CHAPTER THREE

The year 1832 not only marked the beginning of a new phase in
Hayward's life but opened up a completely new era in the life of
Britain as well. It was the year of the Reform Bill. In May,
after an agonising struggle, the House of Lords finally decided
that it would be better to accomodate extra members in the Commons
than to be edged from their own patrician perches by the extra
peers that the Whigs had threatened to have created.

The country was in an ecstasy of anticipation. "All young
ladies will imagine ( as soon as this Bill, is carried ) that
they will instantly be married," said Sydney Smith, in a speech
at Taunton. "Schoolboys believe that gerunds and supines will
be abolished, and that currant tarts must ultimately come down
in price; the Corporal and the Sergeant are sure of double pay;
bad poets expect a demand for their epics; fools will be disap-
pointed, as they always are; reasonable men, who know what to
expect; will find a very serious good has been obtained." The
fools were soon to outnumber the reasonable men.

The election campaigns, for the Reformed Parliament, began
towards the end of the year. The Radicals, who were far from
satisfied with the Bill but could not afford to miss the opport-
unities if offered, descended upon the partly-purified constit-
encies with hopeful determination. Well to the forefront of the
Radical stormtroopers, the ungracious Roebuck fixed his sights,
oddly enough, on the sedate city of Bath. An even stranger
choice was made at Wycombe when a certain Benjamin Disraeli
decided to parade his coloured waistcoats in the Radical interest.

Hayward watched the feverish activity of his opponents with
unconcealed disgust. Never able to understand the self-effacing
spirit which governs 'good losers,' he regarded the passing of
the Bill as an unqualified victory for the enemy. It was an in-
sult to the memory of Canning and a defeat of the principles he
had fearlessly upheld at the London Debating Society. His remarks
about the Radicals became more vitriolic.

* Every day his rooms were littered with the whigs and gowns of an ever-increasing group of young Tory lawyers who flocked to listen to his latest stream of invective. Always alive to the needs of an appreciative audience he soon found his stock of current, anti-Radical anecdotes beginning to wear a little thin and began to look round for fresh material with which to enliven his

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daily denunciations. At a dinner-party one evening he stumbled
across a story that seemed to be tailor-made for his purpose.
He was not to know that by repeating it he was lighting the fuse
for an explosion that was to reverberate throughout his life.

In the early twenties the youthful John Stuart Mill (he was
only seventeen) had committed the only wildly indiscreet act of
his sober life. Young, sensitive to the social evils that surr-
ounded him, and (rather over-idealistic, he had agreed to distribute
some pamphlets, giving practical instructions on birth control,
written, somewhat belatedly, by Francis Place - the Radical tailor
and father of fifteen children. Agreeing wholeheartedly with
Place's 'better had they not been born' theories, the enthusiastic
young Mill, together with an anonymous friend, scampered about
London recklessly throwing the pamphlets down area steps; to the
alarm of rather startled kitchen maids. Eventually they were caught;
charged with distributing promiscuous propaganda and hauled before
a dumbfounded magistrate. Exactly what happened to them after that
is uncertain. There were several versions current at the time as
to the punishment meted out to them by the outraged arm-of-the-law.
But, it seems fairly certain, that whatever sentence they did recieve
was considerably modified by their youth and social standing.

Shocking as the affair was in the eyes of Britain's most upright
and fertile fathers it did not create a great scandal at the time.
Somehow it was kept out of the papers and the little sensation it
did arouse quickly died down. It would probably have been forgotten
altogether if Thomas Moore had not decided to perpetuate it with a
pun which was considered rather amusing, vaguely naughty and, as
far as Hayward was concerned, rounded off the incident very neatly.

"There are two Mr. Mill's, too, whom those who like reading
What's vastly unreadable, call clever;
And whereas Mr. Mill senior makes war on good breeding
Mr. Mill junior makes war on all breeding whatever."

The story, as told by Hayward, proved a great success with the
Tory lawyers. Such a success, in fact, that he was apt to get
carried away by the lively response of his audience and bundle a
few extra Radicals into jail with Mill for good measure. Unfortun-
ately, but inevitably, Roebuck - who had been in Canada at the time
- was always included among Mill's imaginary cell-mates. He should
have been a little more careful. His reputation as a raconteur
had spread to the enemy camp and occasionally a Radical sympathiser
would drift in and stand glumly at the back of his giggling audience.
It was one of these uninvited guests who, deciding that the matter
should be brought to Roebuck's attention, told the story to Thomas

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Falconer - Roebuck's prospective brother-in-law. Falconer, who had been helping Roebuck with his election campaign, was horrified. Things had not been going too well at Bath; already they had their work cut out in combating a succession of slanders that had been circulated against Roebuck; if this story reached the ears of the wavering electors the Radical candidate's chances of success would be finished. He at once reported the matter to Roebuck and advised him to tackle Hayward about it immediately.

When Roebuck arrived, hot foot, at Pump Court he found Hayward alone. He was completely unaware of the fact that he was about to speak over his head. Considering the nature of the call and the temperament of the caller, the interview appears to have been conducted with amazing restraint. Hayward readily admitted his mistake in associating Roebuck with the incident and, after expressly astonishment that the Radicals no longer agreed with the contents of the pamphlets, gave his assurance that he would contradict the story if it was ever told in his presence. "We parted amicably - that is, on terms of politeness, for we were never more than formal acquaintance," said Hayward modestly.

Evidently, upon reaching home, Roebuck thought better of the matter, for the next day he was back thundering on the door and demanding that Hayward repeat his assurance in the presence of the friend he had brought with him. Hayward seems hardly to have heard what he was saying. To an admirer of Scott and Byron the arrival of an angry, gesticulating opponent accompanied by a friend could only mean one thing. He waited for Roebuck to stop speaking and then, drawing himself up to his full (but not very impressive) height, he told him that "he was guilty of two irregularities: He had no right to come and talk the matter over amicably, and then change his tone; and if he was dissatisfied, or had any specific charge, he should send his friend, not come with him." Only waiting to add that he did not like the manner in which he was addressed and positively refused to say any more on the subject except in the presence of a friend of his own, he turned abruptly on his heel and left the room.

Once outside he made a frantic search of the adjoining chambers in the hopes of finding a friend who would represent him. Most of the rooms were empty. In desperation he rushed to Paper Court where he finally tracked down John Hills of the Home Circuit. Poor Hills, who was only an acquaintance, was most alarmed at his request and tried to persuade him that he had mistaken Roebuck's intention. But the breathless Hayward refused to be pacified; it was, he insisted an 'affair of honour.' Finally, but reluctantly, the hapless Hills agreed to assume the embarrassing role of a 'friend'.

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The long wait had not sweetened Roebuck's temper. When, at last, Hayward returned he launched out on a fresh attack by insisting upon the name of the person who had told the story in the first place. To Hayward this was the last straw; it was a reflection on his personal integrity. His dignified pose assumed a new grandeur.

"My answer was," he says pompously, "that a person who had told a current story indiscreetly had no right to throw off responsibility in this manner......that I would not name another if I could; and that he must stop at me."

Roebuck was not impressed. "Then I am to consider you as the author of this rumour?"

That did it. "You know that is not my meaning: I mean that I must be responsible: in other words, if you are not satisfied and want to fight anybody about it you must fight me!"

After that the whole situation began to get hopelessly out of hand. The original cause of the quarrel was obscured by a vicious desire to pay off old debts. All pretence of dignity was thrown to the winds and they plunged haphazardly into a snarling slinging match. As tempers and tension mounted, the terrified Hills danced distractedly between the two seething, white-faced antagonists, gratuitously offering to contradict the story himself if it would do any good. It only made matters worse. With the utmost difficulty, Roebuck's friend, eventually managed to restore some sort of calm into the proceedings. Somehow Hayward was persuaded to repeat the assurance he had given the previous day and with that Roebuck had to be content.

The settlement was not very agreeable to either party. Roebuck was as anxious as Hayward to obtain full satisfaction (his biographer devotes an entire chapter to his numerous duels) but he could not afford to risk any further adverse publicity during his election campaign. Hayward at least had the consolation of being assured by the greatly relieved Hills that his behaviour had been "in every respect that of a man of honour and a gentleman." It was not until some thirteen years later that Roebuck could finally feel he had paid off the score.

Unpleasant as the episode was, Hayward did not come out of it too badly at the time. In later years his enemies were to quote it as one of the many illustrations of his unprincipled behaviour. This was hardly fair. Repeating the story in the first place had not, perhaps, been in the best of taste. But good taste is hardly

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an appropriate yard-stick with which to measure behaviour during an
early nineteenth century election. The story was already current
when he told it in the privacy of his own rooms to a group of col-
leagues. He was quite prepared to apologise and settle the matter
amicably had Roebuck not insisted upon placing him in, what he
considered, an humiliating position. Had the incident involved
anyone other than Roebuck the outcome would, undoubtedly, have been
entirely different.

That Hayward was capable of behaving magnanimously even to his
political opponents was shown the following year when a subscription
fund was being raised by the Radicals for their newspaper *The Exam-
iner*. The editor of *The Examiner*, Albany Fonblanque, was a partic-
ular friend of his and he gave his wholehearted support to the fund-
raising campaign. Writing to Babbage, the mathematician, he says:

"Fonblanque finds it impossible to go on with the paper
without raising the price, which will at once lessen its
circulation amongst the classes whom it is most an object
to circulate it.

Under the circumstances it is proposed that 100 persons
shall subscribe each 10 in advance, in return for which
the paper is to be supplied to them, free of all expense,
for ten years.

Mr. Mill has taken the most active part in this scheme, and
about 80 names are given in already, though it was only
mentioned four days ago. I do not know whether you take
in the *Examiner* yourself but to anyone who does, the advance
would be immaterial, and perhaps you would have the kindness
to name it to any subscriber you may know. Pray excuse the
liberty I take in addressing you on this subject, As I
differ widely from Fonblanque in politics I am only acting
as a private friend, but I know that he would be highly
flattered by any support of the paper from you."

He was even optimistic enough to apply to the careful Carlyle.
Needless to say his request was met with highly raised eye-brows.
"Hayward....surprises me with something about the difficulties in
the *Examiner*, and the need for pecuniary help, and: Whether any is
within my sphere?" Carlyle wrote to Mill. "I will at least do
*no ill*; by holding my tongue about it."

He was far too busy to brood for long over the Roebuck affair.
Not only was he finding his professional feet, editing the *Law
Magazine* and leading an active social life, but had now commenced

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work on his translation of Faust.

It was no easy task he set himself. Reading through previous translations he was appalled by the liberties that had been taken with Goethe's text by both English and French translators. By ruthlessly cutting and hacking away at the original to suit their own purposes they had completely destroyed the meaning of many important parts of the poem. Some of the translators seem to have had a very elementary grasp of the German language and their repeated mistakes often bordered on the ludicrous. In the second edition of one of the most authoritative versions translated into English, for instance, he found the line:

"And lisp in English when they lie."

In the preface to his own translation he observes wryly, "Patriotism compels me to say that *englisch* means *like angels*, and conveys no national reflection. The line, therefore, stands thus: -

"And lisp like angels when they lie."

It is not surprising that Goethe was not very popular in England at that time.

Determined that his own work should be more scholarly, he not only consulted every previous translation but studied every commentary of the poem and ransacked the works of contemporary English poets in an attempt to find points of comparison. His research made it obvious that he could not hope to produce a literal translation in verse; either metre or meaning had to be sacrificed. His desire for accuracy made him decide to concentrate on the meaning. A prose translation, anyway, was likely to have all the novelty of a new work - considering the travesties perpetuated by the previous translators.

Despite the wealth of research and the painstaking respect for detail, he succeeded in producing an eminently readable as well as a laudably sound translation. Before publishing it he took the final precaution of circulating the first impression among a small group of well-informed friends and inviting their criticisms. The reports were favourable and, after a few minor amendments, he published the first edition in February 1833.

"His old friends among 'the amateurs of German literature' - George C. Lewis, the Austens, and Mrs. Jameson of the number," says one report, "regarded the work as a great achievement in the cause they all had at heart, of making German literature better understood and appreciated by their countrymen." Encouraged by the compliments of his friends he sent copies to all the leading poets and writers of the day. Wordsworth, Hallam and Southey (the laureate) were among

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those who wrote to congratulate him. Lamb, who couldn't stand Goethe, and Coleridge, who couldn't stand prose translations, were both forced to admit that it was well done. Browning came to look upon it as an authority and even Carlyle was made to think twice about it. "Hayward, somebody tells me, has out his poor translation of *Faust*," he wrote, characteristically, to Mill before he had read it, " 'the cleverest of our second-rate men,' I doubt, will have made a bungle of that business. However, it is published at his own expense; of his own right hand a man is master -" A month later he received his copy with the author's compliments and grudgingly admits that, "Hayward's *Faust* is not nearly so bad as I thought it would be: considered as a matter of *Business*, he has really done it most handsomely, and his book (Glossarially) is worth *something*: there is even here and there a touch of *elegance*; and no mistake (which Dictionaries, consultations or the like could remove) of any moment. The *Prolegomena* are very perfect of their kind; altogether worthy of 'our cleverest second-rate man,' and will do good as far as they go." Years later he was to go further himself and say that of the nineteen translations then existing, "Hayward's is the best."

The press reviews, on the whole, were very good. But one or two critics, rather put out by the fun he had poked at previous reviews in his preface, felt their own knowledge had been challenged and took him up on some minor points. He could not let them pass unanswered. "I avow, once for all, that I shall never willingly permit any misstatement or misconception concerning myself or my writings to remain unanswered, provided it possesses plausibility and circulation." he said. This was to become his (often unfortunate) *credo* throughout his life.

The first opportunity he had (the autumn vacation) he paid a flying visit to Germany. Again he was welcomed with open arms and again he spent all his time dashing about among Goethe's friends on a brain-picking, note-taking busman's holiday. In January 1834 he published the second edition of *Faust*. The translation itself was practically unaltered but he added a few extra notes which he claimed "contained the sum of all that could be asserted with confidence as to the allusions and passages which had been made the subject of controversy."

Having satisfied himself on the score of scholarship he now set about cultivating the fickle world of fashion. With *Faust* as his visiting card he could present himself to the leaders of society without the appearance of undue presumption. It was the opportunity

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he had been waiting for and he did not intend to waste it.

Samuel Rogers, of course, asked him to breakfast. No aspiring
**litterateur** was allowed to publish a book without, at least, a
summary inspection by the tetchy old banker-poet of St. James' Place.
For years this shrivelled, corpse-like, old man had occupied a unique
place in the literary world of London. In his small, exquisitely
furnished house overlooking Green Park the wit, learning and beauty
of two generations met and mingled at his famous breakfasts. Hideously
ugly, an inveterate gossip and cruelly sarcastic himself, he took a
perverse pride in surrounding himself with an outward display of
aesthetic perfection. Caged nightingales sang on his staircase,
alabaster vases and marble busts decorated his tables, beautifully
bound copies of rare books and precious manuscripts lined his book-
shelves, and carefully lit Titians and Guidos looked serenely down
on the sparkling chatter of the brilliant gatherings in his dining
room. "His God was Harmony;" said a friend, "and over his life
Harmony presided, sitting on a lukewarm cloud."

He selected his guests as fastidiously as he amassed his art
treasures. Many were called but only the best were chosen. It was
the ambition of every young author to be asked to eat; with Rogers,
it was a sign of success if they were asked to come again.

Hayward was not only asked to come again, more often than not
he was asked to stay after the other guests had departed. For hours
he would sit listening to his querulous host reminising over the
famous and infamous personalities who had attended his breakfasts
in the past. Byron, Sheridan, Campbell, Madame de Staël... to
Hayward it was as if the books of Mr. Tuson's library had suddenly
come to life in the shape of the withered old man. He listened att-
entively and he remembered; in later years he would re-tell the
stories and be listened to with the same awe-inspired interest.
Often Rogers would repeat stories that had already appeared in his
published notes and then be disappointed that Hayward showed no sign
of having heard them before. "You don't seem to know where that
comes from," he would snap suspiciously at his apparently enthralled
guest and then be thrown into confusion when Hayward dutifully gave
chapter and verse for every story he had told. But it did not stop
him talking. He had not made his name with his poem *The Pleasures
of Memory* for nothing.

Besides reaping a plentiful harvest of invaluable anecdotes,
Hayward learnt a great deal from Rogers. They were, in many ways,
kindred spirits; they both looked upon the world with the same jaun-
diced eye. The cynical, sarcastic pose that Hayward adopted had been