LORD BYRON CONSIDERED AS A FATHER, AS A BROTHER, AND AS A SON.
HIS GOODNESS SHOWN BY THE STRENGTH OF HIS INSTINCTIVE AFFECTIONS.
LORD BYRON AS A FATHER.
If, as a great moralist has said, our natural affections have power only
upon sensitive and virtuous natures, but are despised by men of corrupt
and dissipated habits, then must we find a proof again of Lord Byron's
excellence in the influence which his affections exercised over him.
His tenderness for his child, and for his sister, was like a ray of
sunshine which lit up his whole heart, and in the moments of greatest
depression prevented desolation from completely absorbing his nature.
His thoughts were never far from the objects of his affection.
CXV.
"My daughter! with thy name this song begun;
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end;
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend.
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.
CXVI.
"To aid thy mind's development, to watch
Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,--wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me,
Yet this was in my nature: as it is,
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
CXVIII.
* * * * * * *
"Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me."
Who ever read "Childe Harold" and was not touched by the delightful
stanzas of the third canto,--a perfect _chef-d'oeuvre_ of tenderness
and kindness, inclosed, as it were, in another master-piece, like, were
it possible, a jewel found in a diamond?
Those only, however, who lived with him in Greece and in Italy are able
to bear witness to his paternal tenderness. This sentiment really
developed itself on his leaving England, and only appears from that time
forward in his poems. Byron loved all children, but his heart beat
really when he met children of Ada's age.
Hearing at Venice that Moore had lost a child, he wrote to him, "I enter
fully into your misery, for I feel myself entirely absorbed in my
children. I have such tenderness for my little Ada."
Both at Ravenna and at Pisa he was miserable if he did not hear from
Ada. Whenever he received any portraits of her or a piece of her hair,
these were solemn days of rejoicing for him, but they usually increased
his melancholy. When in Greece he heard of Ada's illness, he was seized
with such anxiety that he could no longer give his attention to any
thing. "His journal (which, by-the-by, was lost or destroyed after his
death) was interrupted on account of the news of his child's illness,"
says Count Gamba, in his narrative of Byron's last voyage to Greece.
The thought of his child was ever present to him when he wrote, and she
was the centre of all his hopes and his fears.
The persecution to which he was subjected for having written "Don Juan,"
having made him fear one day at Pisa that its effect upon his daughter
might be to diminish her affection for him, he said:--
"I am so jealous of my daughter's entire sympathy, that, were this work,
'Don Juan'--(written to while away hours of pain and sorrow),--to
diminish her affection for me, I would never write a word more; and
would to God I had not written a word of it!"
He likewise said that he was often wont to think of the time when his
daughter would know her father by his works. "Then," said he, "shall I
triumph, and the tears which my daughter will then shed, together with
the knowledge that she will share the feelings with which the various
allusions to herself and me have been written, will console me in my
darkest hours. Ada's mother may have enjoyed the smiles of her youth and
childhood, but the tears of her maturer age will be for me."
He distinctly foresaw that his daughter would be brought up to look
indifferently upon her father; but he never could have believed that
such means would be adopted, as were used, to alienate from him the
heart of his own child. We will give one instance only, mentioned by
Colonel Wildman, the companion and friend of Byron, who had bought
Newstead, of which he took the most religious care. Having in London
made the acquaintance of Ada, then Lady Lovelace, the colonel invited
her to pay a visit to the late residence of her illustrious father, and
she went to see it sixteen months before Byron's death. As Lady Lovelace
was looking over the library one morning, the colonel took a book of
poems and read out a poem with all the force of the soul and heart. Lady
Lovelace, in rapture with this poem, asked the name of its writer.
"There he is," said the colonel, pointing to a portrait of Byron,
painted by Phillips, which hung over the wall, and he accompanied his
gesture by certain remarks which showed what he felt at the ignorance of
the daughter. Lady Lovelace remained stupefied, and, from that moment, a
kind of revolution took place in her feelings toward her father. "Do not
think, colonel," she said, "that it is affectation in me to declare that
I have been brought up in complete ignorance of all that concerned my
father."
Never had Lady Lovelace seen even the writing of her father; and it was
Murray who showed it to her for the first time.
From that moment an enthusiasm for her father filled her whole soul. She
shut herself up for hours in the rooms which he had inhabited, and which
were still filled with the things which he had used. Here she devoted
herself to her favorite studies. She chose to sleep in the apartments
which were most particularly hallowed by the reminiscences of her
father, and appeared never to have been happier than during this stay at
Newstead, absorbed as she had become for the first time in all the glory
of him whose tenderness for her had been so carefully concealed from
her. From that time all appeared insipid and tasteless to her; existence
became a pain. Every thing told her of her father's renown, and nothing
could replace it. All these feelings so possessed her that she fell ill,
and when she was on the point of death she wrote to Colonel Wildman to
beg that she might be buried next to her illustrious father. There, in
the modest village church of Hucknell, lie the father and the daughter,
who, separated from one another during their lifetime, became united in
death, and thus were realized, in a truly prophetic way, the words which
close the admirable third canto of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." Words
of consolation for those who loved Byron, and whom religion and
philosophy inspire with hope; for they think that, despite his enemies,
this union of their mortal remains must be the symbol of their union
above, and that the prophetic sense of the words pronounced in the agony
of despair will be realized by an eternal happiness.
CXVII.
"Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation, and a broken claim:
Though the grave closed between us,--'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
_My_ blood from out thy being were an aim
And an attainment,--all would be in vain,--
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain."
LORD BYRON AS A BROTHER.
Fraternal love was no less conspicuous in him than his paternal
affection. It may be easily conceived how great must have been the
influence over one who cared so much for friends in general, of that
affection which is the perfection of love, and, at the same time, the
most delicate, peaceful, and charming of sentiments. Such a love has
neither misunderstandings to dread, nor misrepresentations to fear. It
is above the caprices, ennui, and changes which often rule the
friendships of our choice.
From his return from his first travels in the East, to the time of his
publishing the first two cantos of "Childe Harold," Byron may be said
not to have known his sister. The daughter of another mother, and older
by several years than himself,--living as she did with relations of her
mother, brought up as she was by her grandmother, Lady Carmarthen, and
married as she had been at an early age to the Hon. Colonel Leigh, Lord
Byron had had very few opportunities of seeing her. It was only on his
return from the East that he began to have some correspondence with her,
on the occasion of his publication of "Childe Harold." Notwithstanding
all these circumstances, which might tend to lessen in him his love for
his sister, his affection for her on the contrary increased.
The reader has observed that about this time, under the pressure of
repeated sorrows, a shade of misanthropy had spread itself over his
character, notwithstanding that such a failing was totally contrary to
his nature. The acquaintance with his sister helped greatly to dispel
this veil, and, thanks to it, he was able to get rid of the first
sorrowful impressions of youth.
His dear Augusta became the confidant of his heart; and his pen on the
one hand, and his sister on the other, were the means of curing him of
all ills. Her influence over him is shown by the love expressed for her
in his letters and his notes at that time, and her prudent advice often
puts to flight the more unruly dictates of his imagination. Thus, on one
occasion, Mrs. Musters (Miss Chaworth) wrote to ask Byron to come and
see her. She was miserable that she had preferred her husband to the
handsome young man now the celebrated Byron. Byron is tempted to go and
see her; he loved her so dearly when a boy. But Augusta thought it
dangerous that he should go and see her, and Byron does not.
"Augusta wishes that I should be reconciled with Lord Carlisle," he
says. "I have refused this to every body, but I can not to my sister. I
shall, therefore, have to do it, though I had as lief 'Drink up Esil,'
or 'eat a crocodile.'"
"We will see. Ward, the Hollands, the Lambs, Rogers, every one has,
more or less, tried to settle these matters during the past two years,
but unsuccessfully; if Augusta succeeds it will be odd, and I shall
laugh."
To refuse his sister any thing was out of the question. He loved her so
much that the least likeness to her in any woman was enough to attract
his sympathy. If ill, he would not have his sister know it; if she was
unwell, he can not rest until he received better accounts of her health.
Nothing, however, shows better his love for her than the lines with
which she inspired him at the time of his deepest distress; that is, on
leaving England for Switzerland. I can not transcribe them altogether,
but I can not refuse myself the satisfaction of quoting some extracts
from them.
I.
"When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray--
And hope but shed a dying spark,
Which more misled my lonely way,
* * * * * * *
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.
IV.
"Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
Forever shining sweetly nigh.
VI.
"Still may the spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook;
There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke."
Again,
"Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, though forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
* * * * * * *
"From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all."
This deep fraternal affection, assumed at times under the influence of
his powerful genius, and under exceptional circumstances an almost too
passionate expression, which opened a fresh field to his enemies. But it
was to him a consolation and a benefit, which did him good throughout
his short career; and even at the times when troubles came pouring down
upon him, the love of his sister, though not sufficient to give him
courage enough to bear up, still always appeared to him as a hope and an
encouragement to do well.
LORD BYRON AS A SON.
The two sentiments of which we have just spoken were so strong and so
proved in Lord Byron, that it would be almost useless to speak of them,
were it not for the pleasure which there is in recalling them.
But there is another natural affection which, though less manifested,
was not less felt by Byron; I mean his filial love.
Many biographers, and Moore at their head, have not, for reasons to
which I have alluded in another chapter, been fair to his mother.
Besides the motives which seem always to have actuated them in the
exaggeration of his faults, and of the smallest particulars of his life,
they wished, I believe, to give to their narrative a more amusing
character. Moore would seem to say that Byron's childhood was badly
directed; but how so? Does he mean that his mother did not justly
appreciate the peculiarities of her child's character, or promote the
fine dispositions of his nature? But such a discernment in parents is
matter of rare occurrence, and can it be said that many known characters
have been handled according to the scientific rules here laid down?
Those who speak of these fine theories would, we fear, be rather puzzled
by their application, were they called to do so.
It is matter of note that Byron was surrounded as a child with the
tenderest care. At a very early age he was handed over, by his
over-indulgent mother and nurses, to most respectable, intelligent, and
devoted masters; and at no time of his youth was either his physical,
intellectual, or moral education ever neglected. I may add that Byron's
mother was respected, both as a wife and as a mother. She was an heiress
belonging to a most ancient Scotch family, and closely allied to the
royal house of Stuart, and was the second wife of the youngest son of
Admiral Byron,--an unusually handsome man, and father to the poet.
Though this man had been rather spoiled by the world, and had not
rendered her life perfectly happy, she loved him passionately, and was
most devoted to him. When he died, four years after their marriage, her
grief was such that it completely changed her nature.
A widow at twenty-three, she centred in her only child all the depth of
her affection, and though her fortune was considerably reduced, she
still had enough to render her child's life comfortable, so that his
education did not suffer by it. He was scarcely six years of age when he
succeeded to the barony of his great-uncle, and this circumstance in a
young Englishman's life always means increased prosperity. His childhood
was, therefore, most decidedly fortunate in many respects. This is all
the more certain that Byron, throughout his life, always spoke of his
happy childhood, and that his ideal of human happiness never seems to
have been realized except at that time.
But, notwithstanding Moore's exaggerations, and the excessive kindness
of his mother, whose whole life was centred in the one thought of
amusing her child, it is very likely that Byron's passionate nature may
have rendered his relations at home less agreeable than they might have
been. However much this may have been the case, it is still more certain
that such little family dissensions never produced in his mind the
slightest germ of ingratitude toward or want of care for his mother, and
that the recollection of his passionate moments only served to make him
acquire by his own efforts that wonderful self-possession for which he
was afterward remarkable.
His filial sentiments betrayed themselves at every period, and in every
circumstance of his life. The reader has seen how, at Harrow, by showing
the names of their parents written on the wall, he prevented his
comrades from setting fire to the school.
On attaining his majority, his first care was to improve the financial
condition of his mother, notwithstanding the shattered state of his
fortune, and to prepare a suitable apartment for her at Newstead.
When the cruel criticisms of the "Edinburgh Review" condemned his first
steps in the career of literature, his chief care after the first
explosion of his own sorrow, was to allay, as far as he could, the
sensitiveness of his mother, who, not having the same motive or power to
summon up a spirit of resistance, was, of course, more helplessly alive
to this attack upon his fame, and felt it far more than, after the first
burst of indignation, he did himself.
During his first travels to the East his affairs were in a very
embarrassed state. But, nevertheless, here are the terms in which he
wrote to his mother from Constantinople:--
"If you have occasion for any pecuniary supply, pray use my funds as far
as they go, without reserve; and, lest this should not be enough, in my
next to Mr. H---- I will direct him to advance any sum you may want."
There is a degree of melancholy in the letter which he wrote to his
mother on his return to England. He had received most deplorable
accounts of his affairs when at Malta, and he applied the terms apathy
and indifference to the sentiments with which he approached his native
land. He goes on to say, however, that the word apathy is not to be
applied to his mother, as he will show; that he wishes her to be the
mistress of Newstead, and to consider him only as the visitor. He brings
her presents of all kinds, etc. "That notwithstanding this alienation,"
adds Moore, "which her own unfortunate temper produced, he should have
continued to consult her wishes, and minister to her comforts with such
unfailing thoughtfulness (as is evinced not only in the frequency of his
letters, but in the almost exclusive appropriation of Newstead to her
use), redounds in no ordinary degree to his honor."
This want of affection never existed but in the minds of some of Byron's
biographers. Lord Byron knew that his mother doted upon him, and that
she watched his growing fame with feverish anxiety.
His successes were passionately looked forward to by her. She had
collected in one volume all the articles which had appeared upon his
first poems and satires, and had written her own remarks in the margin,
which showed that she was possessed of great good sense and considerable
talent. Could, then, such a heart as Lord Byron's be ungrateful, and not
love such a mother? Mr. Galt, a biographer of Byron's, who is certainly
not to be suspected of partiality, renders him, however, full justice in
regard to his filial devotion during the life of his mother, and to the
deep distress which he felt at her death.
"In the mean time, while busily engaged in his literary projects with
Mr. Dallas, and in law affairs with his agent, he was suddenly summoned
to Newstead by the state of his mother's health. Before he reached the
Abbey she had breathed her last. The event deeply affected him.
Notwithstanding her violent temper, her affection for him had been so
fond and ardent that he undoubtedly returned it with unaffected
sincerity; and, from many casual and incidental expressions which I have
heard him employ concerning her, I am persuaded that this filial love
was not at any time even of an ordinary kind."
On the night after his arrival at the Abbey, the waiting-woman of Mrs.
Byron, in passing the door of the room where the corpse lay, heard the
sound of some one sighing heavily within, and, on entering, found his
lordship sitting in the dark beside the bed. She remonstrated, when he
burst into tears, and exclaimed, "I had but one friend in the world, and
she is gone!" This same filial devotion often inspired him with
beautiful lines, such as those in the third canto of "Childe Harold,"
when standing before the tomb of Julia Alpinula, he exclaims:
LXVI.
"And there--oh! sweet and sacred be the name!--
Julia--the daughter, the devoted--gave
Her youth to Heaven; her heart, beneath a claim
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave.
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave
The life she lived in; but the Judge was just,
And then she died on him she could not save.
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust,
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.
LXVII.
"But these are deeds which should not pass away,
And names that must not wither, though the earth
Forgets her empires with a just decay,
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
And from its immortality look forth
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,
Imperishably pure beyond all things below."
As a note to the above, Byron writes:
"Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain
attempt to save her father, condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus
Coecina. Her epitaph was discovered many years ago; it is thus:
"JULIA ALPINULA:
HIC JACEO.
INFELICIS PATRIS, INFELIX PROLES.
DEAE AVENTIAE SACERDOS.
EXORARE PATRIS NECEM NON POTUI:
MALE MORI IN FATIS ILLE ERAT.
VIXI ANNOS XXIII.
"I know," adds Byron, "of no human composition so affecting as this, nor
a history of deeper interest. These are the names and actions which
ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy
tenderness."
His father having died in 1793, when Byron was only four years of age,
he could not know him; but to show how keen were his sentiments toward
his memory, I must transcribe a note of Murray's after the following
lines in "Hours of Idleness:"--
"Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care;
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?"
"In all the biographies which have yet been published of Byron," remarks
Murray, "undue severity has been the light by which the character of
Byron's father has been judged. Like his son, he was unfortunately
brought up by a mother only. Admiral Byron, his father, being compelled
by his duties to live away from his family, the son was brought up in a
French military academy, which was not likely at that time to do his
morals much good. He passed from school into the Coldstream Guards,
where he was launched into every species of temptation imaginable, and
likely to present themselves to a young man of singular beauty, and heir
to a fine name, in the metropolis of England."
The unfortunate intrigue, of which so much has been said, as if it had
compromised his reputation as a man of honor, took place when he was
just of age, and he died in France at the age of thirty-five. One can
hardly understand why the biographers of Byron have insisted upon
depreciating the personal qualities of his father, apart from the
positively injurious and wicked assertions made against him in memoirs
of Lord Byron's life, and in reviews of such memoirs.
Some severe reflections of this kind having found their way into the
preface to a French translation of Byron's works, which appeared shortly
before the latter's departure for Greece, called for an expostulation by
the son himself on behalf of his father, in a letter addressed to Mr.
Coulmann, who had been charged to offer to the poet the homage of the
French literary men of the day. This letter is interesting in more than
one particular, as it re-establishes in their true light several facts
wrongly stated with regard to Byron's family, and because it is,
perhaps, the last letter which Byron wrote from Italy. It is quoted _in
extenso_ in the chapter entitled "Byron's Life in Italy."[27] I can only
repeat here the words which apply more particularly to his father:--
"The author of the essay (M. Pichot) has cruelly calumniated my father.
Far from being brutal, he was, according to the testimony of all those
who knew him, extremely amiable, and of a lively character, though
careless and dissipated. He had the reputation of being a good officer,
and had proved himself such in America. The facts themselves belie the
assertion. It is not by brutal means that a young officer seduces and
elopes with a marchioness, and then marries two heiresses in succession.
It is true that he was young, and very handsome, which is a great point.
"His first wife, Lady Conyers, Marchioness of Carmarthen, did not die of
a broken heart, but of an illness which she contracted because she
insisted on following my father out hunting before she had completely
recovered from her confinement, immediately after the birth of my sister
Augusta. His second wife, my mother, who claims every respect, had, I
assure you, far too proud a nature ever to stand ill-treatment from any
body, and would have proved it had it been the case. I must add, that my
father lived a long time in Paris, where he saw a great deal of the
Marechal de Biron, the commander of the French Guards, who, from the
similarity of our names, and of our Norman extraction, believed himself
to be our cousin. My father died at thirty-seven years of age, and
whatever faults he may have had, cruelty was not one of them. If the
essay were to be circulated in England, I am sure that the part relating
to my father would pain my sister Augusta even more than myself, and she
does not deserve it; for there is not a more angelic being on earth.
Both Augusta and I have always cherished the memory of our father as
much as we cherished one another,--a proof, at least, that we had no
recollection of any harsh treatment on his part. If he dissipated his
fortune, that concerns us, since we are his heirs; but until we reproach
him with the fact, I know of no one who has a right to do so.
BYRON."
From all that has been said it will be seen that Byron's sensitive heart
was eminently adapted to family affections. Affection alone made him
happy, and his nature craved for it. He was often rather influenced by
passion than a seeker of its pleasures, and whenever he found relief in
the satisfaction of his passions, it was only because there was real
affection at the bottom,--an affection which tended to give him those
pleasures of intimacy in which he delighted.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 27: This chapter is to be published separately, at no very
distant period, by the author.--_Note of the translator._]