_BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON_.
It is difficult to judge when Lord Byron is serious or not. He has
a habit of mystifying, that might impose upon many; but that can be
detected by examining his physiognomy; for a sort of mock gravity, now
and then broken by a malicious smile, betrays when he is speaking for
effect, and not giving utterance to his real sentiments. If he
sees that he is detected, he appears angry for a moment, and then
laughingly admits, that it amuses him to _hoax_ people, as he calls
it, and that when each person, at some future day, will give their
different statements of him, they will be so contradictory, that _all_
will be doubted,--an idea that gratifies him exceedingly! The mobility
of his nature is extraordinary, and makes him inconsistent in his
actions as well as in his conversation.
Byron spoke to-day in terms of high commendation of Hope's
"Anastasius;" said that he wept bitterly over many pages of it, and
for two reasons, first, that _he_ had not written it, and secondly,
that _Hope_ had; for that it was necessary to like a man excessively
to pardon his writing such a book--a book, as he said, excelling all
recent productions, as much in wit and talent, as in true pathos. He
added, that he would have given his two most approved poems to have
been the author of "Anastasius."
From "Anastasius" he wandered to the works of Mr. Galt, praised the
"Annals of the Parish" very highly, as also "the Entail," which we had
lent him, and some scenes of which he said had affected him very much.
"The characters in Mr. Galt's novels have an identity," added Byron,
"that reminds me of Wilkie's pictures."
As a woman, I felt proud of the homage he paid to the genius of Mrs.
Hemans, and as a passionate admirer of her poetry, I felt flattered,
at finding that Lord Byron fully sympathized with my admiration. He
has, or at least expresses a strong dislike to the Lake school of
poets, never mentions them except in ridicule, and he and I nearly
quarrelled to-day because I defended poor Keats.
On looking out from the balcony this morning, I observed Byron's
countenance change, and an expression of deep sadness steal over it.
After a few minutes silence he pointed out to me a boat anchored to
the right, as the one in which his friend Shelley went down, and he
said the sight of it made him ill.--"You should have known Shelley
(said Byron) to feel how much I must regret him. He was the most
gentle, most amiable, and _least_ worldly-minded person I ever met;
full of delicacy, disinterested beyond all other men, and possessing a
degree of genius, joined to a simplicity, as rare as it is admirable.
He had formed to himself a _beau ideal_ of all that is fine,
high-minded, and noble, and he acted up to this ideal even to the
very letter. He had a most brilliant imagination but a total want of
worldly-wisdom. I have seen nothing like him, and never shall again,
I am certain. I never can forget the night that his poor wife rushed
into my room at Pisa, with a face pale as marble, and terror impressed
on her brow, demanding, with all the tragic impetuosity of grief and
alarm, where was her husband! Vain were all our efforts to calm her;
a desperate sort of courage seemed to give her energy to confront the
horrible truth that awaited her; it was the courage of despair; I have
seen nothing in tragedy on the stage so powerful, or so affecting,
as her appearance, and it often presents itself to my memory. I knew
nothing then of the catastrophe, but the vividness of her terror
communicated itself to me, and I feared the worst, which fears, were
alas! too soon fearfully realized."
Byron talked to-day of Leigh Hunt, regretted his ever having embarked
in the "Liberal," and said that it had drawn a nest of hornets on him,
but expressed a very good opinion of the talents and principle of Mr.
Hunt, though, as he said, "our tastes are so opposite, that we are
totally unsuited to each other. He admires the Lakers, I abhor them;
in short, we are more formed to be friends at a distance, than near."
I can perceive that he wishes Mr. Hunt and his family away. It appears
to me that Byron is a person who, without reflection, would form
engagements which, when condemned by his friends or advisers, he would
gladly get out of without considering the means, or at least, without
reflecting on the humiliation such a desertion must inflict on the
persons he had associated with him. He gives me the idea of a
man, who, feeling himself in such a dilemma, would become cold and
ungracious to the parties with whom he so stood, before he had mental
courage sufficient to abandon them. I may be wrong, but the whole of
his manner of talking of Mr. Hunt gives me this impression, though he
has not said what might be called an unkind word of him.
Much as Byron has braved public opinion it is evident he has a great
deference for those who stand high in it, and that he is shy
in attaching himself publicly to persons who have even, however
undeservedly, fallen under its censure. His expressed contempt and
defiance of the world, reminds me of the bravadoes of children, who,
afraid of darkness, make a noise to give themselves courage to support
what they dread. It is very evident that he is partial to aristocratic
friends, he dwells with complacency on the advantages of rank and
station, and has more than once boasted that people of family are
always to be recognised by a _certain air_, and the smallness and
delicacy of their hands.
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