Image - Lord Byron’s ‘Don Juan’

December 21, 2018December 21, 2018

Skin in the Game

Lobby Loungers (Drury Lane Theatre — Cruikshank): Byron and other men of fashion ogle pretty actresses or courtesans, who stand in a group, as if on show. Byron (left), head in profile to the right, wears a double-breasted blue coat (with a star) buttoned to the waist and with tails, a high collar and stock, and loose trousers. His loosely curling hair parted at the side is in contrast with the ugly shock-headed appearance of the other men. In his pocket is a paper: ‘Corsair [1814] Farewell &c by Lord Byron’. He gazes fixedly at Mrs. Mardyn, a handsome woman, holding a large muff.

Byron found his most innovative and brilliant form in the discursive, comic, first-person “performance” of Don Juan. Here and there it roamed the outer limits of satire and of taste, as he knew; his verse turned the knife as it ripped into “cant”. He thought he could rely on his readers’ acceptance of his energetic vulgarities and skeptical jokes because they were true-to-life. When Murray, in March 1819, said that his ‘court’ of advisors “ [deplored] that a Man of your genius will not occupy some Six or Eight years in the composition of a Work & Subject worthy of you – “ Byron shot back:

– is Childe Harold nothing? you have so many “divine” poems, is it nothing to have written a Human one? without any of your worn out machinery.

If readers did not accept his poetry, he haughtily insisted he did not care:

– – As to the Estimation of the English which you talk of, <have> let them calculate what it is worth before they insult me with their insolent condescension. – – I have not written for their pleasure; – if they are pleased – it is that they chose to be so, – I have never flattered their opinions – nor their pride – nor will I. – Neither will I make “Ladies books” “al dilettar le femine e la plebe” – I have written from the fullness of my mind, from passion – from impulse – from many motives – but not for their “sweet voices.” – I know the precise worth of popular applause – for few Scribblers have had more of it – and if I chose to swerve into their paths – I could retain it or resume it – or increase it – but I neither love ye – nor fear ye – and though I buy with ye – and sell with ye – and talk with ye – I will neither eat with ye – drink with ye – nor pray with ye. – – – [Byron to Murray, 6 April 1819; the last sentence echoing Shylock in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice]

He did care, of course, deeply; Don Juan is filled with ruminations on fame, literary and otherwise. Exile was escape from the mark of sin: Fame would be his justification. Still, unluckily for Byron, his poem reached the public just at the moment when popular taste was about to become much less tolerant of precisely the sort of Regency “looseness” that Don Juan and Byron’s own reputation represented.

Murray’s pleas to Byron to drop the most “offensive” passages in Cantos I & II are often attributed to his squeamishness and to the parson-powered⁠ ¹ ‘synod’ (Byron’s term) who advised him, particularly the Editor of the Quarterly Review and other Murray publications, William Gifford.

But Murray’s recommendations deserve more respect as evidence of the publishing environment and not just of his own disposition. After all, he had “skin in the game”. Byron was his most prominent “property”: his own reptuation and profit had been directly linked to Byron’s literary popularity and poetic renown for a decade. Whatever we think — looking back from two centuries later — of the timerousness of his suggested changes to Don Juan, we still should take seriously his claims about Byron’s likely reception in 1819.

A publisher’s relations with a brillant but brittle-tempered celebrity author (one of the first and greatest of this genre), self-exiled to the other end of a two-or-three-week correspondence delay were never likely to be easy. Byron’s correspondence is rapid, un-restrained — often thoughtless or, at best, careless about others’ interests — and impatient. Murry’s replies are late, incomplete and patient to the point of grovelling to His Lordship’s peculiarities. But he had his limits. Publishers must be ready, sometimes, to lead public taste; but not by too far if they want to stay in business. John Murray had the added challenge of launching this new, confronting work from Byron into a uniquely difficult environment.

Although Byron’s attacks on the policies and the personalities of the Liverpool government might have consorted with some radical, Whig and even popular opinion, the “morality” of the poem was more difficult to sell. Literary readers such as Croker and Crabbe were not much disturbed by the events such as the bedroom farce or cannibalism or sex-on-the-sand in the narrative of the first two Cantos of Don Juan. But Murray reasonably feared that his wider market would be less forgiving of Byron’s disdain for Church (if not for religion) and his jokes about sexual misbehavior and references to his own reputation, after 1815, for marital infidelity (and worse).

The upheaval in British politics and society over the years of 1819–1820 saw middle-class values and expectations confronted by the repressive behavior of a Government losing legitimacy and a lazy, profligate, adulterous King. Reaction to the first helped build a platform for reform of the parliamentary ‘constitution’ in the following decade. The second tended to consolidate support for, at first, “feminst” values of respect for marriage and the still subordinate rights of women. A new middle class ‘respectibilty’ installed itself sometime around the 1820s and settled, eventually, into the conservative, prudish, stuffy domesticity that we call ‘Victorian’ taste and that Matthew Arnold would describe, forty years later, as “philistinism”.

The discomfort Murray and his circle expressed with Don Juan from the outset — and his refusal to publish any more after 1822 — reveal more than just “prissy” individual values. Events in England had made it difficult to separate Byron’s satire, “blasphemies” and attacks on the government and the (former) King from a political platform neither he nor Murray endorsed. Moreover, the bourgeois literary market that Murray increasinly served had little tolerance for the kinds of personal license in maters of religion, family or (sexual) behavior that Byron, and members of his class, had indulged a decade earlier.

December 11, 2018December 12, 2018

Don Juan sells despite Murray’s fears

A cartoon from 1823 of Byron in Venice, inspired by a small devil sitting on his shoulder, "scratching up ideas" for his poems. — “A noble poet, scratching up his ideas” (1823): Byron sits at a table writing on a sheet headed Il Liberale; he looks up for inspiration, scratching his head; this is also scratched by a web-winged, goat-legged Devil (‘Old Scratch’) who perches on the back of his chair, his left talons on the poet’s shoulder. Byron, not caricatured, is directed to the left and wears a flowered dressing-gown with ungartered stockings. One of his many dogs (of spaniel type), its collar inscribed [By]ron., lies looking up at him, also scratching its head, one paw on a volume of Don Juan. The table is in a wide-open window, through which is seen a composite view of Venice

When Cantos I and II of Don Juan were being prepared for the press, it was chiefly Murray’s advisers — especially Gifford — who kept up the lament about “so much beauty, so wantonly & perversely disfigured” by verses such as 129 and 130 of Canto I that make jokes about cow-pox and syphilis and the parody of the Ten Commandments in Stanzas 205–206 of Canto I.

“Every one laments therefore in a tenfold degree the few passages which merely in kindness to your friends it was hoped you would have suffered to be replaced by others in which you would have excited delight only… Do me the favour to make every improvement that you can upon the two first Cantos of Don Juan & let me bring out the new Edition in great force in the winter – In the opinion of the best Critics the larger portion of them surpass all that you have written & the rest is deserving therefore of re-casting or at least of re-consideration” (Murray to Byron, 23 July 1819)

Murray pleaded with Byron to authorise cuts that could be incorporated in the re-issued editions, which he presumably had intended to publish under Byron’s name in his own imprint. But Byron would have none of it:

You are right – Gifford is right – Crabbe is right – Hobhouse is right – you are all right – and I am all wrong – but do pray let me have that pleasure. – Cut me up root and branch; quarter me in the Quarterly – send round my “disjecti membra poetae” like those of the Levite’s Concubine – make me – if you will – a spectacle to men and angels – but don’t ask me to alter for I can’t – I am obstinate and lazy – and there’s the truth. – – – (Byron to Murray, 12 August, 1819)

By late 1819 the fears in Murray’s office about the critical response were begining to sound more plausible. In August, Blackwoods Magazine (known in the industry as “Blackguards..” according to Murray) published an hysterical hatchet-job on the Cantos:

“…in the composition of which there unquestionably a more thorough intense infusion of genius and vice, power and profligacy, than in any which had ever before been written the English or indeed in any modern language… Love, honour, patriotism, religion are mentioned only to be scoffed at and derided as if their sole resting place were or ought to be in the bosoms of fools. It appears in short as if this miserable man having exhausted every species of sensual gratification having drained the cup of sin even to its bitterest dregs, were resolved to shew us that he is no longer a human being even in his frailties but a cool unconcerned fiend, laughing with a detestable glee over the whole of the better and worse elements of which human life is composed…” (Blackwoods Magazine, August 1819)

Taking the actual verse only as a point of departure, the review dreged-up a version of the rumors that had surrounded the Byron separation three years earlier, exaggerated into melodrama:

“…It would not be an easy matter to persuade any Man who has any knowledge of the nature of Woman, that a female such as Lord Byron has himself described his wife to be, would rashly or hastily or lightly separate herself from the love which she had once been inspired for such a man as he is, or was. Had he not heaped insult upon insult and scorn upon scorn — had he not forced the iron of his contempt into her very soul — there is no woman of delicacy and virtue as he admitted Lady Byron to be who would not have hoped all things and suffered all things from one, her love of whom must been inwoven with so many exalting elements of delicious pride and delicious humility. To offend the love of such a woman was wrong but might be forgiven; to desert her unmanly — but he might have and wiped for ever from her eyes the tears of her desertion; but to injure and to desert and then to turn back and wound her widowed privacy with unhallowed strains of cold-blooded mockery — was brutally fiendishly mean.” (Ibid.)

It was only the earliest and most intemperate of many similar criticisms of the close association of poetic beauty (”genius”) and vice in the verse that followed over the next few years in the literary press. From Ravenna, Byron dashed off several pages of injured and somewhat specious rebuttal, assorted with renewed attack on Southey the Lakers, but eventually decided not to respond.

“It really is a mistaken notion…”

Murray tried to jolly Bryon along, noting that the poem sold well owning to its “genius”, despite the crticism

“It really is a mistaken notion that Don Juan has not been well received – the Sale has been lessened by an outrageous outcry against some parts of it but its estimation in point of Genius carries your Lordship higher than ever & its circulation will be every day increasing.” (Murray to Byron on 16 November, 1819)

Although Murray — no doubt to his surprise — eventually won an injunction against the pirates, he did not press it to enforce his copyright over Don Juan. The reason he gave is that he would have to reaveal the name of the author: which hardly seems a dramatic revelation given that Byron’s authorship was an open secret.

The stronger reasons were, no doubt, commercial. Murray admitted that he could still make a tidy profit by bringing out a more affordable quasi-authorized edition, even if he had to throw in a “Glass of Gin” with every purchase. Still, it’s clear he was not keen to release them under his own imprint because he remained uncomfortatble with their content. He refused Byron’s offer to return the money he had paid for the copyright and asked for more Cantos, too (Byron had completed Cantos III and IV in November 1819).

“I admire the poem beyond all measure & am supported in this estimation by every man of judgment in the kingdom – who wish for a few alterations merely to give wings to the rest & so far am I indisposed to receive back the Copy Money – that I would not take double the sum if it were offered to me – the pirate edition is not countenanced by the booksellers & if it were or had any important sale I would sell mine for nothing & give every purchaser a Glass of Gin into the bargain… my process [enforcing the injunction against the radical publishers] was abandoned the moment I found that the authors name must be given up – wch is rather absurd for this puts an end to all anonymous writing – if a rascal chooses to print Waverley for instance – the bookseller <ca> or proprietor can have no redress unless he disclose the name of the Author [ie. Sir Walter Scott]. I have printed Don in 8 vo to match the other Poems & again in a Smaller form – the latter not yet published – of the Octavo I have sold 3000 Copies so you see we have circulation in us – I want nothing so much as a third & fourth Canto which I entreat you to compleat for me as progressive to the remaining Twelve… therefore Moore – I pray you Moore – “it is the universal decision that in beauties Don Juan surpasses all that has preceded it” – Can you keep up to this?” (Murray to Byron 24 Jan 1820)

Two years later, however, Murray’s enthusiasm for Don Juan had evaporated. When in 1821 he finally, reluctantly released Cantos III-V — with many errors in the text — he again included only the printer’s name, refusing the “countenance” of his own name.

Byron was angry about the delay, the errors and the “disparagement”.

“Murray – you are an excellent fellow –a little variable – & somewhat of the opinion of every body you talk with – (particularly the last person you see) but a good fellow for all that – yet nevertheless – I can’t tell you that I think you have acted very gallantly by that persecuted book – which has made it’s way entirely by itself – without the light of your countenance – or any kind of encouragement – critical – or bibliopolar. – You disparaged the last three cantos to me – & kept them back {above} a year – but I have heard from England – that (notwithstanding the errors of the press) they are well thought of -“ (Byron to Murray, 3 November 1821)

Within a year Byron had moved to another publisher.

December 6, 2018December 6, 2018

Early reception of Don Juan

“**My Wife!**” George IV, in the title role of *Mozart’s opera* surprised by the sudden arrival of his wife, Caroline, as Donna Anna, lately returned from Italy, during the wedding feast scene, at which a number of bare breasted women are present; on the left, Lord Castlereagh, playing the role of Leporello, holds a long list of the King’s female conquests. **Click** for a larger size.

When the first two Cantos of Don Juan appeared on 15 July, 1819, readers immediately guessed — many had anticipated — the the authorship. The next day, the Morning Post carried a brief article sub-titled “Lord Byron’s New Poem of ‘Don Juan’”.

Still, the anonymity of Murray’s publication and the increasing severity of government censorship implied the publisher knew the poem, if not suppressed, might be found blasphemous or possibly seditious and denied copyright. A recent bizarre Court decision on Southey’s pirated “Wat Tyler” (a revolutionary drama from Southey’s radical youth) confirmed that such material would not be protected by the Courts or dignified by copyright. Such offending works were, consequently, liable to widespread distribution in cheap “pirated” editions; precisely the opposite of the Crown’s intention.

Within a week the Radical press had taken notice. William Hone, a well known pamphleteer, rushed out a tract highlighting the blasphemy and immortality of the verse — with examples — while enlisting Byron’s its publication in his own, thus far successful, attacks on censorship.The first complete rip-offs of Don Juan probably appeared (they are undated) within a month or so: the first an edition by Onwhyn, a radical publisher that, at four shillings in Octavo format, was one-eighth the price of Murray’s Quarto edition.¹ By October 1819, Murray was obliged to follow suit with an Octavo version at nine shillings and sixpence in order to hold onto the continuing strong market for Byron.

The early critical reaction to the poems — like the fist reactions of Byron’s friends — was marked by enthusiasm and admiration, only moderately qualified by admissions of moral ‘license’. The Morning Post article mentioned above offered a pre-emptive defence of the poem that anticipated with remarkable accuracy the attacks that would follow; setting its readers’ minds at ease while coyly, however, not recommending the purchase of the book:

“The greatest anxiety having been excited with respect to the appearance of this Poem, we shall lay a few stanzas before our readers, merely observing that, whatever its character, report has been completely erroneous respecting it. If it is not (and truth compels us to admit it is not) the most moral production in the world, but more in the “Beppo” style, yet is there nothing of the sort which Scandal with her hundred toungues whispered abroad, and malignity joyfully believed and repeated, contained in it. ’Tis simply a tale and right merrie conceit, flighty, wild, extravagant — immoral too, it must be confessed; but no arrows are levelled at innocent bosoms, no sacred family peace invaded; and they must have a strange self-consciousness who can discover their own portait in any part of it. Thus much, though we cannot advocate the book, truth and justice ordain us to declare…” (The Morning Post, Friday 16 July, 1819)

The conservative ciritc, parliamentarian and Admiralty Secretary, John Wilson Croker — whose mean review in the Quarterly Review of Keats’ Endymion was held by Shelley, at least, to have hastened the poet’s death — wrote to Murray, three days after the first publication

“I am agreeably disappointed at finding ‘Don Juan’ very little offensive. It is by no means worse than ‘Childe Harold,’ which it resembles as comedy does tragedy. There is a prodigious power of versification in it, and a great deal of very good pleasantry. There is also some magnificent poetry, and the shipwreck, though too long, and in parts very disgusting, is on the whole finely described. In short, I think it will not lose him any character as a poet, and, on the score of morality, I confess it seems a more innocent production than ‘Childe Harold’”

Two days after publication, in the conservative Literary Gazette, William Jerdan declared Don Juan to be “an exceedingly clever and entertaining poem,” that was “witty if a little licentious, and delightful if not very moral,”. He concluded that Byron’s “defence of the morality of his work is so good-humoured that we must wish it more sound, and after all forgive him.”

The Examiner, a reform newspaper started by the the brothers John and Leigh Hunt (later publishers of Cantos V-XVI) printed a lengthy review three months after the publication — when the work was already being pirated. Possbily written by Leigh Hunt, it offered high praise and a psychological interpretation of the novel style of the poem.

“Some persons consider this the finest work of Lord Byron, or at least that in which he displays most power. It is at all events the most extraordinary that he has yet published. …The ground-work (if we may so speak of a stile) is the satirical and humorous; but you are sometimes surprised and moved by a touching piece of human nature, and again startled and pained by the sudden transition from loveliness or grandeur to ridicule or the mock-heroic….
It is not difficult to account for this heterogeneous mixture, for the bard has furnished us with the key to his own mind. His early hopes were blighted; and his disappointment vents itself in satirizing absurdities which rouse his indignation… But his genius is not naturally satyrical; he breaks out therefore into those frequent veins of passion and true feeling of which we have just given specimens… and it is to get rid of such painful and “thick coming” recollections that he dashes away and relieves himself by getting into another train of ideas, however incongruous or violently contrasted with the former…

The Examiner defended what had been called “immorality” as an accurate depiction of life rather than models of behvior:

Don Juan is accused of being en a “immoral work” which we cannot at all discover… If stupid and selfish parents will make up matches between persons whom difference of age or disposition disqualifies for mutual affection, they must take the consequences:- but we do not think it fair that a poet should be exclaimed against as a promoter of nuptial infidelity because he tells them what those consequences are…. Which then, we would ask, are the immoral writings — those which, by misrepresentation of the laws of nature, lead to false views of morality and consequent licentiousness, or those, which ridicule and point out the effects of absurd contradiction of human feelings and passions, and help to bring about a reformation of such practises?

The Quarterly Review, published by Murray and edited by the censorious William Gifford remained mute, as did the Whiggish (liberal) Edinburgh Review.

Next: Sales of the Cantos I & II

November 28, 2018

Publication of Cantos I & II

The oak of England, weighed down by George IV and his mistresses swinging on its branches, being undermined by devils (and by the Liverpool Ministry), watched by an appalled John Bull. September 1820 Hand-coloured etching

The path to the first publication of Cantos I & II of Don Juan was unlike that of any of Byron’s earlier verse. It is worth our attention because it reminds us — who now see only its novel tone, brilliant verse, sarcasm and fun — that this new poem had explosive potential during a year of rapid deterioration in the foetid politics of late Regency England. The travails of publication recall the difficult personalities and mixed interests of Byron, his publisher and his London friends. They also explain much about the expectations and ambitions Byron had for his greatest poem as he continued working on it over the next four years.

When they first saw the manuscript of Canto I, Byron’s friends — John Cam Hobhouse, Scrope Davies and John Hookham Frere — had, according to Hobhouse, been struck with admiration for “the Carravaggio talent displayed throughout…”. It’s a good metaphor for the polished, high-contrast, mannered but energetic and earthy voice of the first Canto. Nor did they think, at first, that Murray, whose business had thrived on Byron’s poetry and drama, would object to the robust tone:

“– You shall hear all in a day or two. Murray, I believe, would publish a Fanny Hill or an Age of Reason of your’s – The Hitch will not come thence – so be tranquil –” (Hobhouse to Byron on 29 Dec. 1818 on receipt of Don Juan Canto I manuscript.)

Douglas Kinnaird, a friend and later business manager, was also complimentary and attuned to the poltics of publishing, although ready to ‘clip’:

“… I have read your Poems Don Juan is exquisite – It must be cut for the Syphilis – When we have pounded Murray I will not fail to write by the same Post – Your definition of May is a great truth … I think your Poem is justly bitter & exquisitely humorous – You will have the world on your side – The revolution is coming – Rely on it –” (Kinnaird to Byron, 29 December, 1818)

But within a month Hobhouse and crew — Kinnaird less so — had changed their tune: they now advised strongly against publication. Hobhouse was aprehensive about the original motto of Canto I (“Domestica Facta”) that he took to be a declaration that the poem was, as they convinced themselves, an attack on Annabella and perhaps her mother and advisors. They were all appalled, said Hobhouse, by

“the licentiousness and in some cases downright indecency of many stanzas and of the whole turn of the poem – from the flings at religion – and from the slashing right and left at other worthy writers of the day”.

They were mystified by the swinging attacks on Southey, and Laker Poets in the Dedication which, they said, attributed these minor poets an critical importance they did not (then) enjoy.

What had happened in early 1819 to harden them against publishing the poem that several including Murray thought was Byron’s greatest “in some parts?” It may have been fears about the worsening political climate at the end of 1818 to which the Prince Regent’s speech (above) referred. Kinnaird’s remark that “the revolution is coming…” would have been seen by Byron’s other friends as a chilling, if distant, prospect. Perhaps it was also something closer to home, at least for Hobhouse.

In his January 1819 letter, Hobhouse couched his strong recommendation for “total suppression” in terms that suggest his greatest concern was not Byron’s reputation as a poet but his own polticial carreer:

“I have now gone through the objections which appear <to so> so mixed up with the whole work especially to those who are in the secret of the domestica facta that I know not any any amputation will save it: more particularly as the objectionable parts are in point of wit humour & poetry the very best beyond all doubt of the whole poem – This consideration, therefore, makes me sum up with strenuously advising a total suppression of Don Juan – I shall take advantage of the kind permission you give me to keep back the publication until after the election in February: and this delay will allow time for your answer and decision” (Hobhouse to Byron, 5 January, 1819).

Byron was in no position, from Venice, to deny Hobhouse’s presumption of his “kind permission”. In any case, the proposed delay gave him the opportunity to add some more verses to Canto I and to complete Canto II of Don Juan. By May of 1819, however, he was becoming fed up with the wheedling on from his London friends on the texts. He agreed to making cuts in the Dedication but…

“You sha’n’t make Canticles of my Cantos. The poem will please if it is lively – if it is stupid it will fail but I will have none of your damned cutting & slashing. – If you please you may publish anonymously it will perhaps be better; – but I will battle my way against them all – like a Porcupine.” (Byron to Murray, 6 April 1819 from Venice)

He was restless; feeling uncomfortable about his dissolute life in grubby Venice. He was worried that serventism to a young, barely-married woman — Teresa Guiccioli — was hopeless and a bit déclassé. Never keen on correcting proofs or making fair-copies — which he found boring work — he declined to receive any further proofs of Don Juan after June and pressed Murray to publish.

After receiving the manuscript(s) of Canto II, Murray was able to see the poem at something closer to its proper scale — more than 400 stanzas — and was a little mollified that the naughty and revolting bits were much less prominent than the passages he found “exceedingly good”:

I think you may modify or substitute others for, the lines on Romilly whose death should save him – – the verse in the Shipwreck – LXXXI the Masters Mates disease – I pray you oblitterate as well the suppression of Urine – these Ladies may not read — the Shipwreck is a little too particular & out of proportion to the rest of the picture – but if you do any thing it must be with extreme caution – for it is exceedingly good – & the power with which you alternately make our blood thrill & our Sides Shake is very great – nothing in all poetry is finer than your description of the two females in Canto II – it is nature speaking in the most exquisite poetry – but think of the effects of such seductive poetry? (Murray to Byron, 28 May, 1819)

Byron, despite doubts about the wisdom of the journey, was on the road to Ravenna, where Teresa lay ill, in his high-wheeled Napoleonic coach. From Bologna he sent Murray a rude reply:

It will therefore be idle in him [Hobhouse] or you to wait for any further answers – or returns of proofs from Venice – as I have directed that no English letters be sent after me. – The publication can be proceeded in without, and I am already sick of your remarks – to which I think not the least attention ought to be paid. – – – (Byron to Murray, 7 June 1819).

Murray gave up. In concert with Hobhouse, he dropped the Dedication altogether — Byron had finally agreed to that — and two stanzas of Canto I that Byron had not agreed to drop. The first was stanza 15 on the suicide of Sir Samuel Romily — whose Westminster seat in Parliament Hobhouse was then about to contest; the second — now stanza 131 — on syphilis. He also censored with asterisks two good jokes about the history of “the pox” in stanzas 129 and 130.

The removal of the “Romilly” verse sketched the battle-lines already being drawn between the poet, his friends and his publisher. For Byron, the five lines he inserted on Romilly’s suicide was a savage thrill: the lawmaker’s suicide by cutthroat razor had been an act of Nemesis, he claimed. In context, they fit with the characterization of Inez, but it was nonethless bloody-minded. Byron knew from reliable sources that Romilly had acted in ignorance, not dishonorably, in agreeing at first to advise his wife, Annabella, on their separation. Someone who had more insight into himself and his anger than Byron might have dropped it without, as Byron’s friends said, damaging the poem. Still, if Don Juan was to be issued anonymously, why should his editors/advisors be so particular about these lines? The plausible reason Hobhouse offered to Byron — in a letter written on the day of publication — was that it might hurt Romilly’s family:

“The man has left children whom I know you did not mean to annoy; and though we must both of us think that he has been bepuffed at a terrible rate yet the death of both father and mother has left six poor creatures and three or four of them grown up with little support except their father’s reputation; and whether that reputation be overrated or not, I am convinced that at this moment you would not wish to impair the legacy as far as they are concerned” (Hobhouse to Byron on 15 July, 1819.)

But Hobhouse was not being candid — as Byron must have known. Dropping the stanza attacking Romilly served his interests as an electoral candidate as much as any other. He had failed in his first, February 1819, bid to win Romilly’s Parliamentary seat of Westminster on behalf of ‘radical’ reform. But he had come a creditable second in the ballot and planned to try again. It would look bad for him to be associated — as he would be — with Byron’s attack on the once-distinguished former Member for that constituency. Hobhouse was a radical who — like Byron who decidedly was not — wanted no overturning of the social order that protected Romilly’s name and saved him from a suicide’s unhallowed grave.

November 20, 2018November 21, 2018

England in 1819–20

A section of the preface to my Annotated Cantos I & II (with audio narration) planned for the bi-centenary of Don Juan in 2019.

The first two cantos of Don Juan were published in July, 1819, at the start of an 18-month period of political upheaval that led, eventually, to constitutional reform in Britain.

In some ways, these two years marked the end of the Regency society that once lionised Byron, but that he had fled three years earlier. Now, popular outrage erupted at the repressive and corrupt Liverpool government and at the adulterous, undignified Prince Regent (soon to be George IV) who sought a hypocritical bill of “Pains and Penalties” from Parliament to deny his estranged wife Caroline a crown.

A satyrical print published by the radical printer (pornographer and pirate of *Don Juan*), William Benbow, in December 1820. It shows a gouty George IV, horned and with wings which are spread to protect his supporters holding a bottle labeled Peoples Tears, squatting with his mistress Lady Conyngham (“Care-away Cunningham”). In the background on the left the cavalry who charged at Peterloo, at centre-top Britannia hides her face in shame, and on the right, beneath gathering storm-clouds “The People”.

Labor unrest in the industrial Midlands and north of England, unemployment among former soldiers, and deepening rural poverty raised alarming prospects of revolt and even revolution in England. The old “jacobin” Jeremy Bentham waged a popular campaign against waste and corruption in government and for universal (male) suffrage. The radical publisher William Cobbett — whose twopenny Political Register had a circulation of 40,000 when he fled to the United States in 1817 — returned in 1819 to begin his rural rides campaign in which he condoned machine breaking and hay-rick burning. The general outcry in the British press and at many popular meetings against the “Peterloo Massacre” had frightened the Cabinet into over-reaction, suppressing public meetings and civil rights.

So nervous were the authorities — and so sensitive to criticism — that in mid-December 1819, even the “reactionary chauvinist” Cam Hobhouse was arrested on the order of Parliament for publishing a brochure that the Commons declared a breech of parliamentary privilege and spent ten weeks in Newgate prison. Still, his release from jail was a “get into Parliament” card since the sentence all but guaranteed his success at the next ballot for the seat of Westminster.

A satire (George Cruikshank) on the defeat of Hobhouse by Lamb at the Westminster Election. The Rump, or remnant of Reformers, is represented by the hind-quarters of a cart-horse, with its hoofs in the air, carried on a knacker's cart, the front of which is formed by a guillotine. The procession is headed by Mister John Ketch, Esqr., the hangman.

Fears — or, for some, hopes — that government institutions were under attack were apparently confirmed when, in February, 1820, the Bow Street Runners arrested thirteen so-called “Cato Street Conspirators” at a small stables in central London. They were plotting to blow up the Liverpool Cabinet at a dinner meeting in Grosvenor Square, take over the Royal Exchange and empty the coffers of the Bank of England into the hands of the poor.

But the services of the Liverpool government had, in fact, known of the plot for months. A government spy had joined, and even became deputy-leader of, the group. Although the Court disallowed the spy’s testimony in their trial, the testimony of two of the conspirators against the others sent five of them to a gruesome and well-attended public execution for treason. Their posthumous beheading was roundly booed. The serially-adulterous Duke of Wellington mentioned to one of his girlfriends an unlikely report that Hobhouse — in jail when the plot was discovered — had been offered the leadership of the country by the conspirators, should their plot have succeeded, and had accepted.¹

Then the affair of Queen Caroline rivetted public attention for four months from her retun to England in July 1820 — seeking coronation as Queen when the Prince Regent assumed his father’s crown — through the failure, in Parliament in November, of King George IV’s attempt to divorce her on the grounds of adultery. Despite plausible evidence of Caroline’s affair with her Italian ‘Secretary’, many in both the middle and working classes were shocked by the King’s hypocrisy and ‘ungentlemanly’ behaviour to his wife.² Letters, pamphlets, cartoons, public demonstrations mocking the King and participants in the Parliamentary drama demonstrated overwhelming disapproval of, and embarrassment at, the King’s extravagant, selfish and dissolute behaviour. Middle-class women, too, formed large public associations that issued “Loyal Addresses” supporting the Queen and received replies from her confirming her sense of injury to her role as a mother and wife.³

The British middle class did not sustain its support for the Queen after the Government allowed the prosecution to lapse: her affairs, too, were an embarrassment. By good fortune or ‘genius’ the British assimilated the turmoil without any fundamental rifts in society and went about the necessary political reforms.⁴ Still, the attachment to “family values” of domesticity and propriety that lay behind the outcry over the Caroline affair was sustained into the Victorian age that followed.

In the 1820s the expanding middle-class of a relatively wealthy Britain sent their children to grammar schools that were now broadening their curriculum away from classic literature toward more mundane and commercially useful studies with the support and promotion of reform-minded luminaries such as J.S.Mill, Francis Place and Jeremy Bentham. Thomas Arnold (Matthew’s father) began a program to lift the moral tone and educational standards of the public schools, too, with the aim of producing “Christian Gentleman” such as the squeaky, earnest “Tom Brown”.

The new “proprietors” disapproved of the raucous, liberal, even libertine manners and tastes of the late 18^th century and the early Regency, exemplified by some of the authors whom Byron cited in his defence of his alleged ‘excesses’. The decade of the 1820s saw the emergence of what we now think of as Victorian taste: overt propriety in language and behaviour; respect for commerce; sentimental taste for uplifting or at least morally-didactic art and literature, and; pious adherence to established institutions such as the Monarchy and (except for the troublesome Irish and the “new” dissenters, especially Methodists) the Church.

November 14, 2018November 20, 2018

Matthew Arnold on Byron

The young Matthew Arnold. A touch ‘byronian’?

Another section of the preface to my Annotated Cantos I & II (with audio narration) planned for the bi-centenary of Don Juan in 2019

The popularity of Byron’s poetry even today owes much to an influential 1881 edition of selected poems edited by Matthew Arnold, poet and Professor of Poetry at Oxford University.

Almost six decades after Byron’s death, Arnold rescued his reputation from the stuffy disapproval of mid-Victorian taste, praising the powerful, sincere personality that his works reveal and placing him at the forefront of the romantic poets of the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries. Still, Arnold’s preface to his edition — which never once mentions Don Juan — faults Byron for a lack of emotional insight and “seriousness”.

Arnold declared that Byron had not been properly appreciated by the Victorian public: his “puissant personality… inevitably shattered [itself] to pieces against the huge, black, cloud-topped, interminable precipice of British Philistinism”.

Still, he thought Byron “was eminent only by his genius, only by his inborn force and fire; he had not the intellectual equipment of a supreme modern poet”. His main fault, Arnold argued (quoting Goethe) is that Byron “is quite too much in the dark” about himself, and “the moment he begins to reflect, he is a child”. He does not, Arnold says, have the moral intelligence to “lead us from the past to the future”. In this, Byron is inferior to Wordsworth who

… has an insight into permanent sources of joy and consolation for mankind which Byron has not ; his poetry gives us more which we may rest upon than Byron’s, more — which we can rest upon now, and which men may rest upon always.

Arnold decided that he would be improving Byron’s fame to make only selections from “the mass of poetry he poured forth”. He included 15 brief passages from Don Juan to which he gave suggestive abstract titles.

He explained that this editorial approach reflected his treatment of Wordsworth in an earlier volume and because “he too gains, I think, by being so presented”. He dismissed the contrary argument put by Swinburne that Byron “can only be judged or appreciated in the mass the greatest of his works was his whole work taken together”.

I question whether by reading everything which he gives us we are so likely to acquire an admiring sense even of his variety and abundance, as by reading what he gives us at his happier moments.

But it does not follow — as Arnold implies — that Byron should be read only in selection. After all, if literature were reduced to the “Cliff Notes” versions there would be little point in having the “Notes” at all. Alfred Austin — a journalist, critic and unhappy “Poet Laureate” who was a contemporary of Arnold — mocked the idea:

Mr. Arnold has done Byron injustice by making selections from his works, and asserting that selections are better than the whole of the works from which they are selected. You might as well select from a mountain. (From “Wordsworth and Byron” in the Quarterly Review, Vol 154, 1882)

Still, Arnold’s choice prevailed: his approach, backed by a new “convenient” edition arbitrated the future for Byron’s fame. Although the volume of academic Byroniana has swelled journals and library stacks around the world, his greatest work has never really recovered the popularity it had when it first appeared or the readership it deserves. Don Juan became inacessibly long and mostly unread.

November 5, 2018November 20, 2018

The Comet and the Bomb

[This is a draft of the first parts of an introduction to the Annotated Cantos I & II that I will publish in the next few months — before the 200^th anniversary of their first publication — accompanied by a reading of both Cantos. Your comments and suggestions are welcome]

“Nothing so difficult as a beginning” Don Juan, III, 1

The Comet

On 1 July, 1819 a comet brighter than all but a handful of stars — more visible in the early decades of the Nineteeth Century, before electric, or even widespread gas street illumination — appeared in the skies of Europe and North America. John Keats, among others, reported seeing it. The Morning Post gushed (14 July, 1819)

“… All the stars emitted their brightest lustre, the Comet moved with superior glory among them all, ‘apparent queen’ with its tiara of light.”.

There was no place for superstition in a century when — or in a country where — science, technology and art took some of their greatest leaps. Still, any fears that the Comet’s appearance might herald trouble in the state or momentous events would have been entirely justified. In the years 1819 and 1820, the United Kingdom narrowly skirted social disaster and barely avoided avoided a constitutional one — certainly rebellion, perhaps revolution. Ironically, too, an “apparent queen”, more earthy than celestial, held a starring role in the drama.

On the same page as its report of the Comet, the Post carried news of the unpopular Prince Regent’s speech at the close of the Parliamentary session. It was filled with Crown and Government menace aimed at popular unrest and the — mostly bourgeois — demand for enfranchisement, legal reform and tax relief.

His Royal Highness has naturally observed with great concern the efforts which have been lately made in some of the manufacturing districts to take advantage of local distress to create a spirit of disaffection to the institutions and Government of the country. Anxious to promote the welfare and prosperity of all classes of his Majesty’s subjects… his Royal Highness assures us of his wise, judicious , and manly determination, to employ for that purpose the power entrusted to him by law. He relies at the same time on the patriotism of Members, and has no doubt that one their return to their respective counties they will zealously coöperate with the Magistracy in defeating “the machinations of those whose projects, if successful, would only aggravate the evils they profess to remedy, and who, under the pretence of Reform, have really no other object but the subversion of our happy Constitution.” (The Morning Post, 12 July, 1819)

Unrest was broad and, in some places, ran deep. The Kingdom had seen explosive population growth, faster than anywhere in Europe: numbers doubled to 17 million in the first fifty years of the century with a peak growth rate in the decade to 1821 of 16 percent. It must have strained every private resource. Two fifths of the population was under fifteen years of age: mostly dependent and in need of education, nutrition, clothing, housing and care. Poor harvests and distribution disrupted by the long war led to serious food shortages in some places; madwe worse by policy error and bad luck. There had been a fall in seasonal temperatures made worse by volcanic explosions on the other side of the globe: 1816 was known as the “year without a summer” across Europe. Corrupt policies such as the Corn Laws that prohibited imports of price-competitive grain made the food supply worse.

Twenty years of war had wreaked a dreaful toll on UK families: the estimated death toll of 210,000 soldiers and sailors was comparable to the losses of The Great War in 1914–18. Then, the rapid demobilisation of the armed-forces — the largest in the UK’s history up to that point — contributed to widespread unemployment, family disruption and outbreaks of epidemic disease. The wars also left England with unprecedented tax levels (23 per cent of GDP) and a huge national debt. The Tory government was compelled by Parliament to abolish Pitt’s income tax that had supported the fighting and Castlereagh’s generous cash handouts to reactionary European allies. But that only pushed direct taxes higher, hitting hardest those on the lowest incomes.

Gillarays cartoon of an inebriated George, Prince Regent

“The Prince Regent” (George Cruickshank) — drunken and dissolute

The “spirit of disaffection” to which the Prince euphemistically referred had been evident in the riots of the so-called “Luddites” — mill workers whose grievances related to poor wages and poor management rather than to new technology — six of whom had been hanged in June 1816 (Byron’s only noteable speech in Parliament was a rather purple defense of the ‘machine breakers’). The repression halted the Luddites but fomented a wider movement that the radical William Cobbett would exploit in his ‘rural rides’.

Then in November and December of 1816 there were two public meetings at Spa Fields in London to work-up a petition to the Prince Regent for universal male suffrage and secret ballots. Some of the speakers at the second meeting led the crowd on a march to the Royal Exchange where leaders were arrested and charged with Treason. They were acquitted when the governments’ informer among the leaders of the march turned out to be a government agent. Still, Parliament reacted by suspending Habeas Corpus — a legal freedom protecting against arbitrary arrest — and banning meetings of more than 50 people for a year.

Still the industrial poor would not shut-up. In 1817, a “March of the Blanketeers” from Manchester to London saw scores of legally-small groups set out bearing a blanket on their back to demand the Prince Regent grant them relief from poverty wages. In June that same year there was a ‘rising’ of textile workers in Pentrich, near Notingham where. Once again, a government agent was identified as a provocateur. The industrial and piece-workers of Ireland, known by their mark as ‘Ribboneers’ were also organizing marches and protests. In this combustible climate, the Prince’s obtuse threats against constitutional reform were incendiary.

Just weeks after his speech, the Prince’s threats were given murderous effect at St Peter’s Fields, Manchester. On August 16, 1819, the Magistrates whom the Regent had ordered to his front line, foolishly sent an amateur cavalry of yeomen, used for home defense and public order, to arrest a popular speaker at a Reform meeting. In their charge, the yomen killed eleven and caused general panic. The “Peterloo Massacre” — a mocking reference to the bloody defeat of Napoleon — turned protest into near revolt in the North and vigorous protest in the South from the reform-minded middle class as well as the working class.

Lord Liverpool’s Tory government, assailed by both the radical and main-stream press for the bungling repression of the Manchester magistrates, reacted with alarm to the alleged ‘riots’ of constitutional reformers and disaffected workers. Castlereagh, on behalf of the government, secured the passage of the quasi-tyrannical “Six Acts” whose preamble declared that “every meeting for radical reform is an overt act of treasonable conspiracy against the King and his government”. Among other outrages to liberty, the laws banned “seditious” public meetings, “blasphemous and seditious libels” and increased the taxes on printed materials, so that any printed pamphet priced at less than 6 pence would be taxed an additional 4 pence.

The Bomb

It might seem this was not the best time for the most prestigious of Tory publishers, John Murray, to release a poem with almost as much visibility as the Comet that, in the view of contemporary readers, mocked the moral pretensions of the Regency Establishment — both Government and Church.

Yet that was what Murray chose to do — taking a barely-calculable risk — by publishing Cantos I & II of Byron’s Don Juan in mid-July, 1819. He portrayed it, accurately, as the publishing equivalent of crossing the Rubicon or, maybe, lobbing an artillery shell into Westminster. On the day after it appeared on booksellers’ shelves he wrote to his exiled author:

“La Sort est jetté – Don Juan was published yesterday, and having fired the Bomb – here I am out of the way of its explosion – its publication has excited a very great degree of interest – public <opinion ha> expectation having risen up like the surrounding boats on the Thames when a first rate is struck from its Stocks” (Murray to Byron, July 16, 1819. ‘La Sort est jetté’ [correctly, ‘le sort en est jetté’] means ‘the die is cast’, as in a gambling game. According to one of Caesar’s companions this is roughly what he said, quoting the Greek playwright Menander, when he crossed the Rubicon river into Italy in 49 BCE. In both cases it refers to an action whose outcome is ‘up-in-the-air’. By a ‘first rate.. struck from its stocks’ Murray mean the launch of a capital ship).

Well of course public expectation had risen up… Murray had deliberately stirred it. His caution related to the impact of some parts of the poem on his author’s reputation (Murray’s capital, too). But anonymous publication was hiding Byron and his publishing business “in the open”. Byron’s authorship would be an open secret: he had told Byron in March that there were “the greatest expectations” about Don Juan. Indeed, Murray had been prompting these expectation for at least two weeks before the book’s appearance with a series of promiment and mysterious advertisements in newspapers such as the Morning Post and The London Times. Rather like the teasing press announcements we see today from technology companies in advance of their “Keynote” presentations of new gadgets, Murray’s publicity said not much, but plenty. Byron’s friend from university days, Cam Hobhouse, described the campaign in a letter to Byron on the day Don Juan it appeared.

“It was announced thus – Don Juan.. to morrow. There’s a way for you!! To morrow The Comet. to morrow! Mr Murray managed so well that Mazeppa was taken for Don Juan and greadily bought up like “that abominable book the scandalous magazine”. But Don Juan tomorrow, undeceived those who thought they had got their pennyworth to day –“ (Hobhouse to Byron on the morning of publication, 15 July, 1819)

Here, for example, is the top of the front page of The Morning Post of Monday 12 July, 1819.

“On Thursday, DON JUAN. — Sold by all Booksellers”

Exploiting this clever campaign of 19^th Century viral advertising, Murray issued 1500 copies of Cantos I and II “anonymously” on 15 July, 1819 in a large (Quarto sized: about 12 inches by 10 inches), relatively expensive volume without the name of the publisher or the author.

In the heated polticial context of mid-1819, the anonymity of the book was itself a draw:

“This will make our wiseacres think that there is poison for King Queen & Dauphin in every page and will irritate public pruriency to a complete priapism” (Hobhouse to Byron, 15 July, 1819)

Murray was canny enough to see that the risk of scandal (or worse) could be turned to his own commercial advantage. The repressive Castlereagh laws on “blasphemous and seditious libel” were still months off. Before the Manchester ‘riots’, the legal framework was not yet pitched against publication. Whatever he felt about the impropriety of some stanzas or lines — whatever his ‘court’ of readers and Byron’s London friends said about the ‘unpublishable’ and lamentable ‘infelicities’ — Murray knew there was every chance Byron’s new work would sell.

Don Juan was, for the most part, just the sort of thing he had asked Byron to produce a year earlier:

“May I hope that yr Lordship will favour me with some work to open my Campaign in November with have you not another lively tale like Beppo – or will you not give me some prose in three Volumes – all the adventures that you have undergone, seen, heard of or imagined with your reflections on life & Manners” (Murrray to Byron 7 July 1818)

So Hobhouse is probably not wrong to suggest (above, letter of 15 July) — perhaps he knew — that Murray engineered a commercial sleight of hand when he issued Byron’s Mazeppa and an Ode on Venice two weeks earlier on 1 July, taking advantage of the anticipation for Don Juan.

March 25, 2018November 20, 2018

Images