"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 ——."
LORD WENABLES.[54]
To those who are in the habit of recurring with a feeling of devotion to the golden gone-by times of our forefathers, and who "track back" upon antiquity to hunt out subjects for admiration, it must be in some degree consolatory to discover, that even in these degenerate days there still exist amongst us men capable of recording the noble deeds of the "mighty living;" and that one of the most important occurrences of modern date has found an historian worthy of the subject which it has been made his duty to transmit to posterity.
To such of our readers as are generally conversant with the history, political or statistical, of the City of London, it may perhaps be needless to observe, that it affords, by virtue of its charter and constitution, power and authority, might and majesty, for one year at a time, to one illustrious individual (made, indeed, illustrious by his office), and that this illustrious individual is pre-eminently distinguished above all others of God's creatures (within his special jurisdiction) by the title of Lord Mayor. Having been a Liveryman, he proceeds to Sheriff and Alderman, and in time, being an Alderman, he becomes Mayor, and being Mayor of London, becomes a Lord!—that he is not a Peer, arises only from the difficulty of finding any to compare with him.
Thus, then, it being conceded that there is, and always will be, a Lord Mayor of London, so long as London stands—for the constitution of Cornhill and the majesty of the Mansion House remain unshaken by the storms of treason or the efforts of rebellion, and shine in all their native excellence with equal purity and brightness, whether under the gentle sway of an amiable Mary, the gloomy troubles of a martyred Charles, the plain dominion of a protecting Oliver, or the glorious sway of a liberating William—it being then, we say, conceded that the Lord Mayor, officially, never dies, we seek to show the imperative necessity which presses upon every Lord Mayor while in office, personally so to distinguish himself from the long line of his predecessors and those who are to follow him, by some striking deed, either bodily or mental, political or financial, literary or scientific, so that when he shall have returned from the pinnacle of earthly splendour at the corner of Walbrook into the softer retirement of his patrimonial shop in Pudding-lane or Fish-street-hill, children yet unborn may learn to lisp the name of their great ancestor mingled with their prayers, never forgetting to singularise him especially from all the other Figginses, Wigginses, Bumpuses, and Snodgrasses of their respective houses, by prefixing in their minds to the patronymic, the deed, or work, or act, or book, as it may be, by which that particular branch of their family has so flourished into virid immortality.
By observing this system, an association is formed in the mind of men and deeds highly refreshing, at once useful and agreeable. Who ever hears of Walworth without thinking of Wat Tyler?—who ever reads of Whittington without having a Cat in his eye?—who speaks of Wood without thinking of Whittington?—who of Waithman without recollecting Knightsbridge foot-path? Thus it is that these illustrious men are distinguished, not only from all other Lord Mayors, but from all other Whittingtons, Walworths, Woods, and Waithmans, in the world.