"St. James's Street, March 5. 1812.
"My Lord,
"May I request your Lordship to accept a copy of the thing which
accompanies this note? You have already so fully proved the truth
of the first line of Pope's couplet,
"'_Forgiveness to the injured doth belong,_'
that I long for an opportunity to give the lie to the verse that
follows. If I were not perfectly convinced that any thing I may
have formerly uttered in the boyish rashness of my misplaced
resentment had made as little impression as it deserved to make, I
should hardly have the confidence--perhaps your Lordship may give
it a stronger and more appropriate appellation--to send you a
quarto of the same scribbler. But your Lordship, I am sorry to
observe to-day, is troubled with the gout; if my book can produce a
_laugh_ against itself or the author, it will be of some service.
If it can set you to _sleep_, the benefit will be yet greater; and
as some facetious personage observed half a century ago, that
'poetry is a mere drug,' I offer you mine as a humble assistant to
the 'eau médicinale.' I trust you will forgive this and all my
other buffooneries, and believe me to be, with great respect,
"Your Lordship's obliged and
"Sincere servant,
"BYRON."
* * * * *
It was within two days after his speech in the House of Lords that
Childe Harold appeared[44];--and the impression which it produced upon
the public was as instantaneous as it has proved deep and lasting. The
permanence of such success genius alone could secure, but to its instant
and enthusiastic burst, other causes, besides the merit of the work,
concurred.
There are those who trace in the peculiar character of Lord Byron's
genius strong features of relationship to the times in which he lived;
who think that the great events which marked the close of the last
century, by giving a new impulse to men's minds, by habituating them to
the daring and the free, and allowing full vent to "the flash and
outbreak of fiery spirits," had led naturally to the production of such
a poet as Byron; and that he was, in short, as much the child and
representative of the Revolution, in poesy, as another great man of the
age, Napoleon, was in statesmanship and warfare. Without going the full
length of this notion, it will, at least, be conceded, that the free
loose which had been given to all the passions and energies of the human
mind, in the great struggle of that period, together with the constant
spectacle of such astounding vicissitudes as were passing, almost daily,
on the theatre of the world, had created, in all minds, and in every
walk of intellect, a taste for strong excitement, which the stimulants
supplied from ordinary sources were insufficient to gratify;--that a
tame deference to established authorities had fallen into disrepute, no
less in literature than in politics, and that the poet who should
breathe into his songs the fierce and passionate spirit of the age, and
assert, untrammelled and unawed, the high dominion of genius, would be
the most sure of an audience toned in sympathy with his strains.
It is true that, to the licence on religious subjects, which revelled
through the first acts of that tremendous drama, a disposition of an
opposite tendency had, for some time, succeeded. Against the wit of the
scoffer, not only piety, but a better taste, revolted; and had Lord
Byron, in touching on such themes in Childe Harold, adopted a tone of
levity or derision, (such as, unluckily, he sometimes afterwards
descended to,) not all the originality and beauty of his work would have
secured for it a prompt or uncontested triumph. As it was, however, the
few dashes of scepticism with which he darkened his strain, far from
checking his popularity, were among those attractions which, as I have
said, independent of all the charms of the poetry, accelerated and
heightened its success. The religious feeling that has sprung up through
Europe since the French revolution--like the political principles that
have emerged out of the same event--in rejecting all the licentiousness
of that period, have preserved much of its spirit of freedom and
enquiry; and, among the best fruits of this enlarged and enlightened
piety is the liberty which it disposes men to accord to the opinions,
and even heresies, of others. To persons thus sincerely, and, at the
same time, tolerantly, devout, the spectacle of a great mind, like that
of Byron, labouring in the eclipse of scepticism, could not be otherwise
than an object of deep and solemn interest. If they had already known
what it was to doubt, themselves, they would enter into his fate with
mournful sympathy; while, if safe in the tranquil haven of faith, they
would look with pity on one who was still a wanderer. Besides, erring
and dark as might be his views at that moment, there were circumstances
in his character and fate that gave a hope of better thoughts yet
dawning upon him. From his temperament and youth, there could be little
fear that he was yet hardened in his heresies, and as, for a heart
wounded like his, there was, they knew, but one true source of
consolation, so it was hoped that the love of truth, so apparent in all
he wrote, would, one day, enable him to find it.
Another, and not the least of those causes which concurred with the
intrinsic claims of his genius to give an impulse to the tide of success
that now flowed upon him, was, unquestionably, the peculiarity of his
personal history and character. There had been, in his very first
introduction of himself to the public, a sufficient portion of
singularity to excite strong attention and interest. While all other
youths of talent, in his high station, are heralded into life by the
applauses and anticipations of a host of friends, young Byron stood
forth alone, unannounced by either praise or promise,--the
representative of an ancient house, whose name, long lost in the gloomy
solitudes of Newstead, seemed to have just awakened from the sleep of
half a century in his person. The circumstances that, in succession,
followed,--the prompt vigour of his reprisals upon the assailants of his
fame,--his disappearance, after this achievement, from the scene of his
triumph, without deigning even to wait for the laurels which he had
earned, and his departure on a far pilgrimage, whose limits he left to
chance and fancy,--all these successive incidents had thrown an air of
adventure round the character of the young poet, which prepared his
readers to meet half-way the impressions of his genius. Instead of
finding him, on a nearer view, fall short of their imaginations, the new
features of his disposition now disclosed to them far outwent, in
peculiarity and interest, whatever they might have preconceived; while
the curiosity and sympathy, awakened by what he suffered to transpire of
his history, were still more heightened by the mystery of his allusions
to much that yet remained untold. The late losses by death which he had
sustained, and which, it was manifest, he most deeply mourned, gave a
reality to the notion formed of him by his admirers which seemed to
authorise them in imagining still more; and what has been said of the
poet Young, that he found out the art of "making the public a party to
his private sorrows," may be, with infinitely more force and truth,
applied to Lord Byron.
On that circle of society with whom he came immediately in contact,
these personal influences acted with increased force, from being
assisted by others, which, to female imaginations especially, would
have presented a sufficiency of attraction, even without the great
qualities joined with them. His youth,--the noble beauty of his
countenance, and its constant play of lights and shadows,--the
gentleness of his voice and manner to women, and his occasional
haughtiness to men,--the alleged singularities of his mode of life,
which kept curiosity alive and inquisitive,--all these lesser traits and
habitudes concurred towards the quick spread of his fame; nor can it be
denied that, among many purer sources of interest in his poem, the
allusions which he makes to instances of "_successful_ passion" in his
career[45] were not without their influence on the fancies of that sex,
whose weakness it is to be most easily won by those who come recommended
by the greatest number of triumphs over others.
That his rank was also to be numbered among these extrinsic advantages
appears to have been--partly, perhaps, from a feeling of modesty at the
time--his own persuasion. "I may place a great deal of it," said he to
Mr. Dallas, "to my being a lord." It might be supposed that it is only
on a rank inferior to his own such a charm could operate; but this very
speech is, in itself, a proof, that in no class whatever is the
advantage of being noble more felt and appreciated than among nobles
themselves. It was, also, natural that, in that circle, the admiration
of the new poet should be, at least, quickened by the consideration that
he had sprung up among themselves, and that their order had, at length,
produced a man of genius, by whom the arrears of contribution, long due
from them to the treasury of English literature, would be at once fully
and splendidly discharged.
Altogether, taking into consideration the various points I have here
enumerated, it may be asserted, that never did there exist before, and
it is most probable never will exist again, a combination of such vast
mental power and surpassing genius, with so many other of those
advantages and attractions, by which the world is, in general, dazzled
and captivated. The effect was, accordingly, electric;--his fame had not
to wait for any of the ordinary gradations, but seemed to spring up,
like the palace of a fairy tale, in a night. As he himself briefly
described it in his memoranda,--"I awoke one morning and found myself
famous." The first edition of his work was disposed of instantly; and,
as the echoes of its reputation multiplied on all sides, "Childe Harold"
and "Lord Byron" became the theme of every tongue. At his door, most of
the leading names of the day presented themselves,--some of them persons
whom he had much wronged in his Satire, but who now forgot their
resentment in generous admiration. From morning till night the most
flattering testimonies of his success crowded his table,--from the grave
tributes of the statesman and the philosopher down to (what flattered
him still more) the romantic billet of some _incognita,_ or the pressing
note of invitation from some fair leader of fashion; and, in place of
the desert which London had been to him but a few weeks before, he now
not only saw the whole splendid interior of High Life thrown open to
receive him, but found himself, among its illustrious crowds, the most
distinguished object.
The copyright of the poem, which was purchased by Mr. Murray for
600_l._, he presented, in the most delicate and unostentatious manner,
to Mr. Dallas[46], saying, at the same time, that he "never would
receive money for his writings;"--a resolution, the mixed result of
generosity and pride, which he afterwards wisely abandoned, though borne
out by the example of Swift[47] and Voltaire, the latter of whom gave
away most of his copyrights to Prault and other booksellers, and
received books, not money, for those he disposed of otherwise. To his
young friend, Mr. Harness, it had been his intention, at first, to
dedicate the work, but, on further consideration, he relinquished his
design; and in a letter to that gentleman (which, with some others, is
unfortunately lost) alleged, as his reason for this change, the
prejudice which, he foresaw, some parts of the poem would raise against
himself, and his fear lest, by any possibility, a share of the odium
might so far extend itself to his friend, as to injure him in the
profession to which he was about to devote himself.
Not long after the publication of Childe Harold, the noble author paid
me a visit, one morning, and, putting a letter into my hands, which he
had just received, requested that I would undertake to manage for him
whatever proceedings it might render necessary. This letter, I found,
had been delivered to him by Mr. Leckie (a gentleman well known by a
work on Sicilian affairs), and came from a once active and popular
member of the fashionable world, Colonel Greville,--its purport being to
require of his Lordship, as author of "English Bards," &c., such
reparation as it was in his power to make for the injury which, as
Colonel Greville conceived, certain passages in that satire, reflecting
upon his conduct as manager of the Argyle Institution, were calculated
to inflict upon his character. In the appeal of the gallant Colonel,
there were some expressions of rather an angry cast, which Lord Byron,
though fully conscious of the length to which he himself had gone, was
but little inclined to brook, and, on my returning the letter into his
hands, he said, "To such a letter as that there can be but one sort of
answer." He agreed, however, to trust the matter entirely to my
discretion, and I had, shortly after, an interview with the friend of
Colonel Greville. By this gentleman, who was then an utter stranger to
me, I was received with much courtesy, and with every disposition to
bring the affair intrusted to us to an amicable issue. On my premising
that the tone of his friend's letter stood in the way of negotiation,
and that some obnoxious expressions which it contained must be removed
before I could proceed a single step towards explanation, he most
readily consented to remove this obstacle. At his request I drew a pen
across the parts I considered objectionable, and he undertook to send me
the letter re-written, next morning. In the mean time I received from
Lord Byron the following paper for my guidance:--
"With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's loss, no unfair play was
hinted at, as may be seen by referring to the book; and it is
expressly added that the _managers were ignorant_ of that
transaction. As to the prevalence of play at the Argyle, it cannot
be denied that there were _billiards_ and _dice_;--Lord B. has been
a witness to the use of both at the Argyle Rooms. These, it is
presumed, come under the denomination of play. If play be allowed,
the President of the Institution can hardly complain of being
termed the 'Arbiter of Play,'--or what becomes of his authority?
"Lord B. has no personal animosity to Colonel Greville. A public
institution, to which he himself was a subscriber, he considered
himself to have a right to notice _publicly_. Of that institution
Colonel Greville was the avowed director;--it is too late to enter
into the discussion of its merits or demerits.
"Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, for the real
or supposed injury, to Colonel G.'s friend, and Mr. Moore, the
friend of Lord B.--begging them to recollect that, while they
consider Colonel G.'s honour, Lord B. must also maintain his own.
If the business can be settled amicably, Lord B. will do as much as
can and ought to be done by a man of honour towards
conciliation;--if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in the manner
most conducive to his further wishes."
[Footnote 44: To his sister, Mrs. Leigh, one of the first presentation
copies was sent, with the following inscription in it:--
"To Augusta, my dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever
loved me much better than I deserved, this volume is presented by
her father's son, and most affectionate brother,
"B."
]
[Footnote 45:
"Little knew she, that seeming marble heart,
Now mask'd in silence, or withheld by pride,
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,
And spread its snares licentious far and wide."
_CHILDE HAROLD, CANTO II._
We have here another instance of his propensity to
self-misrepresentation. However great might have been the irregularities
of his college life, such phrases as the "art of the spoiler" and
"spreading snares" were in nowise applicable to them.]
[Footnote 46: "After speaking to him of the sale, and settling the new
edition, I said, 'How can I possibly think of this rapid sale, and the
profits likely to ensue, without recollecting--'--'What?'--'Think what
sum your work may produce.'--'I shall be rejoiced, and wish it doubled
and trebled; but do not talk to me of money. I never will receive money
for my writings.'"--DALLAS'S _Recollections_.]
[Footnote 47: In a letter to Pulteney, 12th May, 1735, Swift says, "I
never got a farthing for any thing I writ, except once."]
* * * * *
In the morning I received the letter, in its new form, from Mr. Leckie,
with the annexed note.
"My dear Sir,
"I found my friend very ill in bed; he has, however, managed to
copy the enclosed, with the alterations proposed. Perhaps you may
wish to see me in the morning; I shall therefore be glad to see you
any time till twelve o'clock. If you rather wish me to call on you,
tell me, and I shall obey your summons. Yours, very truly,
"G.T. LECKIE."
With such facilities towards pacification, it is almost needless to add
that there was but little delay in settling the matter amicably.
While upon this subject, I shall avail myself of the opportunity which
it affords of extracting an amusing account given by Lord Byron himself
of some affairs of this description, in which he was, at different
times, employed as mediator.
"I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least twenty times, in
violent quarrels, and have always contrived to settle the business
without compromising the honour of the parties, or leading them to
mortal consequences, and this, too, sometimes in very difficult and
delicate circumstances, and having to deal with very hot and haughty
spirits,--Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, captains, and cornets of
horse, and the like. This was, of course, in my youth, when I lived in
hot-headed company. I have had to carry challenges from gentlemen to
noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to counsellors, and
once from a clergyman to an officer in the Life Guards; but I found the
latter by far the most difficult,--
"'to compose
The bloody duel without blows,'--
the business being about a woman: I must add, too, that I never saw a
_woman_ behave so ill, like a cold-blooded, heartless b---- as she
was,--but very handsome for all that. A certain Susan C * * was she
called. I never saw her but once; and that was to induce her but to say
two words (which in no degree compromised herself), and which would have
had the effect of saving a priest or a lieutenant of cavalry. She would
not say them, and neither N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E. N * *, and
a friend to one of the parties,) could prevail upon her to say them,
though both of us used to deal in some sort with womankind. At last I
managed to quiet the combatants without her talisman, and, I believe, to
her great disappointment: she was the damnedest b---- that I ever saw,
and I have seen a great many. Though my clergyman was sure to lose
either his life or his living, he was as warlike as the Bishop of
Beauvais, and would hardly be pacified; but then he was in love, and
that is a martial passion."
However disagreeable it was to find the consequences of his Satire thus
rising up against him in a hostile shape, he was far more embarrassed in
those cases where the retribution took a friendly form. Being now daily
in the habit of meeting and receiving kindnesses from persons who,
either in themselves, or through their relatives, had been wounded by
his pen, he felt every fresh instance of courtesy from such quarters to
be, (as he sometimes, in the strong language of Scripture, expressed
it,) like "heaping coals of fire upon his head." He was, indeed, in a
remarkable degree, sensitive to the kindness or displeasure of those he
lived with; and had he passed a life subject to the immediate influence
of society, it may be doubted whether he ever would have ventured upon
those unbridled bursts of energy in which he at once demonstrated and
abused his power. At the period when he ran riot in his Satire, society
had not yet caught him within its pale; and in the time of his Cains and
Don Juans, he had again broken loose from it. Hence, his instinct
towards a life of solitude and independence, as the true element of his
strength. In his own domain of imagination he could defy the whole
world; while, in real life, a frown or smile could rule him. The
facility with which he sacrificed his first volume, at the mere
suggestion of his friend, Mr. Becher, is a strong proof of this
pliableness; and in the instance of Childe Harold, such influence had
the opinions of Mr. Gifford and Mr. Dallas on his mind, that he not only
shrunk from his original design of identifying himself with his hero,
but surrendered to them one of his most favourite stanzas, whose
heterodoxy they had objected to; nor is it too much, perhaps, to
conclude, that had a more extended force of such influence then acted
upon him, he would have consented to omit the sceptical parts of his
poem altogether. Certain it is that, during the remainder of his stay in
England, no such doctrines were ever again obtruded on his readers; and
in all those beautiful creations of his fancy, with which he brightened
that whole period, keeping the public eye in one prolonged gaze of
admiration, both the bitterness and the licence of his impetuous spirit
were kept effectually under control. The world, indeed, had yet to
witness what he was capable of, when emancipated from this restraint.
For, graceful and powerful as were his flights while society had still a
hold of him, it was not till let loose from the leash that he rose into
the true region of his strength; and though almost in proportion to that
strength was, too frequently, his abuse of it, yet so magnificent are
the very excesses of such energy, that it is impossible, even while we
condemn, not to admire.
The occasion by which I have been led into these remarks,--namely, his
sensitiveness on the subject of his Satire,--is one of those instances
that show how easily his gigantic spirit could be, if not held down, at
least entangled, by the small ties of society. The aggression of which
he had been guilty was not only past, but, by many of those most
injured, forgiven; and yet,--highly, it must be allowed, to the credit
of his social feelings,--the idea of living familiarly and friendlily
with persons, respecting whose character or talents there were such
opinions of his on record, became, at length, insupportable to him; and,
though far advanced in a fifth edition of "English Bards," &c., he came
to the resolution of suppressing the Satire altogether; and orders were
sent to Cawthorn, the publisher, to commit the whole impression to the
flames. At the same time, and from similar motives,--aided, I rather
think, by a friendly remonstrance from Lord Elgin, or some of his
connections,--the "Curse of Minerva," a poem levelled against that
nobleman, and already in progress towards publication, was also
sacrificed; while the "Hints from Horace," though containing far less
personal satire than either of the others, shared their fate.
To exemplify what I have said of his extreme sensibility, to the passing
sunshine or clouds of the society in which he lived, I need but cite the
following notes, addressed by him to his friend Mr. William Bankes,
under the apprehension that this gentleman was, for some reason or
other, displeased with him.
* * * * *