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_Lord Byron juge par les temoins de sa Vie._
MY RECOLLECTIONS
OF
LORD BYRON;
AND
THOSE OF EYE-WITNESSES OF HIS LIFE.
"The long promised work of the
COUNTESS GUICCIOLI."--
_Athenaeum._
_NEW YORK_:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1869.
ADVERTISEMENT BY THE ENGLISH PUBLISHER.
The Publisher of this Translation feels authorized to state, that it is
the production of the celebrated COUNTESS GUICCIOLI.
RICHARD BENTLEY.
TO
THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK,
THE
ENGLISH TRANSLATION
IS
Respectfully Dedicated
BY
HUBERT E.H. JERNINGHAM.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY SKETCH OF LORD BYRON Page 9
CHAPTER I.
LORD BYRON AND M. DE LAMARTINE 43
CHAPTER II.
PORTRAIT OF LORD BYRON 58
CHAPTER III.
FRENCH PORTRAIT OF LORD BYRON 70
CHAPTER IV.
HIS RELIGIOUS OPINIONS 106
CHAPTER V.
HIS CHILDHOOD AND HIS YOUTH 174
CHAPTER VI.
HIS FRIENDSHIPS 201
CHAPTER VII.
LORD BYRON CONSIDERED AS A FATHER, AS A
BROTHER, AND AS A SON--HIS GOODNESS SHOWN BY
THE STRENGTH OF HIS INSTINCTIVE AFFECTIONS 232
CHAPTER VIII.
QUALITIES OF LORD BYRON'S HEART 245
CHAPTER IX.
HIS BENEVOLENCE AND KINDNESS 284
CHAPTER X.
LORD BYRON'S QUALITIES AND VIRTUES OF SOUL 305
CHAPTER XI.
LORD BYRON'S CONSTANCY 347
CHAPTER XII.
HIS COURAGE AND FORTITUDE 361
CHAPTER XIII.
HIS MODESTY 372
CHAPTER XIV.
VIRTUES OF HIS SOUL 381
CHAPTER XV.
HIS GENEROSITY ELEVATED INTO HEROISM 396
CHAPTER XVI.
HIS FAULTS 414
CHAPTER XVII.
HIS IRRITABILITY 427
CHAPTER XVIII.
HIS MOBILITY 450
CHAPTER XIX.
HIS MISANTHROPY AND SOCIABILITY 457
CHAPTER XX.
HIS PRIDE 484
CHAPTER XXI.
HIS VANITY 488
CHAPTER XXII.
LORD BYRON'S MARRIAGE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 504
CHAPTER XXIII.
HIS GAYETY AND MELANCHOLY 545
CHAPTER XXIV.
HIS MELANCHOLY 563
CHAPTER XXV.
ATTRACTION OF TRUTH FOR; OR, CONSCIENCE THE
CHIEF QUALITY OF HIS SOUL 631
SEMI-BIOGRAPHY OF BYRON IN MR. DISRAELI'S
"VENETIA" 656
MY RECOLLECTIONS, ETC.
INTRODUCTION.
"To know another man well, especially if he be a noted and
illustrious character, is a great thing not to be
despised."--SAINTE-BEUVE.
Many years ago a celebrated writer, in speaking of Lord Byron, who had
then been dead some years, said that so much had already been written
upon him that the subject had almost become commonplace, but was far
from being exhausted. This truth, indisputable when applied to Byron's
genius, his works, and to his intellect, was then and still is equally
positive when referring to his moral qualities. A subject as well as an
object may become commonplace by the quantity, but nevertheless remain
new and rare, owing to its quality. A subject can not be exhausted
before it has been seen under every one of its various aspects, and
appreciated in all its points. If much has been said of Lord Byron, has
his truly noble character been fairly brought to light? Has he not, on
the contrary, been judged rather as the author than the man, and have
not the imaginary creations of his powerful mind been too much
identified with reality? In the best biographies of his life do we not
meet with many gaps which have to be filled up--nay, worse, gaps filled
up with errors which have to be eradicated to make room for the truth?
The object of this work is precisely to do away with these errors and to
replace them by facts, and to dispel the shadows which fancy has raised
around his name. For the old opinions we wish to substitute new
appreciations, by weighing exactly the measure of truth which exists in
the former; and by the logic of facts we wish to judge fairly so as to
prevent posterity from being deceived. In doing this we do not pretend
to give England any new information. For a long time, no doubt, error
sprang from that country; but years and events have passed since that
state of things existed. The liberal and tolerant spirit, enlightened by
philosophy, which has spread all over liberal England, has also been
reflected in the opinions formed of men, and has modified many pages of
biography and history and made Englishmen feel how numerous were the
wrongs of which they were guilty toward their illustrious countryman.
It is useless to speak of the national selfishness of England, and
pretend that she only appreciates or rewards with her love and esteem
such writers as flatter her pride or hide her defects from the eyes of
foreigners. This may be true, generally speaking; but Lord Byron's
patriotic feelings were of a very different cast. He thought it best to
expose to the world at large the faults of his countrymen, in order to
correct them. His patriotism was influenced by the superiority of the
noble sentiments which actuated his life. Feeling as he did, that he
was, above all, a member of the great human community, and declaring it
openly; despising popularity, if it cost him the sacrifice of a truth
which he deemed it useful and right to proclaim, and thus going against
many of the passions, prejudices, and opinions of his countrymen, Byron
certainly wounded many susceptibilities; and could we forget all he had
to suffer at the hands of the English, we might almost say he was too
severe in his judgments upon them. Notwithstanding, however, it is
almost impossible to travel in England without meeting everywhere some
token of homage paid to the memory of Byron. Scotland, who looks upon
him almost as a son, is proud to show the several houses wherein he
lived when a child, and preserves his name and memory with love and
respect. To have seen him once, is a recollection of which one is proud.
A particular charm encircles the places, mountains, rivers, and bridge
of Don, of which he speaks, simply because he has mentioned them in his
poems. A letter or any thing which has belonged to him is looked upon as
a treasure.
At Harrow, the beloved residence of his youth, the growing generation
bow with affectionate respect before the pyramid which has been erected
to his memory by the love of a former youthful generation. At
Cambridge, among all the monuments which recall the glories of the past,
Lord Byron's statue commands the rest, and occupies the place of honor.
The rooms which he had there are shown and reverenced as places which
have harbored genius. In Parliament the same man who formerly, by unjust
and unmerited criticisms of the youthful poet, decried his growing
genius, and who was guilty of other wrongs against him, has made an act
of reparation and of justice by expressing publicly his regret that a
grudge of the dean in Byron's time had prevailed to prevent a monument
being erected in Westminster Abbey to the memory of the poet. The
pilgrimage to Newstead is looked upon as an intellectual feast, if not
as a duty, by young Englishmen, and his genius is so much revered by
them that they do not admit that he is equalled by any contemporary poet
or likely to be surpassed by those who follow. No doubt, therefore,
England now-a-days only prefers what formerly she used to exact from her
poets. Moore's culpable timidities and Macaulay's declamatory
exaggerations must, at least, be looked upon as weaknesses of character,
which would have been disowned by themselves, had they lived long enough
to witness the change in public opinion.
Although full justice has not yet been done to the noble character of
the man, still partial justice has been rendered to Byron's memory by
the summary dismissal of the numerous false writings which appeared and
which tended to replace the truth by the creations of fancy, and to put
into the mouth of the poet the thoughts of their authors and not his
own, or to insult him by a magnanimous defense, the honor and glory of
which was to redound entirely to the writers. It is necessary to
observe, that if Byron was openly calumniated during his lifetime, he
was not less so after his death by disguised slander, especially by that
kind of absolution which in reality is one of the most odious forms of
calumny, since it is the most hypocritical and most difficult to deal
with, and least likely to be touched. But England has at last understood
the truth and settled all such opinions.
To England, therefore, these pages, which contain the rectification of
certain old opinions, will be useless. But can the same be said of other
countries, and of France especially? Even now-a-days, we read such
fanciful appreciation of Byron's character that we could almost believe
that the rumors and calumnies which came from England had never been
refuted; and that extraordinary views expressed by Lamartine in
beautiful verse are still entertained, and the question still asked,
whether Byron was "a devil or an angel?" On reading such appreciations,
it seems opportune to present those who admire genius and truth with a
very humble but conscientious study of Byron's great mind.
Can it be objected, that the fact of the defense of a foreigner detracts
from the interest of the reader? Can a genius be a stranger to man, and
does not the earth seem too small to contain such exceptional beings?
Our civilization, which has almost suppressed every physical barrier
that exists between the nations of the earth, has still further
annihilated those of the intellect: so much so, that Shakspeare, Dante,
Goethe, are as much revered in France as in their respective countries,
notwithstanding the difference of the idioms in which they have written.
The same will occur in respect to Lord Byron, whose name alone opposes
every barrier, and against whom the difference of nationality can not
form any obstacle. The language of genius is not of one country only,
but appertains to humanity in general: and God Himself has implanted its
rules in every heart.
This book is not a regular nor a methodical biography. Nor is it an
apology; but rather a study, an analysis, the portrait of a great mind
seen under all its aspects, with no other decided intention on the part
of the writer than to tell the truth, and to rest upon indisputable
facts and rely upon unimpeachable testimony.
The public now, it is said, can not bear eulogy, and cares only to know
the weak points of great men. We do not believe this to be the case. It
would be too severe a criticism of human nature in general, and of our
times in particular. In any case, we can not accept the statement as
correct, when applied to noble characters to whom we especially dedicate
this work. It may be, the reader will find in our essay beauties which
he had not yet observed, which have hitherto been disputed in the
original, and which less sympathetic natures than ours might term
complacent eulogies; but the fear of being blamed and of being
unpopular shall not deter us from our intention of bringing them forth.
No criticism can prevent our praising, when he deserves it, the man who
never knew the weaknesses of jealousy, and who never failed to bestow
eulogy upon every kind of talent without ever claiming any in return. In
publishing the book we are, moreover, certain that what to-day may
appear praise, to-morrow will be termed justice.
Lord Byron shone at a period when a school called Romantic was in
progress of formation. That school wanted a type by which to mould its
heroes, as a planet requires a sun to give it light. It took Byron as
that type, and adorned him with all the qualities which pleased its
fancy, but the time has more than arrived when it is necessary that
truth should reveal him in his true light. My book is not likely to
dispel every cloud, but a few shades only add to the lustre and
brilliancy of a landscape.
LORD BYRON.
"Others form the man: I tell of him."--MONTAIGNE.
At all times the world has been very unjust; and (who does not know it?)
in the history of nations many an Aristides has paid with exile the
price of his virtues and his popularity. Great men, great countries,
whole nations, whole centuries, have had to bear up against injustice;
and the truth is, that vice has so often taken the place of virtue, evil
of good, and error of truth, some have been judged so severely and
others so leniently, that, could the book of redress be written, not
only would it be too voluminous, but it would also be too painful to
peruse. Honest people would feel shame to see the judgments before which
many a great mind has had to bend; and how often party spirit, either
religious or political, moved by the basest passions--such as hatred,
envy, rivalry, vengeance, fanaticism, intolerance, self-love--has been a
pretext for disfiguring in the eyes of the public the greatest and
noblest characters. It would then be seen how some censor (profiting by
the breach which circumstances, or even a slight fault on the part of
these great minds, may have made, and joining issue with other inferior
judges of character) has often succeeded in throwing a shade on their
glorious actions and in casting a slur upon their reputation, like those
little insects which from their number actually succeed, notwithstanding
their smallness, in darkening the rays of the sun. What is worse,
however, is, that when history has once been erroneously written, and a
hero has been put forward in colors which are not real, the public
actually becomes accessory to the deception practiced upon it: for it
becomes so enamored of the false type which has been held out to its
admiration that it will not loosen its hold on it. Public opinion, once
fixed, becomes a perfect despotism.
Never, perhaps, has this phenomenon shown itself more visibly and more
remarkably than in the case of Lord Byron. Not only was he a victim of
these obstinate prejudices, but in his case the annihilation of truth
and the creation of an imaginary type have been possible only at the
cost of common sense, and notwithstanding the most palpable
contradictions. So that he has really proved to be one of the most
curious instances of the levity with which human judgments are formed.
We have elsewhere described the various phases of this phenomenon, one
of the principal causes of which has been the resolution to identify the
poet with the first heroes of his poems. Such a mode of proceeding was
as disloyal as it was contrary to all the received rules of literature.
It was inspired by hatred and vengeance, adopted by an idle and
frivolous public, and the result has proved to be something entirely
opposed to the truth.
As long as such a whimsical creation was harmless, it amused Byron
himself and his friends; but the day came when it ceased to be harmless
without ceasing to be eccentric, and became to Byron a true robe of
Nessus.
At his death the truth was demanded of his biographers; but the puppet
which had been erected stood there, and amazed the good, while it served
the malice of the wicked. His genius was analyzed, but no conscientious
study of his character was made, and Byron, as man, remained an unknown
personage.
Yet among his biographers there were men of upright and enlightened
minds: they did not all seek to raise themselves at the cost of
depreciating him, nor to gain popularity by sparing individuals at the
expense of Lord Byron.
If among them many proved to be black sheep, there were several, on the
other hand, who were sincere, and even kindly disposed. Yet not one did
full justice to Byron, not one defended him as he deserved, not one
explained his true character with the conscientious energy which in
itself constitutes authority. We shall speak elsewhere of the causes
which gave rise to this phenomenon. We shall mention the part which
public opinion played in England when suddenly displeased with a poet
who dared sound the deepest recesses of the human heart; and who as an
artist and a psychologist was interested in watching the growth of every
passion, and especially that of love, regardless of the conjugal
felicity which that public wished him to respect. It began to fear that
its enthusiasm for Lord Byron was a national crime, and by degrees
became accessory to the calumnies which were heaped upon his noble
character, on account of his supposed want of patriotism, and his
refusal to be blind to the defects of the mother-country. We shall see
how his biographers, preferring invention to strict adherence to the
truth, compounded a Lord Byron such as not to be any longer
recognizable, and to become even--especially in France--a caricature. Of
all this we shall speak hereafter. We shall now rather point to the
curious than to the unjust character of this fact, and notice the
contradictions to which Byron's biographers have lent themselves.
All, or nearly all, have granted to him an infinity of virtues, and
naturally fine qualities--such as sensitiveness, generosity, frankness,
humility, charity, soberness, greatness of soul, force of wit, manly
pride, and nobility of sentiment; but, at the same time, they do not
sufficiently clear him of the faults which directly exclude the
above-mentioned qualities. The moral man does not sufficiently appear in
their writings: they do not sufficiently proclaim his character--one of
the finest that was ever allied to a great intellect. Why? Are these
virtues such that, like excellent and salutary substances, they become
poisoned when placed in contact within the same crucible?
In this refusal to do justice there is contradiction; and as error
exists where contradiction lies, it is precisely in that contradiction
that we must seek the means of refuting error and assert the power of
truth.
Nature always proceeds logically, and the effect is always in direct
analogy with its cause. Even in the moral world the precise character of
exact sciences must be found. If in a problem we meet with a
contradiction, are we not certain that its solution has been badly
worked out, and that we must begin it over again to find a true result?
The same reasoning holds good for the moral spheres. When a judgment has
been wrongly formed, that is, when there appears to be contradiction
between various opinions, that judgment must be remodelled, the cause of
the error must be looked for, truth must be separated from falsehood,
and regard must be had to the law which obliges us to weigh impartially
every assertion, and to discuss equally the ayes and noes. Let this be
done for Lord Byron. Let us analyze facts, question the eye-witnesses of
his life, and peruse his admirable and simply-written letters, wherein
his soul has, so to say, photographed itself. Acts are unquestionably
more significative than words; yet if we wish to inquire into his
poetry, not by way of appreciating his genius (with which at present we
have nothing to do), but the nature of the man, let us do so loyally.
Let us not attribute to him the character which he lends to his heroes,
nor the customs which he attributes to them, simply because here and
there he has given to the one something of his manner, to the other some
of his sentiments; or because he has harbored them, in the belief that
hospitality can be extended to the wicked without the good suffering
from it.
Let us first examine "Childe Harold,"--the poem which principally
contributed to mystify the public, and commenced that despotic type of
which we have already spoken.
Childe Harold does not tell his own story. His life is told by a poet.
There are, therefore, two well-marked personages on the scene, perfectly
distinct and different from one another. The first is the young nobleman
in whom Byron intended to personify the precocious perversion of mind
and soul of the age, and in general the blased existence of the young
men of the day, of whom he had met many types at Cambridge, and on his
first launch into society. The second is the minstrel who tells his
story.
The heart of the former is closed to all joy and to all the finest
impulses of the soul; whereas that of the other beats with delight at
the prospect of all that is noble, great, good, and just in the world.
Why identify the author rather with the one than with the other--with
the former rather than with the latter? Why take from him his own
sentiments, to give him those of his hero? That hero can not be called
mysterious, since in his preface Byron tells us himself the moral object
for which he has selected him. If Childe Harold personifies Lord Byron,
who will personify the poet? That poet (and he is no other than Lord
Byron) plays a far greater part than the hero. He is much oftener on the
scene. In the greater part of the poem the minstrel alone speaks. In the
ninety-three stanzas of which the first canto is composed, Harold is on
the scene during nineteen stanzas only, while the poet speaks in his own
name during the seventy-four other stanzas, displaying a beautiful soul
under various aspects, and exhibiting no melancholy other than that
inherent to all elevated poetry.
As for the second canto, it opens with a monologue of the minstrel, and
Harold is forgotten until the sixteenth stanza. Then only does the
melancholy hero appear, to disappear and reappear again for a few
moments. But he rather seems to annoy the minstrel, who finishes at the
seventy-third stanza by dismissing him altogether; and from that moment
to the end of the canto the wretched and unamiable personage does not
reappear. To whom, then, belong all the admirable sentiments and all the
virtuous aspirations which we read of toward the end of the canto?--to
whom, if not to the minstrel himself? that is, to Lord Byron. What poet
has paid so noble a tribute to every virtue? Could that vigor and
freshness of mind which breathe upon the lips of the poet, and which
well belonged to him, suit the corrupted nature of Harold? If Byron
dismisses his hero so often, it is because he experiences toward him the
feelings of a logical moralist.
Why then identify Lord Byron with a personage he himself disowns as his
prototype, both in his notes, in his preface, in his conversations; and
who is proved by facts, by the poem itself, and by the poet's logical
and moral reasoning, to be entirely different from his creation? It is
true that Byron conceived the unfortunate idea of surrounding his hero
by several incidents in his own existence, to place him in the social
circle to which he himself belonged, and to give him a mother and a
sister, a disappointed love, a Newstead Abbey like his own, and to make
him travel where he had travelled and experience the same adventures.
That is true, and such an act of imprudence can only be explained, by
the confidence on which he relied that the identification could never
have been thought of. At twenty-one conscience speaks louder than
experience. But if we can justify the accusation of his having been
imprudent, can we justify his having been calumniated?
Eight years after the publication of the second canto, Byron wrote the
third; and here the pilgrim occasionally appears, but so changed that he
seems to have been merged into the poet, and to form with him one person
only. Childe Harold's sorrows are those of Lord Byron, but there no
longer exists any trace of misanthropy or of satiety. His heart already
beats with that of the poet for chaste and devoted affections, for all
the most amiable, the most noble, and the most sublime of sentiments. He
loves the flowers, the smiling and glorious, the charming and sublime
aspect of nature.
"Yet not insensible to all which here
Awoke the jocund birds to early song
In glens which might have made even exile dear;
Though on his brow were graven lines austere,
And tranquil sternness, which had ta'en the place
Of feelings fiercer far but less severe,
Joy was not always absent from his face,
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace."
No longer, then, is satiety depicted upon the pilgrim's brow, but "lines
austere;" and the poet seems so desirous of proving to us that Harold is
metamorphosed, that when he expresses sentiments full of sympathy,
humanity, and goodness, his horror for war and his dislike for the
beauties of the Rhine, because--
"A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks,"
he takes care to add--
"Thus Harold inly said"....
Harold, then, has ceased to be the weary _blase_ pilgrim of twenty-one,
who in the first canto remains unmoved in presence of the attractions of
Florence the beautiful, who inspired the poet with such different
sentiments that in the midst even of a storm which threatens to swallow
him up he actually finds strength enough to express his sentiments of
real love for the lovely absent one--of a love, indeed, which is
evidently returned. His heart, like the poet's, now beats with a pure
love, and causes him to chant the absence of his friend in the most
beautiful strain. Where is the old Harold? It would seem as if the poet,
tired of a companion so disagreeable and so opposed to his tastes, and
wishing to get rid of him but not knowing how, had first changed and
moulded him to his own likeness by giving him his own sentiments, his
own great heart, his own pains, his own affections, and, not finding the
change natural, had dismissed him altogether. And so it appears, for
after the fifty-fifth stanza of the third canto, Childe Harold
disappears forever. Thus at the beginning of the fourth canto, which was
published a year after, under the auspices of an Italian sky, the reader
finds himself in the presence of the poet only. He meets in him a great
and generous soul, but the victim of the most odious and unmerited
persecution, who takes his revenge in forgiving the wrongs which are
done to him, and who reserves all his energies to consecrate them to the
love of that which is lovable, to the admiration of that which calls for
it, and who at twenty-nine years of age is imbued with Christian and
philosophical qualities, which his wearied hero could never have
possessed.
Why then again have identified Byron with Childe Harold? For what
reason? It strikes us, that the simplest notions of fairness require us
at least to take into account the words of the author himself, and to
listen to the protestations of a man who despised unmerited praise more
than unjust reproof.
"A fictitious character," says Byron, "is introduced for the sake of
giving some connection to the piece....
"It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and
express less, but he never was intended as an example, further than to
show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past
pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of
nature and the stimulus of travel are lost on a soul so constituted, or
rather misdirected.
"It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high
value, that in this fictitious character, 'Childe Harold,' I may incur
the suspicion of having intended some real personage: this I beg leave
once for all to disclaim--Harold is the child of imagination, for the
purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those
merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion: but in the main
points, I should hope, none whatever."
Warned by his friends of the danger which there was for him being
identified with his hero, he paused before publishing the poem. He had
written it rather by way of recreation than for any other motive; and
when Dallas expressed to him his great desire to see the works
published, Byron told him how unwilling he was that it should appear in
print, and thus wrote to him, after having given way to Dallas's wishes
in the matter:--
"I must wish to avoid identifying Childe Harold's character with mine.
If in certain passages it is believed that I wished to identify my hero
with myself, believe that is only in certain parts, and even then I
shall not allow it. As for the manor of Childe Harold being an old
monastic residence, I thought I might better describe what I have seen
than what I invent. I would not for worlds be a man like my hero."
A year after, in writing to Moore on the occasion of dedicating his
"Corsair" to him, after saying that not only had his heroes been
criticised, but that he had almost been made responsible for their acts
as if they were personal to himself, he adds:
"Those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not I have little
interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my
acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his
imagining; but I can not help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement,
at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I see
several bards in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all
participation in the faults of their heroes, who nevertheless might be
found with little more morality than the Giaour; and perhaps--but no--I
must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage, and as to his
identity, those who like it must give him whatever _alias_ they please."
And in order to embrace the whole of his life in these quotations, we
will add what he said at Cephalonia, to Dr. Kennedy, shortly before his
death:--
"I can not conceive why people will always mix up my own character and
opinions, with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have
the right and liberty to draw."
"They certainly do not spare your lordship in that respect," replied
Kennedy; "and in 'Childe Harold,' 'Lara,' the 'Giaour,' and 'Don Juan,'
they are too much disposed to think that you paint in many instances
yourself, and that these characters are only the vehicles for the
expression of your own sentiments and feelings."
"They do me great injustice," he replied, "and what was never before
done to any poet.... But even in 'Don Juan' I have been misunderstood. I
take a vicious and unprincipled character, and lead him through those
ranks of society whose high external accomplishments cover and cloak
internal and secret vices, and I paint the natural effects of such
characters, and certainly they are not so highly colored as we find them
in real life."
"This may be true," said Kennedy, "but the question is, what are your
motives and object for painting nothing but scenes of vice and folly?"
"To remove the cloak which the manners and maxims of society," said his
lordship, "throw over their secret sins, and show them to the world as
they really are. You have not," added he, "been so much in high and
noble life as I have been; but if you had fully entered into it, and
seen what was going on, you would have felt convinced that it was time
to unmask the specious hypocrisy, and show it in its native colors!"
Kennedy having then remarked that the lower and middling classes of
society never entertained the opinion that the highest classes exhibited
models of piety and virtue, and were, indeed, disposed to believe them
worse than they really were, Byron replied:--
"It is impossible you can believe the higher classes of society worse
than they are in England, France, and Italy, for no language can
sufficiently paint them."
"But still, my lord, granting this, how is your book calculated to
improve them, and by what right, and under what title do you too come
forward in this undertaking?"
"By the right," he replied, "which every one has who abhors vice united
with hypocrisy. My plan is to lead Don Juan through various ranks of
society and show that wherever you go vice is to be found."
The doctor then observed, that satire had never done any good, or
converted one man from vice to virtue, and that while his satires were
useless, they would call upon his head the disapproval both of the
virtuous and the wicked.
"But it is strange," answered Byron, "that I should be attacked on all
sides, not only from magazines and reviews, but also from the pulpit.
They preach against me as an advocate of infidelity and immorality, and
I have missed my mark sadly in having succeeded in pleasing nobody. That
those whose vices I depicted and unmasked should cry out is natural, but
that the friends of religion should do so is surprising: for you know,"
said he, smiling, "that I am assisting you in my own way as a poet, by
endeavoring to convince people of their depravity; for it is a doctrine
of yours--is it not?--that the human heart is corrupted; and therefore
if I show that it is so in those ranks which assume the external marks
of politeness and benevolence,--having had the best opportunities, and
better than most poets, of observing it,--am I not doing an essential
service to your cause, by first convincing them of their sins, and thus
enabling you to throw in your doctrine with more effect?"
"All this is true," said Kennedy; "but you have not shown them what to
do, however much you may have shown them what they are. You are like the
surgeon who tears the bandages from the numerous wounds of his ulcerated
patients, and, instead of giving fresh remedies, you expose them to the
air and disgust of every bystander, who, laughing, exclaims, 'How filthy
these fellows are!'"
"But I shall not be so bad as that," said Lord Byron; "_you shall see
what a winding up I shall give to the story._"
The end was to justify and give a moral to every thing. While reproving,
however, this system of identification, which not only leads to error
but also to calumny, can it, however, be denied that there was not some
reason, if not to justify it, at least to explain it? To deny that there
is, would, we think, be to commit another error. The nature of Lord
Byron's genius, the circumstances of his life, the innate qualities of
his heart and soul, were unquestionably aids to his detractors.
Upon the measure of the relations which existed between reality and
fiction in his poems, and especially as applied to his own history, here
are the words of Moore:--
"As the mathematician of old required but a spot to stand upon, to be
able, as he boasted, to move the world, so a certain degree of
foundation in fact seemed necessary to Byron, before that lever which he
knew how to apply to the world of the passions could be wielded by him.
So small, however, was, in many instances, the connection with reality
which satisfied him, that to aim at tracing through his stories these
links with his own fate and fortunes, which were after all, perhaps,
visible but to his own fancy, would be a task as uncertain as unsafe;
and this remark applies not only to the 'Bride of Abydos,' but to the
'Corsair,' 'Lara,' and all the other beautiful fictions that followed,
in which, though the emotions expressed by the poet may be in general
regarded as vivid recollections of what had at different times agitated
his own bosom, there are but little grounds, however he might himself
occasionally encourage such a supposition, for connecting him personally
with the groundwork or incidents of the stories."
To analyze the analogies and differences which existed between the
personal character of Byron and that of the poet would form a very
curious psychological study. It would be even an act of justice toward
his memory, but one which would prove too long, and would ill suit these
pages. Let us merely declare, that both analogies and differences have
existed, and that if the same can not be said of him as has been said of
men of less renown, "the poet is different from the man," it must be
allowed that in Byron the two characters were associated without being
coupled. This association did not exist between himself and the
creatures of his fancy, but merely with the principal features of his
poetry, their energy and sensitiveness. As to certain analogies between
his heroes, or between them and himself, when they really exist, they
should be pointed out; the duty of criticism being to discern and to
point to the nature and limits of these analogies.
When Byron began his travels, his genius ever sought an outlet. Too
young to have as yet much experience, he had only made known what were
his tendencies.
The education of his genius began in his childhood, on the romantic
banks of the Dee and on the shores of the ocean; in the midst of the
Scottish firs, in the house of his mother, which was peopled with
relics of the past; and at Newstead Abbey, situated in the heart of the
romantic forest of Sherwood, which is surrounded by the ruins of the
great Norman abbeys, and teems with traditional recollections of Robin
Hood. The character of that sympathetic chief of the outlaws, who was a
nobleman by birth, and who was always followed by the lovely Marian,
dressed up as a page; his generosity, his courage, his cleverness, his
mixture of virtue and vice, his pride, his buoyant and chivalrous
nature, his death even, which was so touching, must, to our mind, have
produced a powerful impression upon one who, like Byron, was gifted with
as much heart as imagination. At least the poet's fancy, if not the acts
of the man himself, must have been influenced by these early
impressions; and, no doubt, Conrad, and other heroes of his early poems,
must have sprung from the poet's recollections of the legendary stories
in the midst of which he had been nursed. In any case, however, the
impressions which he had received did not affect his nature.
He had, notwithstanding his youthful years, been able to show the
measure, not the tendency of his genius, as well as his aversion for all
that is artificial, superficial, insipid, and effeminate; and he had
proved that the two great characteristics of his nature were energy and
sensitiveness.
An education thus begun was to be continued and matured during his first
voyage among scenes the most poetical and romantic in the world; in the
glorious East, where there exists a perpetual contrast between the
passionate nature of man and the soft hue of the heavens under the
canopy of which he lives.
The manners, character, ideas, and singular passions of those races,
which civilization has not yet tamed down; their energy, which often
betrays itself in the perpetration of the greatest crimes, and as
frequently in the practice of the finest qualities; and the life which
Byron was forced to lead among them, all produced a great impression
upon his mind, and became precious materials to help the development of
his intellect. In the same way that, as it has been said, Salvator
Rosa's encounters with bandits contributed to the development of his
talent, so did the adventures of Lord Byron during this first journey
contribute to form his particular taste. Had he always remained in the
midst of extremely civilized nations, in which poetry and the great
passions are lost, and the heart too often becomes cold, his mind might
have developed itself in a less brilliant and original manner.
It was this extraordinary union of energy and sensitiveness in Byron
which was to determine the choice of subjects. No doubt the desire to
produce an effect had a part in the selection, especially at the dawn of
his genius; and this would seem evident in the picture of satiated
pleasure as represented by Childe Harold, and in the strange nature of
Manfred. But this is only a portion of the reality. His principal
qualities were the real arbiters in the selection of subjects which he
made. God has not given to us all the same voice. The largest trees--the
oaks--require the help of storms to make their voices heard, while the
reed only needs the help of the summer breeze.
Byron's attention was ever directed to what was uncommon, either in
nature or in the human heart; either in good or in evil, either in the
ordinary course of things or beyond its limits. To the study of placid
nature he preferred that of that soul which, though less well regulated,
yet rises superior to fortune by its energy and will.
The spark which lit up his genius could not live in that goodness which
constituted the groundwork of his nature, but in passion, called forth
by the sight of great misfortunes, great faults, great crimes, in fact,
by the sight of all which attracted or repelled him, which was most in
harmony with his energetic character, or at greatest variance with his
sensitive nature. One of the motives which actuated his mind was
sympathy--the other, antipathy; which exercised over him the same kind
of fascination which the bird feels whom the serpent's glance has
fascinated, or like the unaccountable impulse which causes a man to
throw himself down the precipice on the verge of which he stands.
The various aspects of nature exercised a similar influence over him.
With his exquisite sense of their beauties, Byron no doubt often
described the enchanting climates in the midst of which he placed the
action of his poems; but his pen had always a manly action, with a
mixture of grace and vigor in it quite inimitable. His descriptions,
however, always appeared to be secondary objects in his mind, and rather
constituted the frames which encircled the man whom he wished to depict.
One would say that the soft beauties of a landscape and the playful
zephyrs which caress the crests of little waves were too effeminate
subjects for him to dwell upon. His preferences evidently point to the
savage side of nature, to the struggles between physical forces, to the
sublimities of the tempest, and almost, I would say, to a certain
disorganization of nature; provided, of course, all is restored to order
the moment such a disorganization threatens the existence of beauty in
art or in the moral world.
At that time, what Byron could not find in his real and historical
subject, he took from another reality, which was himself,--that is, his
own qualities, the circumstances of his life, his tastes; without ever
inquiring whether Conrad's fear at the sight of the mysterious drop of
blood on Gulnare's forehead was that of Byron, whether the Venetian
renegade Alp could really experience the horror which Byron did at
Constantinople at the sight of dogs feasting upon human carcasses; or
whether the association of the qualities with which he idealized his
heroes would not induce psychologists to accuse him of sinning against
truth, of destroying the unity of a Corsair's nature.
In this Lord Byron confided in his powers. He felt that the love of
truth, and of what is beautiful, was too strong in him ever to depart
from or cause him to violate the essential rules of art; but he wished
to remain a poet while trusting in reality.
When he went to the East, and found himself there in contact with
outward circumstances so in harmony with the natural bent of his views,
and in presence of men like Ali Pasha, of whose victims he could almost
hear the moans and the screams "in the clime"
"Where all save the spirit of man is divine;
Where wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear and the tales which they tell,"
he felt that he was at last in the land most likely to fire his natural
genius, and to permit of his satisfying the imperious want which his
observing mind constantly experienced of resting upon reality and upon
truth. The terrible Ali Pasha of Yanina was especially the type which
attracted his notice. "Ali Pasha," says Galt, "is at the bottom of all
his Oriental heroes. His 'Corsair' is almost the history of Ali Pasha."
In the "Bride of Abydos" the old Giaffir is again Ali. As for "Lara," it
is thought that Byron conceived him on being very strongly impressed by
the sight of a nobleman who was accused of murder, and who was pointed
out to him at the Cagliari theatre. "I always thought," says Galt, who
was present on the occasion, "that this incident had a share in the
conception of 'Lara,' so small are the germs which fructify genius." The
"Giaour" is due to a personal adventure of Byron's, in which he played,
as was his wont, a most energetic and generous part. The origin of
"Manfred" lies in the midst of sublime Alpine scenery, where, on a rock,
Byron discovered an inscription bearing the names of two brothers, one
of whom had murdered the other at that spot. The history of Venice
inspired him with Alp the renegade, who, disgusted with the unjust
severities of his countrymen, turned Mohammedan and swore vengeance
against the land of his birth.
It is, however, indispensable to remark, that in each of these
characters there are two distinct realities. The one tries, by a display
of too much energy, to overstep the limits of the natural; the other
brings the subject back to its true proportions by idealizing it. The
first is the result of the poet's observations of men and their customs,
or of his study of history; the other, by the impossibility which he
knows to exist in him of departing from the rules of art by pushing
reality to the point of making of it a positive suffering. In the first
case his heroes are like one another by their analogy in the use and
abuse of strength; in the other they are like Byron, because he has
almost instilled a portion of his own life into them, in order to
idealize them.
Conrad is the real pirate of the AEgean Sea: independent, haughty,
terrible in battle, full of energy and daring such as becomes the chief
of corsairs, and such as Byron's study of the country where the action
lies pointed out to him that such a man should be placed. But the poet
describes himself when he makes Conrad, at the risk of his own life,
save women from a harem, or shudder at the sight of a drop of blood on
the brow of a lovely maiden. The spot on Gulnare's forehead, while
causing him to suspect some crime, banishes all her charms in his eyes,
and inspires him with the greater horror from the fact that the love
which she had sworn him probably inspired her with the foul act, to save
his life and restore him to liberty. He accuses himself with having been
the involuntary cause of it, and feels that his gratitude will be a
torture; his former love for Gulnare an impossibility. We find Byron's
own nature again in the ascetic rule of life to which Conrad has
subjected himself, and in his passionate and ideal tenderness for
Medora, whose love, in his eyes, surpasses all the happiness of this
world, and whose death plunges him into irretrievable despair.
In the "Siege of Corinth," Alp is the real type of the historical
Venetian renegade, who is incapable of forgiveness, and who makes use of
all his energies to gratify his revenge. But he represents Byron when he
speaks of the impressions which he felt under the starry canopy of
heaven the night before the battle, when his imagination, taking him
back to the happy, innocent days of his childhood, he contrasts them
with the present, which for him is one of remorse, and when there
glimmer still in his soul faint lights of humanity which make him turn
away from the horrible sight of dogs devouring the dead bodies of men.
Byron speaks in his own person in the introduction of the "Giaour,"
which is replete with most exquisite beauty. In it he opens to the
reader unexplored fields of delight, leads him through delicious
countries where all is joy for the senses, where all recollections are a
feast for the soul, and where his love of moral beauty is as strongly
marked in his praise of olden Greece, as is his condemnation of modern
degraded Greece. Byron speaks again in his own name when he puts
invectives in the mouth of the Mussulman fisherman, and makes him curse
so strongly the crime of the Giaour and the criminal himself, whose
despair is the expiation of his crimes and the beautiful triumph of
morality.
In the "Bride of Abydos" (where the terrible Ali again comes forward in
the shape of the old Giaffir) the amiable and unfortunate Selim and the
poet share the real sentiments of Byron. Byron is also himself when he
adorns his heroine with every grace and perfection of body and soul, and
also whenever it is necessary to idealize in order that a too rigorous
imitation of reality may not offend either the laws of art or the
feelings of the reader. As for "Don Juan," it is only fair to say that
he in a measure deserved the persecution which it brought upon him. Yet,
if we judge the poem with no preconceived severity, we shall find that,
with the exception of certain passages where he went beyond the limits
prescribed to satire, from his hatred of hypocrisy, and also at times as
a revenge against his persecutors, the poem is charming. These passages
he intended to suppress,[1] but death prevented him. This is greatly to
be regretted, for otherwise "Don Juan" would have been the most charming
satirical poem in existence, and especially had not the last four
cantos, written in Greece, been destroyed. The scene lay in England, and
the views expressed in them explained many things which can never now be
known. In allowing such an act to be committed for the sake of sparing
the feelings of some influential persons and national susceptibilities,
Byron's friends failed in their duty to his memory, for the last four
cantos gave the key to the previous ones, and justified them. From the
moment Byron conceived "Don Juan" he steeled his heart against feeling;
and he kept to his resolution not to give way to his natural goodness of
disposition, wishing the poem to be a satire as well as an act of
revenge. Here and there, however, his great soul pierces through, and
shows itself in such a true light that Byron's portrait could be better
drawn from passages of "Don Juan," than from any other of his poems.[2]
We have sufficiently proved, we think, that the uniform character of
Byron's heroes, which has been blamed by the poet's enemies, was merely
the reflection of the moral beauty which he drew from himself. It might
almost be said that the qualities with which he had been gifted by
Heaven conspired against him.
We have been led to dwell upon this phase of his literary career, at the
risk even of tiring the patience of the reader, from the necessity which
we believe exists to destroy the phantom of identification which has
been invoked, and to explain the moral nature of Byron in its true light
before analyzing the poet under other aspects. It is not in "Harold" or
in "Conrad," nor in any of his Oriental poems, that we are likely to
trace the moral character of Byron, for, although it would be easy to
detach the author's sentiments from those of the personages of these
poems, yet they might offer a pretext of blame to those who hate to look
into a subject to discover the truth which does not appear at first
sight. Nor is it in "Manfred"--the only one of his poems wherein,
perhaps, reason may be said to be at fault, owing to the sickness under
which his soul labored at the time when it was written, and to his
diseased imagination, produced by solitude and unmerited grief. In his
lyrical poems Byron's soul must be sought. There he speaks and sings in
his own name, expresses his own sentiments, breathes his own thoughts;
or, again, in his elegies and in his miscellaneous poems, in his dramas,
in his mysteries, nay, even in his satires--the noble and courageous
independence of which has never been surpassed by any satirist, ancient
or modern--and generally in all the poems which he wrote in Italy, and
which might almost be called his second form. In these poems no medium
is any longer required between his soul and that of the reader. It is
not possible any longer to make any mistake about him in these. The
melancholy and the energy displayed in them can not serve any more to
give him the mask of a Conrad, or of a Harold, or of a misanthrope, or
of a haughty individual, but they place in relief what there is of
tender, amiable, affectionate sublime in those chosen beings whom God
occasionally sends upon earth to testify here below of the things
above:--
"Per far di colassu fede fra noi."--PETRARCH.
Thus, in his elegy upon the death of Thyrza, "far too beautiful," says
Moore, "and too pure to have been inspired by a mortal being," what
pathos, what sensitiveness! What charm in his sonnets to Guinevre! What
soft melancholy, what profound and intimate knowledge of the immortality
and spirituality of our soul, in his Hebrew melodies! "They seem as
though they had been inspired by Isaiah and written by Shakspeare," says
the Very Rev. Dr. Stanley, Dean of Westminster. What touching family
affection in his domestic poems, and what generosity in the avowal of
certain wrongs! What great and moral feeling pervade the two last cantos
of "Childe Harold," melancholy though they be, like all things which are
beautiful! How one feels that the pain they tell of has its origin in
unmerited persecution, and how his intellect came to his aid, and
enabled him to bear with calmness the uncertainties incident to our
nature! What greatness of soul in the forgiveness of what to others
would seem unpardonable! What love of humanity and of its rights! What
hatred of injustice, tyranny, and oppression in the "Ode to Venice," in
"The Lament of Tasso," in "The Prophecy of Dante," and in general in all
his latter poems, even in the "Isle," a poem little known, which was
written a short time before he left Genoa for Greece. Here, more than in
any other of his poems, we see the admirable peace of mind which he had
created for himself, and how far too high his great intellect soared to
be any longer moved by the world's injustice.
Quotations from his poems would be impossible. How choose without
regretting what has been discarded? They must be read; and those must be
pitied who do not feel morally better after having read them.
This is precisely what has been least done up to the present time:
people have been content with reading his early poems, and with seeking
Byron in "Childe Harold" or in the heroes of his Oriental poems; which
is about as just as to look for Shakspeare in Iago, Milton in Satan,
Goethe in Mephistopheles, or Lamartine in the blasphemies of his ninth
Meditation.
Thus French critics,--disposed to identify the man with the imaginary
beings of his poems, and neglecting to seek him where they could have
found him, relying upon judgments formed in England, and too often by
people prejudiced against Byron,--have themselves adopted false views
with respect to the author and his works. Thus, again, poetry--which
without any preconceived teaching or any particular doctrine of its own,
without transgressing the rules laid down by art, moved the soul,
purified and elevated it, and taught it to despise the base and cowardly
desires of nature, and excited in it the admiration of all that is noble
and heroic,--was declared to be suspicious even in France, because too
often it had proclaimed openly the truth where one would have wished
truth to have been disguised. Many would fain have thought otherwise,
but they preferred remaining silent, and to draw from that poetry the
poetical riches of which they might be in want.
Our intention being to consecrate a chapter to the examination of the
moral tendency of Byron's poetry, we will not now say more. We must add,
however, that these views which had been so easily adopted in France
were not those of the majority of right-thinking persons in England,
although they dared not proclaim their opinions then as they can now.
I shall only quote the opinion of two Englishmen of great merit (Moore
and Sir Egerton Brydges), who can neither one nor the other be suspected
of partiality; the first, on account of his great fear of ever wounding
the susceptibilities of his countrymen, the other by the independence
and nobility of his character.
"How few are the pages in his poems," says Moore, "even if perused
rapidly, which by their natural tendency toward virtue, or some splendid
tribute to the greatness of God's works, or by an explosion of natural
piety more touching than any homily, do not entitle him to be admitted
in the purest temple of which Christianity may have the keep!"--_Moore_,
vol. ii.
Sir Egerton Brydges, after having fully appreciated the poems of Lord
Byron, says:----
"They give to the reader's best instincts an impulse which elevates,
purifies, instructs, charms, and affords us the noblest and purest of
joys."--_Sir E. Brydges_, vol. x. p. 141.
These quotations perhaps will be found too many, but are they not
necessary? Is truth which can be so easily changed equally easy to
re-establish? Are not a thousand words wanted to restore a reputation
which a light word or, may be, slight malice has tarnished? If the
author of these pages only expressed individual opinions without
adducing any proof, that is to say, without accompanying them with the
disinterested and enlightened testimonies of people who have known Byron
personally, these volumes might gain in interest by being condensed in a
shorter space.
But in shortening the road would the author attain the desired end?
would the self-imposed task be fulfilled? would his or her own
convictions become those of others? Should not authors sacrifice
themselves to their subject in all works inspired by a devoted spirit?
Shall it be said that oftentimes one has wished to prove what had
already been conceded by every body? that the value of the proofs
adduced is lessened by the fact that they are nearly all already known?
In answer, and without noticing the words "nearly all," he might say
that, as truth has several aspects, one may almost, without mentioning
new facts, arrive at being what might be called the guide in the tour
round the soul, and fathom its depth in search of the reality; just as
when we have looked at all the sides of a picture, we return to it, in
order to find in it fresh beauties which may have escaped our notice on
a first inspection. There are certain souls, to fathom which it is
absolutely necessary to employ a retrospective method; in the same way
that the pictures, for instance, of Salvator Rosa enchant on close
inspection of the great beauties which in some lights seem hid by a mass
of clouds.
"One can hardly employ too many means," says Ste. Beuve, "to know a man;
that is, to understand him to be something more than an intellectual
being. As long as we have not asked ourselves a certain number of
questions about such and such an author, and as long as they have not
been satisfactorily answered, we are not sure of having completely made
him out, even were such questions to be wholly irrelevant to the
subjects upon which he has written.
"What did he think upon religious matters?
"How did the aspect of nature affect him?
"How did he behave in regard to women?
"How about money?
"What rules did he follow?
"What was his daily life? etc., etc.
"Finally, what was his peculiar vice and foible? Every man has one.
"Not one of these questions is unimportant in order to appreciate an
author or his book, provided the book does not treat of pure
mathematics; and especially if it is a literary work, that is to say, a
book wherein there is something about every thing."[3]
Be this opinion of an eminent critic our rule and an encouragement to
our efforts.
We are well aware that in France, now-a-days, writers do not like to use
the same materials in describing a character as are used by other
nations, and especially by England. A study of this kind in France must
not be a judgment pronounced upon the individual who is the object of
it, and still less an inquiry. The qualities and defects of a man of
genius do not constitute the principal business of the artist. Man is
now rather examined as a work of art or as an object of science. When
reason has made him out, and intellectual curiosity has been satisfied,
the wish to understand him is not carried out further. The subject is
abandoned, lest the reader may be tired.
This may be good reasoning in many cases; but in the present perhaps the
best rule is "in medio tutissimus." When a good painting is spoilt by
overpolish, to wash the polish off is not to restore it to its former
appearance. To arrive at this last result, however, no pains should be
spared; and upon this principle we must act with regard to Byron. In
psychological studies the whole depends upon all the parts, and what may
at first seem unimportant may prove to be the best confirmation of the
thesis. To be stopped by details (I might almost say repetitions) would
therefore be to exhibit a fear in adducing proof.
Can it be said that we have not sufficiently condemned? To add this
interest to the volume would not have been a difficult task.
To attack is easier than to defend; but we should then have had to
invent our facts, and, at the same time, to add romance to history.
The world, says a great moralist of our times, prefers a vice which
amuses it rather than a virtue which bores it; but our respect for the
reader convinces us that the adoption of such a means of arriving at
success would forfeit their respect for us and be as repugnant to their
sense of justice as to our own. As regards Byron, the means have more
than once been employed, and with the more success by those who have
united to their skill the charms of style.
But in claiming no talent, no power to interest, and in refusing to
appear as an author from motives of pusillanimity, idleness, or
self-love, is one less excusable for hiding the truth when one is
acquainted with it?
If it is the duty of a man of honor and a Christian to come to the
rescue of a victim to violence when it is in one's power, is it not
incumbent upon one to raise a voice in the defense of those who can no
longer resent an insult, when we know that they are wrongly accused? To
be silent under such circumstances would be productive of remorse; and
the remorse is greater when felt on the score of those whose genius
constitutes the monopoly of the whole world, and forms part of the
common treasure of humanity, which enjoins that it should be respected.
Is not their reputation a part of the inherited treasure? To allow such
reputation to be outraged would, in our minds, be as culpable as to hide
a portion of a treasure which is not our own.
"Truth," says Lamartine, "does not require style. Its light shines of
itself; its appearance is its proof."
In publishing these pages, written conscientiously and scrupulously, we
confide in the opinion expressed above in the magic language of the man
who can create any prestige. If the reader finds these guarantees of
truth sufficient, and deigns to accept our conscientious remarks with
indulgence and kindness; if, after examining Byron's character under all
its aspects, after repeating his words, recalling his acts, and speaking
of his life--especially of that which he led in Italy--and mentioning
the various impressions which he produced upon those who knew him
personally, we are justified in the reader's opinion in having
endeavored to clear the reality from all the clouds which imagination
has gathered round the person of Byron, and in trying to earn for his
memory a little sympathy by proclaiming the truth, in place of the
antipathy which falsehood has hitherto obtained for him, our object will
have been obtained.
To endeavor to restore Byron's reputation is the more necessary, since
Moore himself, who is his best biographer, failed not only in his duty
as a friend, but as the historian of the poet's life: for he knew the
truth, and dared not proclaim it. Who, for instance, could better inform
us of the cause which led to Byron's separation from his wife? And yet
Moore chose to keep the matter secret.
Who was better acquainted with the conduct of Byron's colleagues at the
time of his conjugal differences--with the curious proposals which were
made to him by them to recover their good graces--with his refusal to
regain them at such a cost--with the persecution to which he was, after
that, subjected--with the names of the people who instigated a popular
demonstration against him--with all the bad treatment which obliged him
to quit England? And yet has Moore spoken of it?[4]
Who, better than Moore, could tell of the friends on whom Byron relied,
and who at the time of his divorce sided with Lady Byron, and even went
so far as to aggravate the case by falsely publishing reports of his
having ill-treated Lady Byron and discharged loaded guns in order to
frighten her?
Who was better acquainted with the fact that the last cantos of "Don
Juan," written in Greece, had been destroyed in England, and that the
journal which he kept after his departure from Genoa had been destroyed
in Greece? Moore knew it very well, and did not reveal these facts, lest
he should create enemies for himself. He actually went so far as to
pretend that Byron never wrote any thing in Greece.[5]
Who better than Moore knew that Byron was not irreligious?--And yet he
pretended that he was. And finally, Who was better aware that Byron's
greatest aim was to be useful to humanity, and yet encouraged the belief
that Byron's expedition to Greece was purely to satisfy the desire that
people should speak of him as a superior man? In a few words, Moore has
not made the best of Byron's qualities, has kept silence over many
things which might have enhanced his character in public opinion; and
wished, above all, to show the greatness of his poetical genius, which
was never questioned. One would almost say that Moore did not like Byron
to be too well spoken of: for whenever he praises, he ever accompanies
the praise with a blame, a "but" or an "if;" and instead of openly
contradicting accusations which he knew to be false, and honestly
proclaiming the truth, he, too, preferred to excuse the poet's supposed
shortcomings. Moore was wanting in courage. He was good, amiable, and
clever; but weak, poor, and a lover of rank--where, naturally, he met
with many political enemies of Byron. He, therefore, dared not then tell
the truth, having too many interests to consider. Hence his concessions
and his sluggishness in leaving the facts as they were; and in many
cases, when it was a question between the departed Byron and one of his
high detractors, the one sacrificed was the dead friend who could no
longer defend himself. All such considerations for the living were
wrongs toward the memory of Byron.
The gravest accusation, however, to which Moore is open is, that he did
not preserve the Memoirs which Byron gave him on the sworn condition
that nothing should prevent their publication. The promise thus given
had restored peace to Byron's mind, so confident was he that it would be
fulfilled. To have broken his word is a crime for which posterity will
never forgive Moore. Can it be alleged, by way of excuse, that he gave
extracts from it? But besides the authenticity of the extracts, which
might be questioned, of what value can be a composition like Moore's in
presence of Byron's very words? No one can pretend to be identified with
such a mind as Byron's in the expression of his own feelings; and, least
of all, a character like Moore's.
The "Memoirs," then, which were the justification of Byron's life; the
last cantos, which were the justification of the poet and of the man;
the journal, which showed his prudence and sagacity beyond his age,
which by the simple relation of facts proved how he had got rid of all
the imperfections of youth, and at last become the follower of wisdom,
so much so that he would have been one of the most virtuous men in
England--all have been lost to the world: they have descended with him
into the tomb, and thus made room for the malice of his detractors.
Hence the duty of not remaining silent on the subject of this
highly-gifted man.
In restoring, however, facts to their true light, we do not pretend to
make Byron appear always superior to humanity in his conduct as a man
and a poet. Could he, with so sensitive and passionate a nature as his
was, and living only that period when passions are strongest, have
always acted as those who from age no longer are affected by them? If it
is easy not to give way to our passions at seventy, is it equally so at
twenty or at thirty?
Persecuted as he was, could Byron be expected to remain unmoved? If his
passion for truth made him inexorable in some of his poems; if his
passion for justice allowed his pen at times to go beyond the limits
which it should have respected; if even at times he was unjust, because
he had been too much injured and irritated,--he undoubtedly would have
compensated for his involuntary and slight offenses, had he not been
carried off so early.
As for the imperfection of these pages,--once we have dissipated error,
and caused truth to be definitely received as regards Byron,--an abler
pen can easily correct it, and do away with the numberless repetitions
with which we are aware we shall be reproached. We could not do
otherwise, as we wished to multiply proofs. Others, some day, will
achieve what we have been unable to perform.
Our work is like the stream which falls from the mountain and is filled
with ooze: its only merit is to swell the river into which it runs. But,
sooner or later, a stronger current will purify it, and give clearness
and brilliancy to it, without taking from it the merit of having
increased the bulk of the waters.
Such as it is, we dedicate this humble work to the noble souls who
worship truth. They will feel that we have been able to place them in a
more intimate connection with another great mind, and thus we shall have
gained our reward.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: He often told and promised his friends at Genoa that he
would alter the passages which are unjust and reprehensible, and that,
before it was finished, "Don Juan" would become a chaste and
irreproachable satire.]
[Footnote 2:
"His manner was perhaps the more seductive,
Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce;
Nothing affected, studied, or constructive
Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse
Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective,
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose,
And seem to say, 'Resist us if you can'--
Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man.
XIII.
"Don Juan was without it;
In fact, his manner was his own alone:
Sincere he was----
XIV.
"By nature soft, his whole address held off
Suspicion: though not timid, his regard
Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof,
To shield himself than put you on your guard.
XV.
"Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud,
Insinuating without insinuation;
Observant of the foibles of the crowd,
Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation;
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud,
So as to make them feel he knew his station
And theirs:--without a struggle for priority
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority.
XVI.
"That is with men: with women he was what
They pleased to make or take him for."--_Canto_ xv.
LIV.
"There was the purest Platonism at bottom
Of all his feelings."--_Canto_ x.]
[Footnote 3: Ste. Beuve, "Nouveaux Lundis," vol. iii. p. 28.]
[Footnote 4: When the persecution to which Lord Byron was exposed by his
separation had attained its greatest height, an influential person--not
belonging to the peerage--came to visit him, and told him that, if he
wished to see how far the folly of men went, he had only to give orders
for having it shown that nothing said against him was true, but that
then he must change politics and come over to the Tory party. Lord Byron
replied that he would prefer death and all kinds of tortures to such
meanness. Hereupon the person in question said that he must suffer the
consequences, which would be heavy, since his colleagues were determined
on his ruin, out of party spirit and political hatred. It was at this
time that, going one day to the House, he was insulted by the populace,
and even treated in it like an outlaw. No one spoke to him, nor
approached to give any explanation of such a proceeding, except Lord
Holland, who was always kind to him, and indeed to every one else.
Others--such as the Duke of Sussex, Lord Minto, Lord Lansdowne and Lord
Grey--would fain have acted in a like manner; but they suffered
themselves to be influenced by his enemies, among whom more than one was
animated by personal rancor because the young lord had laughed at them
and shown up their incapacity.
Lord Byron, finding himself received in this way by his colleagues,
pretended not to see it, and after a few moments quitted the House,
never more to set foot within it.]
[Footnote 5: Lord Byron's mind, incapable of idleness, was constantly at
work, even despite himself and amid pressing active occupations. During
his stay in the Ionian Islands, Missolonghi, he wrote five cantos of Don
Juan. The scene of the cantos that followed was laid first in England
and then in Greece. The places chosen for the action naturally rendered
these last cantos the most interesting, and, besides, they explained a
host of things quite justifying them. They were taken to England with
Lord Byron's other papers; but there they were probably considered not
sufficiently respectful toward England, on which they formed a sort of
satire too outspoken with regard to living personages, and doubtless it
was deemed an act of patriotism to destroy them. And so the world was
deprived of them.
Lord Byron had also kept a journal since the day of his departure from
Genoa up to the time when illness made the pen drop from his hand. To it
he had consigned his most intimate thoughts; and we may well imagine how
full of interest it must have been, written amid all the emotions
agitating his soul at that time. This journal was found among his papers
by a personage of high standing in Greece, who was the first to inspect
them, and who, seeing his own name and conduct mentioned in no
flattering terms, destroyed them in order to hide from England the
unvarnished truth told of himself. Count Gamba often speaks of this
journal in the letters addressed at this period to his sister.
We leave the reader to make his own comments on these too regrettable
facts.]
CHAPTER I.
LORD BYRON AND M. DE LAMARTINE.
_To Count de_ ----.
Paris, 17th June, 1860.
MY DEAR COUNT,--Confiding in your willingness to oblige, I beg to ask a
favor and your advice. I received, a short time ago, a prospectus of a
subscription to be raised for a general addition of the works of M. de
Lamartine. You are aware that when it is a question of showing my
sympathy for M. de Lamartine I would never miss the opportunity of doing
so; but on this occasion I see on the programme the promise of a Life of
Lord Byron. Such an announcement must alarm the friends of that great
man; for they remember too vividly the sixteenth number of the "Cours
Litteraire" to subscribe hastily to a work when they have not more
information than is therein given. You, who forget nothing, must
probably remember the strange judgment of Byron formed by M. de
Lamartine in that article. Identifying the man with the poet, and
associating his great name with that of Heine on account of some rather
hazardous lines in "Don Juan," and forgetting the license allowed to
such poetry--an imitation of the Italian poets Berni, Ariosto, Pulci,
Buratti--M. de Lamartine did not forget a few personal attacks upon
himself, and called Byron the founder of the school for promoting
satanic laughter, while he heaped upon him the most monstrous
accusations. M. de Lamartine ventured to say of Byron things which even
his greatest enemies never dared to utter at that time when in England
it was the custom to revile him. Although the time has not yet come when
Lord Byron's life should be written, since the true sources of
collecting information respecting him are unattainable so long as the
people live to whom his letters were addressed, still it is easy to
perceive that the time has at length arrived when in England the desire
to do him justice and fairly to examine his merits is felt by the nation
generally. Moore, Parry, Medwin, etc., have already attempted to make
known the character of the man as distinct from that of the poet. They
no longer sought to find in him a resemblance with Childe Harold, or the
Corsair, or Manfred, or Don Juan, nor to judge of him by the
conversations in which he sought to mystify those with whom he
conversed; but they judged him by his acts and by his correspondence.
If so happy a reaction, however, is visible in England the same can not
be said of France, where there being no time to read what is published
elsewhere, an error is too soon embraced and ingrafted on the mind of
the public as a consequence of a certain method which dispenses with all
research. Hence the imaginary creation which has been called Byron, and
which has been maintained in France notwithstanding its being wholly
unacceptable as a portrait of the man, and totally different from the
Byron known personally to some happy few who had the pleasure of
beholding in him the handsomest, the most amiable of men, and the
greatest genius whom God has created.
But M. de Lamartine, who wishes particularly to show the character of
the man, instead of adding to the numerous proofs of courage and
grandeur of mind which he has personally shown to the world--that of
confessing that he has erred in his judgment of Byron--endeavors to
study him only in his works. But in doing this, and even though a moral
object may be found in each of Byron's works, it strikes us that M. de
Lamartine would have done better to pursue this line in the analysis of
the intellectual part of the man, and not the moral side.
"You err" (wrote Byron to Moore on the occasion of the latter saying
that such a poem as the "Vision of Judgment" could not have been written
in a desponding mood): "a man's poetry is a distinct faculty or soul,
and has no more to do with the every-day individual than the inspiration
of the Pythoness when removed from her tripod." To which Moore observes:
"My remark has been hasty and inconsiderate, and Lord Byron's is the
view borne out by all experience. Almost all the tragic and gloomy
writers have been, in social life, mirthful persons. The author of the
'Night Thoughts' was a fellow of infinite jest; and of the pathetic
Otway, Pope says, 'He! why, he would laugh all the day long; he would do
nothing but laugh!'"
It is known that many licentious writers have led very regular and
chaste lives; that many who have sung their success with women have not
dared to declare their love to one woman; that all Sterne's sentiment
was perfectly ideal, and proceeded always from the head and never from
the heart; that Seneca's morality was no barrier to his practicing
usury; and that, according to Plutarch, Demosthenes was a very
questionable moralist in practice. Why, then, necessarily conclude that
a moralist is a moral man, or a sarcastic satirist a deceitful one, or
the man who describes scenes of blood and carnage a monster of cruelty?
Does not Montaigne say of authors that they must be judged by their
merits, and not by their morals, nor by that show of works which they
exhibit to the world? Why, then, does M. Lamartine appreciate Byron
according to his satirical works, when all those who knew him assert
that his real character was very different to his literary one? He did
not personify, but create his heroes; which are two very different
things.
Like Salvator Rosa, who, the meekest of men in private life, could only
find a vent to his talent by painting scenes of brigandage and horror,
so did Byron's genius require to go down into the darkest recesses of
the passions which generate remorse, crime, and heroism, to find that
spark which fired his genius. But it must be owned, that even his great
qualities were causes of the false judgment of the world upon him. Thus,
in describing Childe Harold, he no doubt wished to paint a side of
nature which had not yet been seen. At the scenes of despair, at the
scenes of doubt which assail him, the poet assists rather as the
historian than as the actor. And the same holds good for other poems,
where he describes those peculiar diseases of the mind which great
geniuses alone can comprehend, though they need not have experienced
them. But it was the very life which he infused into his heroes that
made it appear as if they could not personify any one but himself. And
as to their faults, because he was wont to give them his qualities, it
was argued, that since the latter were observable to be common to the
author and the creations of his fancy, the faults of these must likewise
be his. If only the faults, why not also the crimes? Thus it came that,
caring little for their want of argument, Byron's enemies erected
themselves into avengers of too much talent bestowed upon one single
man.
Byron might have taken up his own defense, but did not care to do so, or
did it carelessly in some letters written to intimate friends. To Moore
he wrote:--"Like all imaginative men, I, of course, embody myself with
the character while I draw it; but not a moment after the pen is from
the paper." He always, however, begged that he might be judged by his
acts; and a short time before he died at Missolonghi, after recommending
Colonel Stanhope to desist from then pressing the necessity of giving
liberty to the press, and from recommending the works of Bentham to a
people who could not even read, Byron replied to the colonel's rather
hasty remarks, "Judge me by my acts." This request he had often
repeated, as his life was not one of those which fear the light of day.
All in vain. His enemies were not satisfied with this means of putting
an end to their calumnies.
Where does M. de Lamartine find the truth which he proposes to tell the
world about Byron? Not surely among the writers whose biographies of
Byron were either works of revenge or of speculation, and sometimes
both. Not in the conversations which Byron had with several people, and
on the credulity of whom he loved to speculate. It can not, therefore,
be in the biographies of men who have written erroneously, and have not
understood their subject; but in Moore, in Parry, in Count Gamba's
works, and, may be, in a few others. I am, however, far from saying,
that Moore has acted toward Lord Byron with all that friendly feeling
which Byron recommended to him on asking him to write the Life of
Sheridan, "without offending the living or insulting the dead." Quite
the contrary. I take it that Moore has wholly disregarded his duties as
a true friend, by publishing essentially private letters, by introducing
into his books certain anecdotes which he might, if even they were true,
have advantageously left out; and in failing, from fear of wounding
living susceptibilities, to assert with energy that which he knew to be
the real case with Byron. More than any one, Moore experienced the fatal
influence which injures independence in aristocratic England. An
Irishman by birth, and a commoner, Moore was flattered to find himself
elevated by his talents to a position in aristocratic circles which he
owed to his talents, but which he was loath to resign. The English
aristocracy then formed a kind of clique whose wish it was to govern
England on the condition that its secret of governing should not be
revealed, and was furious with Byron, who was one of them, for revealing
their weaknesses and upbraiding their pretensions. Moore wished to live
among the statesmen and noblemen whose despotic views and bad policy
Byron had openly condemned, and among those lovely islanders in whose
number there might be found more Adelinas than Auroras, and to whom
Byron had preferred foreign beauties. Moore, in short, wished to live
with the literary men whom Byron had ridiculed in his satires, and among
the high clergy, then as intolerant as they were hypocritical, and who,
as Byron said, forgot Christ alone in their Christianity. Moore, whose
necessity it had become to live among these open revilers and enemies of
Byron, after allowing the memoirs of Byron to be burnt, because in them
some of the above-named personages were unmasked, this Moore was weak
enough not to proclaim energetically that Byron's character was as great
as his genius, but to do so only timidly. By way of obtaining pardon
even for this mite of justice to the friend who was gone, Moore actually
condescended to associate himself with those who pleaded extenuating
circumstances for Byron's temper, like Walter Scott and other poets. But
truth comes out, nevertheless, in Moore; and in the perusal of Byron's
truthful and simple letters we find him there displayed in all his
admirable and unique worth as an intellectual and a moral man. We find
him adorned with all the virtues which Heaven gave him at his birth; his
real goodness, which neither injustice nor misfortune could alter; his
generosity, which not only made him disbelieve in ingratitude, but
actually incited him to render good for evil and obliged him to own that
"he could not keep his resentments;" his gratitude for the little that
is done for him; his sincerity; his openness of character; his greatness
and disinterestedness. "His very failings were those of a sincere, a
generous, and a noble mind," says a biographer who knew him well. His
contempt for base actions; his love of equity; his passion for truth,
which was carried almost to a hatred of cant and hypocrisy, were the
immediate causes of his want of fairness in his opinion of himself and
of his self-accusation of things most contrary to his nature.
So singular a trait in his character was by no means the result of
eccentricity, but the result of an exceptional assembly of rare
qualities which met for the first time in one man, and which, shining in
the midst of a most corrupt society, constituted almost more an anomaly
which became a real defect, hurtful, however, to himself only. His ideal
of the beautiful magnified weaknesses into crimes, and physical failings
into deformities. Thus it is that with the saints the slightest
transgression of the laws appears at once in the light of mortal sin.
St. Augustin calls the greediness of his youth a crime. The result of
all this was that his very virtues mystified the world and caused it to
believe that the faults which he attributed to himself were nothing in
comparison of those which he really had.
Byron, however, was indignant at being so unfairly treated. He treated
with contempt the men who calumniated him, and as if they were idiots.
He can safely, therefore, be blamed for not urging enough his own
defense. This, to my mind, constitutes his capital fault, unless one
considers defects of character those changes of humor which rapidly
passed from gayety to melancholy, or his pretended irritability, which
was merely a slight disposition to be impatient. These were all the
result of his poetical nature, added to the effects of early education
and to those of certain family circumstances. It would be too hard and
too unfair to attribute these slight weaknesses of character proper to
great genius to a bad nature or to misanthropy.
Had Lord Byron not been impatient he must have been satisfied with his
own condition and indifferent to that of others. In other words, he must
have been an egotist, which he was not. He was gay by nature, and
repeatedly showed it; but he had been sorely wounded by the injustice of
men, and his marriage with Miss Milbank had undermined his peace and
happiness. How, then, could he escape the occasional pangs of grief, and
not betray outwardly the pain which devoured him inwardly. In such
moments it was a relief to him to heave a sigh, or take up a pen to vent
his grief in rhyme. His misanthropy was quite foreign to his nature. All
those who knew him can bear testimony to the falseness of the
accusation.
Moore, who knew him so well, and who always speaks the truth when no
longer under the influences which at times overpower him, after speaking
of the charm of Byron's manner when he saw him for the first time, ends
by saying: "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 others of those
advantages and attractions by which the world is in general dazzled and
captivated."
When, therefore, M. de Lamartine seeks the truth in Moore, Parry, and
some other biographers respecting Byron, he will find that this
eminently beautiful form was in harmony with the splendid intellect and
moral qualities of the man. M. de Lamartine will see that Byron was a
good and devoted son, a tender father and brother, a faithful friend,
and indulgent master, beloved by all who ever knew him, and who was
never accused, even by his enemies, of having tried to seduce an
innocent young girl, or having disturbed the peace of conjugal bliss. He
will behold his charity, which was universal and unbounded; a pride
which never stooped to be subservient of those in power; a firm
political faith; a contempt of public dignities, so far as they
reflected glory upon himself; and such a spirit of humility that he was
ever ready to blame himself and follow the advice of those whom he
deemed to be animated by no hostile spirit against himself.
When M. de Lamartine sees all this, not merely written down as in these
pages, but actually proved by facts and irrefutable testimonies, his
loyal soul must revolt and wish to do justice to himself by rejecting
his former opinions. He will understand that if he himself has been
called a drinker of blood by the party whom he styles bigoted and
composed of old men, Byron, too, may have been calumniated. Looking,
then, at the great poet in his proper light, that is, in the plenitude
of his rare qualities, and considering him under each of the
circumstances of his life, M. de Lamartine will own that he had
misunderstood that most admirable of characters, and grant that the
"satanic laughter" of which he spoke was, on the contrary, the smile
which was so beautiful that it might have lighted up by its magic soft
rays the dark regions of Satan. His doubts being cleared away, M. de
Lamartine will end by saying that Byron was an "angel, not a demon."
Byron's misfortune was to have been born in the England of those days.
Do you remember his beautiful lines in the "Due Foscari?"--
"He might have lived,
So formed for gentle privacy of life,
So loving, so beloved; the native of
Another land, and who so bless'd and blessing
As my poor Foscari? Nothing was wanting
Unto his happiness and mine save not
To be Venetian."
In writing these lines Byron must have thought of his own fate. He was
scarcely British by origin, and very little so by his turn of mind, or
by his tastes or by the nature of his genius. "My ancestors are not
Saxon, they are Norman," he said; "and my blood is all meridian."
If, instead of being born in England then, he had come before the world
when his star would have been hailed with the same love and regard that
was granted to Dante in Italy, to Chateaubriand and Lamartine in France,
or to Goethe in Germany, who would ever have blamed him for the slight
errors which fell from his pen in "Don Juan,"--a poem written hastily
and with carelessness, but of which it can be said, as Montesquieu said
of the prettiest women, "their part has more gravity and importance than
is generally thought." If the sense of the ridiculous is ever stronger
among people whose appreciation of the beautiful is keenest, who more
than Byron could have possessed it to a higher degree? Is it therefore
to be marvelled at that, in order to make the truth he revealed
accessible to all, and such whose minds had rusted in egotism and
routine, he should have given to them a new and sarcastic form?
Had he been born anywhere but in the England of those days, he never
would have been accused of mocking virtue because he claimed for it
reality of character, and not that superficial form which he saw existed
then in society. He believed it right to scorn the appearances of virtue
put on only for the purpose of reaping its advantages. No one respected
more than he did all that was really holy, virtuous, and respectable;
but who could blame him for wishing to denounce hypocrisy? As for his
supposed skepticism, and his expressions of despair, they may be classed
with the misgivings of Job, of Pascal, of Lamartine, of Chateaubriand,
and of other great minds, for whom the unknown world is a source of
constant anxiety of thought, and whose cry of despair is rather a
supplication to the Almighty that He would reveal himself more to their
eyes. It must be borne in mind that the skepticism which some lines in
his poems denounce is one of which the desponding nature calls more for
our sympathy than our denunciations, since "we discover in the midst of
these doubts," says Moore, "an innate piety which might have become
tepid but never quite cold." His own words should be remembered when he
writes, as a note to the two first cantos of "Childe Harold," that the
spirit of the stanzas reflects grief and illness, more than an obstinate
and mocking skepticism; and so they do. They do not embody any
conclusions, but are only the expression of a passionate appeal to the
Almighty to come to the rescue and proclaim the victory of faith.
Could any thing but a very ordinary event be seen in his separation from
a wife who was in no way suited to him, and whose worth can be esteemed
by the remark which she addressed to Byron some three weeks after her
marriage: "When, my lord, do you intend to give up your habit of
versifying?" And, alas! could he possibly be happy, born as he was in a
country where party prejudices ran so high? where his first satire had
created for him so many enemies? where some of his poems had roused
political anger against him, and where his truth, his honesty, could not
patiently bear with the hypocrisy of those who surrounded him, and
where, in fact, he had had the misfortune to marry Miss Milbank?
The great minds whom God designs to be the apostles of truth on earth,
make use for that purpose of the most efficacious means at their
disposal. The universal genius of Byron allowed of his making use of
every means to arrive at his end. He was able to be at once pathetic,
comic, tragical, satirical, vehement, scoffing, bitter, and pleasant.
This universality of talents, directed against Englishmen, was injurious
to his peace of mind.
When Byron went to Italy his heart was broken down with real and not
imaginary sorrows. These were not of that kind which create perfection,
but were the result of an unheard-of persecution on account of a family
difference in which he was much more the victim than the culprit.
He required to live in a milder climate, and a softer atmosphere to
breathe in. He found both at Venice; and under their influence his mind
took a new turn, which had remained undeveloped while in his own clouded
country.
In the study of Italian literature he met with the Bernesque poetry,
which is so lightly and elegantly sarcastic. He made the acquaintance of
Buratti, the clever and charming satirist. He began, himself, to
perceive the baseness of men, and found in an aesthetical mockery of
human failings the most copious of the poetical currents of his mind.
The more his friends and his enemies told him of the calumnies which
were uttered against him, so much the more did Byron's contempt swell
into disdain; and to this circumstance did "Beppo" and "Don Juan" _owe_
their appearance.
The social condition of his country and the prevalent cant opened to him
a field for reflection at Venice, where customs were so different and
manners so tolerant. Seeing new horizons before him, he was more than
ever disgusted at the judgments of those who calumniated him, and ended
by believing it to be best to laugh at their silly efforts to ruin him.
He then wrote "Beppo" and afterward "Don Juan."
He was mistaken, however, in believing that in England this new style of
poetry would be liked. His jests and sarcasms were not understood by the
greater portion of those against whom they were levelled. The nature of
the Bernese poetry being essentially French, England could not, with its
serious tendencies, like a production in which the moral purpose was
artistically veiled. From that day forward a severance took place
between Byron and his countrymen. What had enchanted the French
displeased them, and Byron in vain translated the "Morgante" of Pulci,
to show them what a priest could say in that style of poetry in a
Catholic country. In vain did he write to his friends that "Don Juan"
will be known by-and-by for what it is intended,--a satire on the abuses
of the present state of society, and not a eulogy of vice. It may be now
and then voluptuous: I can't help it. Ariosto is worse; Smollett ten
times worse; Fielding no better. No girl will ever be seduced by reading
"Don Juan," etc.
But he was blamed just because he jested. To his ultramontane tone they
would have preferred him to blaspheme in coarse Saxon.
One of the best of Byron's biographers asserts that he was a French mind
lost on the borders of the Thames. Lord Byron had every kind of mind,
and that is why he was equally French. But in addressing his countrymen,
as such, he heaped a mountain of abuse upon his head.
With the most moral portion of the English public a violent satire would
have had better chance of success. With the higher classes the work was
read with avidity and pleasure. It was not owned, because there were too
many reasons for condemning it; but it found its way under many a
pillow, to prove to the country how virtue and patriotism were
endangered by this production.
Murray made himself the echo of all this wrath, and Lord Byron, not able
at times to contain his, wrote to him much to the following purpose--
"I intend to write my best work in Italian, and I am working at it. As
for the opinion of the English, which you mention, let them know how
much it is worth before they come and insult me by their condescension.
"I have not written for their pleasure; if they find theirs in the
perusal of my works, it is because they wish it. I have never flattered
their opinion or their pride, nor shall I ever do so. I have no
intention either of writing books for women or to '_dilettar le femine e
la plese_.' I have written merely from impulse and from passion, and not
for their sweet voices. I know what their applause is worth; few writers
have had more. They made of me a kind of popular idol without my ever
wishing, and kicked me down from the pedestal upon which their caprice
had raised me. But the idol did not break in the fall, and now they
would raise it again, but they shall not." As soon as they saw that
Byron was perfectly happy in Italy, and that their abuse did him but
very little harm, they gave full vent to their rage.
They had shown how little they knew him when they identified him with
his heroes; they found that they knew even less of him when he appeared
to them in the reality of his character. Calumny followed upon calumny.
Unable to find him at fault, they interpreted his words themselves, and
gave them a different meaning. Every thing was figurative of some
wickedness, and to the simplest expressions some vile intention was
attributed.
They depreciated his works, in which are to be found such admirable and
varied types of women characters, that they even surpass in beauty those
of Shakspeare (Angiolina, Myrrha, Anna): they said that Faliero wanted
interest, that Sardanapalus was a voluptuary; that Satan in "Cain" did
not speak as a theologian (how could he?), that there were irreverent
tendencies in his sacred dramas--and finally that his declaration--
"My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars,--all that springs from the great Whole,
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul,"
was hazardous, and almost that of an atheist. Atheist! he! who
considered atheists fools.
On leaving Venice for Ravenna,[6] where he had spent a few months, only
by way of distraction in the midst of his sorrows and serious
occupations, he was accused of dissolute conduct; and the serious
attachment which he had wished to avoid, but which had mastered his
whole heart, and induced him to live an isolated life with the person he
loved in a town of Romagna, far from all that could flatter his vanity
and from all intercourse with his countrymen, was brought against him to
show that he lived the life of an Epicurean, and brought misery into the
heart of families.
All this, no doubt, might have again called for his contempt, but on his
way from Ravenna to Pisa he wrote the outpourings of his mind in a poem,
the last lines of which are:--
"Oh Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
"_There_ chiefly I sought thee, _there_ only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory."
His heart was wounded by the persecutions to which those he loved were
subjected. His thoughts were for his daughter, who was growing up in the
midst of her father's enemies, and for his beloved sister who was
praying for him. He contemplated in the future the time when he could
show the moral and heroic power of his soul. He looked forward to the
great deeds by which he was going to astonish them, and perhaps call for
their admiration, instead of his writings, which had never reaped for
him any thing but pain.
"If I live," he wrote to Moore, "you will see that I shall do something
better than rhyming."
Truth however, when told by such men as Byron, and however ungraciously
received, must guide in the end the steps of those who walk in its wake.
This has been the case with Byron's poetry. Its influence over the minds
of Englishmen has been very salutary and great, and is one of the
principal causes which brought on a reform of the rooted prejudices and
opinions of the public in England, by the necessity under which it
placed them of looking into the defects of the law and of the
constitution, to which they had hitherto so crouchingly submitted. Since
then the feeling of good-will toward other nations has materially
increased in that great country.
Others have improved the way which Byron opened up for reform, and
thanks to him England at his death began to lose her excessive
susceptibility. She became accustomed to listen to the truth, and those
who now proclaim it are not required to be exiled, or to suffer as Byron
did up to the time of his death. His sufferings, no doubt, paved his way
to everlasting glory, but his heroic death left him at the mercy of the
enemies who survived him.
If ever a premature death was unfortunate, Byron's was; not only for
him, because he was on the point of giving to the world the proof of
those virtues which had been denied him, but also for humanity, by the
loss of various treasures which will probably never be found again.
The epoch, however, of faint words and unbecoming silence has gone by
even in England. Already one of the greatest men of England has claimed
a monument in Westminster Abbey, which had been denied to his memory by
the bigoted rancor of the man who was dean at the time of Byron's death,
denied to that poet whom another great English statesman has called "a
great writer, but a still greater man."
There remains a still more imperious duty to be fulfilled by those who
have been able to appreciate his great qualities. That duty is to
proclaim them and to prevent the further spread of falsehood and error
as to his real character.
This is a very long letter, my dear count, but you know how long all
letters must be which are intended to refute opinions and to rectify
judgments. M. de Lamartine has the excellent habit of listening to your
advice, and that is why I have had at heart to let you know the truth
about Byron. The present work will adduce the proofs of the
appreciations contained in this letter. I know that you do not require
them, but also that the public does.
Pray accept, etc.----.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 6: Galt says, "It was in the course of the passage to the
island of Zea, where he was put on shore, that one of the most emphatic
incidents of his life occurred; an incident which throws a remarkable
gleam into the springs and intricacies of his character, more perhaps
than any thing which has yet been mentioned. One day, as he was walking
the quarter-deck, he lifted an attaghan (it might be one of the
midshipmen's weapons), and unsheathing it, said, contemplating the
blade, '_I should like to know how a person feels after committing
murder_.' By those who have inquiringly noticed the extraordinary cast
of his metaphysical associations, this dagger scene must be regarded as
both impressive and solemn; the wish to know how a man felt after
committing murder does not imply any desire to perpetrate the crime. The
feeling might be appreciated by experiencing any actual degree of guilt;
for it is not the deed,--the sentiment which follows it makes the
horror. But it is doing injustice to suppose the expression of such a
wish dictated by desire. Lord Byron has been heard to express, in the
eccentricity of conversation, wishes for a more intense knowledge of
remorse than murder itself could give. There is, however, a wide and
wild difference between the curiosity that prompts the wish to know the
exactitude of any feeling or idea, and the direful passions that
instigate to guilty gratifications."--Galt, 152.
His curiosity was psychological and philosophical, that of a great
artist wishing to explore the heart of man in its darkest depths.
On the eve of his departure from Rome he assisted at the execution of
three assassins, remaining to the end, although this spectacle threw him
into a perfect fever, causing such thirst and trembling that he could
hardly hold up his opera-glass.
At Venice he preferred Madame Benzoni's conversation to that of Madame
Albrizzi, because she was more thoroughly Venetian, and as such more
fitted for the study he wished to make of national manners. He used to
say that _every thing in the world ought to be seen once_, and it is to
this idea that we must specially attribute some of the oddities so
exaggerated and so much criticised during his short stay at Venice, for
in reality he had none of these tastes.
Parry says, "Lord Byron had an insatiable curiosity, he was forever
making questions and researches. He wished me to relate to him all the
most trifling incidents of my life in America, Virginia, and
Canada."--Parry, 180.]