the better my spirits 'for the rest of the day; and then, my evenings have 'that calm nothingness of languor, which I most delight in. To-day I have boxed one hour-written 'an ode to Napoleon Buonaparte-copied it-eaten 'six biscuits-drunk four bottles of soda water'redde away the rest of my time-besides giving poor ** a world of advice about this mistress of his who is plaguing him into a phthisic and intolerable ' tediousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about "the sect." No matter, my counsels are all 'thrown away.
April 19th, 1814. There is ice at both poles, north and south-all extremes are the same-misery belongs to the highest and the lowest only,-to the emperor and the beggar, when unsixpenced and unthroned. There is, to be sure, a damned insipid medium-an equinoctial line-no one knows where, except upon maps and
"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
'I will keep no further journal of that same hesternal torch-light; and, to prevent me from returning, like
a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remain
ing leaves of this volume, and write, in Ipecacuanha, "that the Bourbons are restored!!!" "Hang up philosophy." To be sure, I have long despised myself and man, but I never spat in the face of my species before-"O fool! I shall go mad.",
The perusal of this singular Journal having made the reader acquainted with the chief occurrences that marked the present period of his history-the publi
cation of the Corsair, the attacks upon him in the newspapers, &c.-there only remains for me to add his correspondence at the same period, by which the moods and movements of his mind, during these events, will be still further illustrated.
TO MR. MURRAY.
•Sunday, Jan. 2, 1814.
Excuse this dirty paper-it is the penultimate 'half-sheet of a quire. Thanks for your book and the 'Ln. Chron., which I return. The Corsair is copied, ' and now at Lord Holland's; but I wish Mr. Gifford 'to have it to-night.
Mr. Dallas is very perverse; so that I have offended 'both him and you, when I really meaned to do good,
at least to one, and certainly not to annoy either*.
*He had made a present of the copyright of The Corsair' to Mr. Dallas, who thus describes the manner in which the gift was bestowed:
- On the 28th of December, I called in the morning on Lord Byron, whom I found composing "The Corsair." He had been working upon it but a few days, and he read me the portion he had written. After some observations, he said, "I have a great mind-I will." He then ' added that he should finish it soon, and asked me to accept of the copyright. I was much surprised. He had, before he was aware of the I value of his works, declared that he never would take money for them, and that I should have the whole advantage of all he wrote. This 'declaration became morally void when the question was about thousands, instead of a few hundreds; and I perfectly agree with the admired and admirable author of Waverley, that "the wise and good accept 'not gifts which are made in heat of blood, and which may be after repented of."-I felt this on the sale of "Childe Harold," and observed it to him. The copyright of "The Giaour" and "The Bride of Aby'dos" remained undisposed of, though the poems were selling rapidly, nor had I the slightest notion that he would ever again give me a copyright. But as he continued in the resolution of not appropriating the 'sale of his works to his own use, I did not scruple to accept that of "The 'Corsair," and I thanked him. He asked me to call and hear the por ́tions read as he wrote them. I went every morning, and was astonished at the rapidity of his composition. He gave me the Poem complete on 'New-year's day, 1814, saying, that my acceptance of it gave him great pleasure, and that I was fully at liberty to publish it with any bookseller I pleased, independent of the profit.'
Out of this last-mentioned permission arose the momentary embarrass
'But I shall manage him, I hope.-I am pretty con'fident of the Tale itself; but one cannot be sure. If 'I get it from Lord Holland, it shall be sent. Yours, ' &c.'
'I will answer your letter this evening: in the 'meantime, it may be sufficient to say, that there was no intention on my part to annoy you, but merely to
serve Dallas, and also to rescue myself from a possi'ble imputation that I had other objects than fame in writing so frequently. 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.
'P.S. I shall answer this evening, and will set all right about Dallas. I thank you for your expressions ' of personal regard, which I can assure you I do not lightly value.'
TO MR. MURRAY.
TO MR. MOORE.
January 6th, 1814.
'I have got a devil of a long story in the press, 'entitled "The Corsair," in the regular heroic mea
sure. It is a pirate's isle, peopled with my own 'creatures, and you may easily suppose they do a 'world of mischief through the three Cantos. Now 'for your Dedication—if you will accept it. This is positively my last experiment on public literary opi'nion, till I turn my thirtieth year,-if so be I flourish ' until that downhill period. I have a confidence for
ment between the noble poet and his publisher, to which the above notes allude,