Notes of a Reader
Reading edition
LORD BYRON'S FIRST LOVE.—NEWSTEAD.
Sir Richard Phillips who has been for some months on a Tour of Inquiry and Observation through the United Kingdom, has just published his First Part, containing Bedfordshire, Northamptonshire, Leicestershire, and part of Nottinghamshire. Sir Richard visited Newstead, and was hospitably entertained by Colonel Wildman. In his "Notes," on this interesting spot, he says,—"While in this vicinity, I heard many particulars of BYRON'S first love, a passion which tinged the whole of his future life. Near Newstead stands Annesley Hall, a house as considerable and venerable as Newstead itself; and the daughter of the owner, Mr. Chaworth, was an heiress of immense fortune, interesting, and amiable, but about four years older than Byron. He fell in love with her, but she had formed an early attachment for Capt. Musters, of the Nottingham militia, whom she married. After she had some children, she fell into a low state of mind, and separation was the consequence; but, on recovering, she was reunited to her husband, and has since borne him several children. She still lives, but has long been in very infirm health. The affair forms the subject of Lord Byron's justly celebrated Dream, printed with the 'Prisoner of Chillon.'
"From the eastern windows of the southern front of Newstead, all the scenery of the poem is visible, except Annesley Hall, which lies over the cape of which he speaks; but there still are trees, and the high point at which he describes the impassioned interview. I read the poem with the objects before me, and was overpowered by the sympathies and recollections which must be familiar to all men, for most men have felt as Byron felt, though few ever portrayed their feelings with such energy of thought and language.
"Night overtaking me at Newstead, the splendid hospitality of Colonel Wildman was kindly exerted, and he indulged a sentimental traveller by allowing me to sleep in Byron's room and Byron's bed. Those who admire Byron, (and for those who do not, I care but little) will participate in the luxury of such a night. The bed is elegantly surmounted with baronial coronets, but it was Byron's and I cared nothing for the coronets, though all the conveniences of the apartment were delightful.
"I will add to these details a fact which will interest many; that the dog which Lord Byron reared in Greece, and the grandson of Boatswain, having been brought home with his body, is still alive at Newstead, cherished for the sake of his master, and respected for his own good qualities."
We shall return to Sir Richard's "Tour" in our next number; for it possesses extraordinary attractions for all classes of readers.
THE ANNUALS.—THE LITERARY SOUVENIR.
TRUE CONSOLATION.
A citizen of Geneva having lost his wife, he, according to the custom of the country, attended the funeral to the cemetery, which is out of the city. Somebody meeting him on his return from this painful ceremony, assumed a sorrowful countenance, and in the tenderest manner possible, asked him how he did. "Oh," replied the widower, "I am very well at present; this little walk has set me up; there is nothing like country air."
HARD RAIN.
Mr. Rae Wilson tells us, that he saw some huge stones of granite on his road to Mecklenburgh, which he says actually seem to have been rained there; in which belief he is strengthened by a story in a Philadelphia newspaper, of "a spitting of stones, which ended in a regular shower at Nashville, in May, 1825!"—There is seldom a good story without its match.
FRENCH PRISON.
A recent letter from Paris gives the following account of the Debtors' Prison, compared with which, it seems, our Fleet is a perfect Arcadia:—Each room contains four beds, small, dirty, and damp; so that the eyes of the unfortunate inmates become red and inflamed; not even a window can be shut to keep out a current of air. If a creditor visits a debtor who wishes to be revenged, the latter has only to cry au loup, when all parties assail the unlucky creditor, and perhaps murder him! Gambling is the great resource of the ignorant, so that frequently those who have only a few pence per day to exist on, are obliged to fast entirely, having anticipated their allowance; many even pawn their coats, and walk about en chemise!
NOLLEKENS.
When Nollekens, the sculptor, was at Rome, in 1760, he was recognised by Garrick with the familiar exclamation of "What! let me look at you, are you the little fellow to whom we gave the prizes at the Society of Arts?" "Yes, Sir," being the answer, Garrick invited him to breakfast the next morning, and sat to him for his bust, for which he paid Nollekens £12. 12s. in gold; this was the first bust he ever modelled. Sterne sat to him when at Rome, and that bust brought him into great notice.
INDIAN TRADITION.
Among the various Indian traditions of the Creation and fall of man is the following:—In the beginning, a few men rose out of the ground, but there was no woman among them. One of them found out a road to heaven, where he met a woman; they offended the Great Spirit, upon which they were both thrust out. They fell on the back of the tortoise; the woman was delivered of male twins; in process of time, one of these twins slew the other.—Dr. Walsh.
THE AGE OF THIRTY.
I always looked to about thirty, as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, and determined to work them out in the younger ore and better veins of the mine; and, I flatter myself, that perhaps, I have pretty well done so, and now the dross is coming, and I love lucre; for we must love something; at least, if I have not quite worked out the others, it is not for want of labouring hard to do so.—Lord Byron, in 1823.
COVENT GARDEN.
Where holy friars told their beads, And nuns confess'd their evil deeds. But, O sad change! O shame to tell, How soon a prey to vice it fell! How—since its justest appellation Is Grand Seraglio to the Nation.
Satire, 1756.
CROSS TIMES.
When everybody was in suspense in consequence of the vacillating conduct of the French government, a gentleman with a determined squint, one day approached Talleyrand, and said to him, "Well, prince, how do affairs go on?" "As you see," replied Talleyrand.
CHANGING HATS.
Barry, the painter, was with Nollekens, at Rome, in 1760, and they were extremely intimate. Barry took the liberty one night when they were about to leave the English coffee-house, to exchange hats with him; Barry's was edged with lace, and Nollekens' was a very shabby plain one. Upon his returning the hat the next morning, he was requested by Nollekens to let him know why he left him his gold-laced hat. "Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Joey," answered Barry, "I fully expected assassination last night; and I was to have been known by my laced hat." Nollekens often used to relate the story, adding, "It's what the Old Bailey people would call a true bill against Jem."—Nollekens's Life and Times.
Napoleon's Roman bed at Malmaison was without curtains, and his arms were hung on the walls of the chamber.
LINES WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY OVER THE BROCKEN.
BY S.T. COLERIDGE.
—————————————— I moved on With low and languid thought, for I had found That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms Where the eye vainly wanders, nor beholds One spot with which the heart associates Holy remembrances of child or friend, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country. O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, Oh "dear, dear" England, how my longing eyes Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs! Sweet native isle, This heart was proud, yea, mine eyes swam with tears To think of thee; and all the goodly view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim.
Amulet for 1829.
We wish a few more of the tourists who are picking their way over the continent, would illustrate their books of travels with such noble sentiments as are contained in these few lines—instead of the querulous whinings about cheap and dear living, the miseries of our climate, and a thousand other ills of the malade imaginaire.
Madame De Souza used to say that "cleanliness is the excellence of the poor."