He had prophesied revolution; he had sorrowfully witnessed the failure
of the plans laid by the Carbonari; but now at last the expected
revolution had begun.
"On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd,
The self-same standard streams o'er either world."
He had been expelled from the ranks of literature in England. He had
been driven from town to town in Italy. It had long been a saying with
him that a man ought to do more for his fellow-men than write poetry,
and over and over again had he talked of art with the contempt of a
Hotspur. Now everything conspired to urge him to action. Consideration
for the Countess Guiccioli alone restrained him. He had thoughts of
taking part in the Creoles' struggle for liberty; he made careful
inquiries into the condition of matters in South America. His _Ode on
Venice_ ends with the words:
"Better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,--or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!"
The attraction to the country which had first inspired him to song
proved the strongest. He tore himself away from the Countess Guiccioli,
who was anxious to accompany him, but whom he dared not expose to the
dangers and hardships of a campaign. The Committee of the English
friends of Greece had elected him their representative, and supplied
him amply with funds. On the day of his departure from Leghorn he
received his first and last greeting from Goethe, in the shape of the
old master's famous sonnet to him.
For five months he continued to reside on the island of Cephalonia,
occupied in carefully investigating into the real state of matters in
Greece, and besieged by the different Greek leaders, who were at enmity
with each other, and each of whom was eager to enlist Byron on his
side. The distribution of money, ammunition, and other materials of
war necessitated an immense amount of correspondence, to which Byron
attended with dogged industry. He at last made his choice among the
Greek leaders, determining to join Prince Mavrocordato at Missolonghi.
During his stay in Cephalonia proposals had been made to him which must
have been most flattering to his ambition. The Greeks had a strong bias
towards monarchical government, and Trelawny, who was in a position to
know, was convinced that, if Byron had been alive at the time of the
Congress of Salona, the crown of Greece would have been offered to him.
When Byron landed at Missolonghi he was received like a prince. The
fortress fired a salute, bands played, the whole population crowded
to the shore to welcome him. At the house prepared for his reception,
Mavrocordato awaited him at the head of a staff of officers, both
Greek and foreign. Five thousand armed men were quartered in the
town. Byron took five hundred Suliotes (natives of Albania), who had
been left leaderless by the death of Marco Bozzari, into his own pay.
He selected for himself, as if death were what he desired, the most
dangerous of the commands, that of the troops which were to proceed
to Lepanto, hoping to compensate by energy and courage for his want
of military experience; his staff were to be responsible for the
strategical direction of the force. He had occasion, while holding this
command, to be astonished by the powerful impression which personal
accomplishments and personal intrepidity make upon half-savage natures;
nothing produced such respect for him in the minds of his Suliotes, who
themselves were bad marksmen, as his unerring aim and his indifference
to danger. But he had undeniably become a nobler man. Though not free
from attacks of his old melancholy, he saw the path of glory clear
before him. Evidence of his feeling at this time is borne by the
beautiful poem, one of the finest he ever wrote, which he composed on
his thirty-sixth birthday. If we compare it with the despairing lines
which bear the date of his thirty-third birthday, the difference is
clearly perceptible. Along with premonition of his approaching death we
have manly resolve:--
"'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
. . . . . . . . . . . .
But 'tis not _thus_--and 'tis not _here_--
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Seek out--less often sought than found--
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest."
Byron's very first endeavour was, as might have been expected of him,
to modify, as far as possible, the barbarity of the method in which
the war was being carried on. He released several Turkish officers,
and sent them to Yussuf Pacha with a dignified and beautiful letter,
in which he begs him in return to treat such Greeks as may henceforth
fall into his hands with humanity, since the horrors of war are
sufficiently great without being aggravated by wanton cruelties on
either side. Then he turned all his attention to the task he had set
himself, and displayed a clear-sighted practicality which stood out in
marked contrast to the poetical visionariness of those with whom he was
associated.
The other Englishmen of the Committee, in their unworldly idealism,
hoped to civilise Greece by means of a free press, newspaper articles,
&c., &c.; but in Byron, the Carbonaro had made way for the practical
politician. He built everywhere, energetically and firmly, upon the
actually existing conditions--first and foremost upon the hatred of
Turkey which existed in the breast of every Greek. He considered it
much safer to reckon upon this than upon their devotion to freedom
and republicanism. Stanhope wished to open schools. Byron demanded
and distributed cannon. Stanhope endeavoured, through the agency of
missionaries, to introduce Protestant Christianity. Byron, who saw
that this foolishness would alienate the whole Greek priesthood, would
have nothing introduced but weapons and money. And he left off making
attacks upon the different European Governments. He had witnessed
the collapse of Carbonarism when brought into contact with organised
authority; hence his desire was to obtain for Greece recognition by the
Great Powers.
Unfortunately his health was not equal to the carrying out of his great
plans. At Missolonghi he rode out as usual every day, and, to impress
the inhabitants, was always attended by a bodyguard of fifty Suliotes
on foot. These men were such splendid runners that, though they carried
their carbines, they were able to keep up with the horses galloping at
full speed. On one of these rides Byron was drenched by a heavy shower.
Count Gamba tried to persuade him to return home at once, but he
refused, saying: "I should make a pretty soldier, indeed, if I were to
care for such a trifle." The following day he was seized with violent
convulsions--three men were hardly able to hold him--and the pain was
so excessive that he said: "I do not care for death, but these agonies
I cannot bear." While he was lying in an almost fainting condition
after this attack, a band of rebellious Suliotes made their way into
his room, brandishing their sabres, and demanding reparation for some
supposed slight. Byron raised himself up in bed, and with a powerful
exercise of will, ever calmer the more they raged and screamed,
mastered them with his look and manner, and dismissed them.
He had written to Moore some months previously: "If anything in the
way of fever, fatigue, famine, or otherwise, should cut short the
middle age of a brother warbler, I pray you to remember me in 'your
smiles and wine.' I have hopes that the cause will triumph; but
whether it does or no, still 'honour must be minded as strictly as
milk diet.' I trust to observe both." On the 12th of April he had
again to take to bed, and from this date the fever never abated. The
18th was Easter Day, a holiday which the Greeks were accustomed to
celebrate by firing off muskets and salvos of artillery; but out of
consideration for their benefactor, the townspeople kept perfectly
quiet. The 19th was the last day of Byron's life. During part of it
he was delirious; he imagined himself to be commanding troops, and
shouted: "Forwards--forwards--courage!" When he came to himself again,
he began to give his last orders to his servant, Fletcher. "Go to my
sister," he said; "tell her--go to Lady Byron--you will see her, and
say----." Here his voice became indistinct, and only names could be
made out--"Augusta--Ada--Hobhouse." He then said: "Now, I have told you
all." "My lord," replied Fletcher, "I have not understood a word your
lordship has been saying." "Not understood me?" exclaimed Lord Byron,
with a look of the utmost distress. "What a pity! Then it is too late;
all is over." He still continued to utter a few disconnected words:
"Poor Greece!--poor town!--my poor servants!" Then his thoughts must
have turned to Countess Guiccioli, for he murmured: "Io lascio qualche
cosa di caro nel mondo." Towards evening he said: "Now I shall go to
sleep," and, turning round, fell into that slumber from which he never
awoke.
The announcement of Byron's death fell like a thunderbolt upon Greece.
It affected the nation in the manner of a terrible natural catastrophe,
the consequences of which were incalculable. On the day he died the
following proclamation was issued:--