Cast

Lord Byron

Hodgson

Harness

Joe Murray

Bob Rushton

Charles Dallas

Taffy & Susan

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​​​​​Scene 1

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Newstead Abbey, 1811 - Byron is boxing with Bob Rushton, a measure to avoid both the glooms and rotundity

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B: Joe!

JM: Yes my lord

B: Fill my bath would you, I am a mass of perspiration - and bring cigars, a bottle of claret, the Nottingham Chronicle, lavender water - and my Turkish slippers and pelisse

BR: I fear I am in need of a bath too, my Lord, for my gloves are a veritable repository for fleas

B: 'Tis not yet Christmas, Bob! you may refresh yourself with a lump of snow - then back to attending the needs of my tortoises

BR: Thank you, my honoured lord

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B soaks

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B: Joe!

JM: Yes my lord

B: Tell me why there are no salts in my bath? No rose petals? No eunuchs with timbrels?

JM: What?

B: You must understand, Joe, things around this northern kennel must change (experiments to see if half a bottle of claret can float) after my extensive holidays in The East - whence I became accustomed to astounding oriental luxury - I do not intend not to let such experience be confined to memory - as per my ablutions, at least

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JM looks around at the damp wood paneling and copies of The Morning Post stuffed into broken window panes​

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B: We shall begin with our new bathing etiquette - firstly, you shall purchase salts, oils, loofahs - and have Taffy pluck flower petals and refreshing herbs

JM: 'Tis November, my Lord - and Susan needs all our salt to preserve your lobsters

B(attempts to retrieve claret): I am accustomed to having my fingernails shaped, my beard shaved and my curls counted - all whilst bathing

JM(sighs, sorrowfully): I fear tales of such voluptuousness shall reach the ears of  the scoundrel Mealey - and your tenantry, my Lord - and they will inform the constabulary 

B: Truth is, Joe (confidentially) - well you know how I enjoyed my solitude here at Newstead?

JM: Aye - Susan's time was taken up with replacing books you'd flung to the ground 

B: Just, so - well it happens that now - after the losses which greeted my return - that for the first time, I find solitude irksome (sighs) - at three and twenty I am left alone, and what more can we be at seventy? 

JM: It is true, my lord, but you are young enough to begin again

B: But how, Joe? I have tried reading & boxing, & swimming, & writing, & rising early & sitting late, & water, & wine, ineffectual chemical remedies - yet here I am - freezing in a bath of claret - wretched!

JM(muses): T'mansion is quiet after all - why don't you invite some of your gentlemen friends to Newstead? - why, there be dogs, a keeper, plenty of game - a lake, a boat, house room and neat wines, neater wenches

B: A splendid notion! Oh, how I doat on London gossip! - although they must bring guns, for I gave all mine to Aly Pacha

JM: You should invite Captain Byron, Mr. Hobhouse - for I know he shall make few demands on us re. bath salts - Messrs. Harness, Dallas - er - and Davies (chuckles) - that facetious jester!

B: Hmmm - Hodgson is battening on the Lower Moor of Herefordshire, Davies is courting a piece at Harrowgate, Dallas is running to and from Mortlake with his pocket full of proofs of all his friends who are all Scribblers - Hobby remains at his Majesty's pleasure in Ireland...

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JM spies Taffy 

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JM(mumbles): Perchance Taffy could provide entertainment opportunities for the gentlemen if they do happen to visit?

B: Excellent idea, that will be as hare to a fox touchy! We shall dispatch a number of post carriages to the mountains of Wales - aye, and stack them with varied vixens and wenches of that incomprehensible duchy

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B rises from the bath, and into his Turkish pelisse, and Turkish slippers and ties a yatagan to his waist, to accessorize authentically

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​​​​​Scene 2​

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The drawing room is prepared to welcome the guests with an array of wines, weaponry and wenches

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​​​​​​​​​JM: Mr. Davies, my lord ​

B: Scrope, how well you look - 

SBD: and yourself, by return of compliment - my, is that Attar of Roses?

B: It is - now, what shall you partake of 

​​​​​​​​​JM: Captain Byron, my lord

B: (thinks: he has a sad sea-paw, that nautical cousin of mine)

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​​​​​​​​​JM: Mr. Harness, my lord

H(asides): I must say, Byron, I am wonderfully taken with your living antiquity, Joe Murray

B: Why, he is as much a part of Newstead as  the monks Sarcophigii

H: Speaking of same - I had assumed you living so remotely meant you had imbibed the atmosphere of this place - and intended to turn monk yourself 

B: (to self: forgive him Black Friar - and haunt him, not me - 'twas he who said it) Ha - vastly amusing

Hss: Shall we be blessed with the presence of Hobhouse?

B: I hope his regiment will dismiss him - and we shall laugh again as usual and be very miserable dogs for all that

Hss: They may make a holiday soldier of him - one hopes it shall not turn his red coat into a straight waistcoat

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curses! the misery of doing nothing but make love - and enemies - and verses

JM(mumbles incoherently): pfft - 'owt for nowt, that's my lot an heir​

useless male offspring​​​​​

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​​Scene 3

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​Charles Robert Dallas - distant relation and literary opportunist - drops in on the bruised, hungover friends timely distraction of publication​

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D: Pardon my delay gentlemen, Byron - I have excellent news - John Murray, a bookseller and aspiring publisher has agreed to risk all on chp gasping for the press

B: Murray huh?

JM: Yes my lord

D: not you, Murray - he anticipates great sales, Byron

B: I cannot accept payment - I am not a tradesman! - however, I must be £30k in debt

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Scrope drops his lobster - whips out The Racing Post and makes frantic markings

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B: Be damned! (paces) - I dislike counting sheep, fretting over blockages in my streams and pleas from the Fletcher clan for new roofs every ten years - mines Therefore, I must marry - prudently if possible - that is wealthily for I can’t afford Love - if not, I shall sell up and return to the East with the sale of Newstead I can live like a Pasha or the Abbot of a disordered convent for life no, I shall scribble no more for if not the Edinburgh - there be the entire literary establishment of this isle awaiting y presence on Golders green

D: how did you come to write an epic if lines?

b to distract me from fleas and legions of crawling things heigh-ho

SBD: wife

B: At the moment I am my own master - and I know not to what point of the compass I shall direct my steps​​​​​​​​“Childe Harold” may wait and welcome, works are never the worse for delay in the publication

​​​​D: It really would give me pleasure to see you properly appreciated

I say really, as, being an author, my humanity might be suspected

 

 I do not think I shall return to London immediately, & shall therefore accept freely what is offered courteously, – to wit – your mediation between me & Murray. I don’t think my name will answer the purpose, & you must be aware that my plaguy Satire31 will bring the North & South Grubstreets down on the “Pilgrimage” but nevertheless if Murray makes a point of it, & you coincide with him, I will do it daringly, so let it be entitled by “the Author of Esh. Bards & Sch. R.s”. but I will have {no} traps for applause, – of course there are little things I would wish to alter, & perhaps the two Stanzas of a buffooning cast (on London’s Sunday) are as well left out. – – I much wish to avoid identifying Childe Harold’s character with mine, & that in sooth is my second objection to my name on the T. Page. – &

all the advantage I am ever likely to derive from that property,63 is the sad satisfaction of knowing it to be lucrative, & never being able to make it so  – I will not live to be the Shuttlecock of Scoundrels.​​​​​​​​​​

 

My friend Mr . Dallas has placed in your hands a manuscript poem written by me in Greece, which he tells me you do not object to publishing

B: Pfft, Dallas - travel guides, cookbooks and Moores prattlings are the only saleables - nay, any publication of mine will be wrapping brawn cutlets after a week

SBD: you could at least try - perchance make a few bob on the sly

Hss: yes - feign authorship to - sa - Blacket

D: He is dead - lack it - nay Byron - publish and you will score a well-acred blue-stockinged wife

B:  well, you've worn me down - go ahead - but be it on you - scrope, do not bet I'll wake up famous more likely iI'll wake up dead ​