BENEVOLENCE AND KINDNESS OF LORD BYRON.
BENEVOLENCE.
The benevolence of Byron's character constitutes the principal
characteristic of his nature, and was particularly remarkable from its
power. All the good qualities in Byron do not show the same force in the
same degree. In all the sentiments which we have analyzed and given in
proof of his goodness, though each may be very strong, and even capable
of inspiring him with the greatest sacrifice, yet one might find in each
that personal element, inherent in different degrees to our purest and
most generous affections, since the impulse which dictates them is
evidently based upon a desire to be satisfied with ourselves. The same
thing might be said of his benevolence, had it been only the result of
habit: but if it had been this, if it had been intermittent, and of that
kind which does not exclude occasional harshness and even cruelty, I
would not venture to present it to the reader as a proof of Byron's
goodness.
His benevolence had nothing personal in its elements. It was a kind of
universal and habitual charity, which gives without hope of return,
which is more occupied with the good of others than with its own, and
which is called for only by the instinctive desire to alleviate the
sufferings of others. If such a quality has no right to be called a
virtue, it nevertheless imprints upon the man who possesses it an
ineffaceable character of greatness.
There was not a single moment in his life in which it did not reveal
itself in the most touching actions. We have seen how neither happiness
nor misfortune could alter it.
As a child, he went one day to bathe with a little school-fellow in the
Don, in Scotland, and having but one very small Shetland pony between
them, each one walked and rode alternately. When they reached the
bridge, at a point where the river becomes sombre and romantic, Byron,
who was on foot, recollected a legendary prophecy, which says:--
"Brig o' Balgounie, black's your wa':
Wi' a wife's ae son and a mare's ae foal
Doun ye shall fa'!"
Little Byron stopped his companion, asked him if he remembered the
prediction, and declared that as the pony might very well be "a mare's
ae foal," he intended to cross first, for although both only sons, his
mother alone would mourn him, while the death of his friend, whose
father and mother were both alive, would cause a twofold grief.[34]
As a stripling, he saw at Southwell a poor woman sally mournfully from a
shop, because the Bible she wished to purchase costs more money than she
possesses. Byron hastens to buy it, and, full of joy, runs after the
poor creature to give it to her. As a young man, at an age when the
effervescence and giddiness of youth forget many things, he never forgot
that to seduce a young girl is a crime. Then, as ever, he was less the
seducer than the seduced.
Moore tells us that Byron was so keenly sensitive to the pleasure or
pain of those with whom he lived, that while in his imaginary realms he
defied the universe, in real life a frown or a smile could overcome him.
Proud, energetic, independent, intrepid, benevolence alone rendered Lord
Byron so flexible, patient, and docile to the remonstrances or
reproaches of those who loved him, and to whom he allowed friendly
motives, that he often sacrificed his own talent to this genial and
kindly sentiment. The Rev. Mr. Beecher, disapproving as too free one of
the poems he had just published at the age of seventeen, in his first
edition of the "Hours of Idleness," Lord Byron _withdrew_ and _burnt_
the whole edition. At the solicitation of Dallas and Gifford he
suppresses, in the second canto of "Childe Harold," the very stanzas he
preferred to all the rest. Madame G----, grieved at the persecution
drawn down on him by the first canto of "Don Juan," begs him to
discontinue the poem, and he ceased to write it.
At the request of Madame de Stael, he consented, in spite of his great
disinclination, to attempt a reconciliation with Lady Byron.
The "Curse of Minerva," a poem written in Greece, while he was still
painfully impressed by the artistic piracies of Lord Elgin in the
"Parthenon," was in the press and on the eve of publication; but Lord
Elgin's friends reminded him of the pain it would inflict on him and on
his family, and the poem was sacrificed. No one ever bore more
generously than he with reproaches made with good-will and kindness.
This amiable disposition, observed in Greece by Mr. Finlay, led him to
say that it amazed him. As regards Lord Byron's tenderness toward his
friends, it was always so great and constant, that we have thought it
right to devote a long article to it. We will, however, quote as another
instance of the delicacy of his friendship and his fear of offending his
friends, or of giving them pain, a letter which Moore also cites as a
proof of his extreme sensitiveness in this respect.
This letter was addressed to Mr. Bankes, his friend and college
companion, on one occasion when Byron believed he had offended him
involuntarily:--
"MY DEAR BANKES,--My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I trust,
convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner might inadvertently be,
the change was as unintentional as (if intended) it would have been
ungrateful. I really was not aware that, while we were together, I had
evinced such caprice. That we were not so much in each other's company
as I could have wished, I well know; but I think so astute an observer
as yourself must have perceived enough to explain this, without
supposing any slight to one in whose society I have pride and pleasure.
Recollect that I do not allude here to 'extended' or 'extending'
acquaintances, but to circumstances you will understand, I think, on a
little reflection.
"And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by supposing that I can
think of you, or you of me, otherwise than I trust we have long thought.
You told me not long ago, that my temper was improved, and I should be
sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your friendship is of
more account to me than all those absurd vanities in which, I fear, you
conceive me to take too much interest. I have never disputed your
superiority, or doubted (seriously) your good-will, and no one shall
ever 'make mischief between us' without the sincere regret on the part
of your ever affectionate, etc.
"BYRON."
In the midst of the unexampled enthusiasm of a whole nation, Byron is
neither touched by the adoration which his genius inspires, nor the
endless praises which are bestowed upon him, nor the love declarations
which crowd his table, nor the flattering expressions of Lord Holland,
who ranks him next to Walter Scott as a poet, and to Burke as an orator;
nor indeed by those of Lord Fitzgerald, who, notwithstanding a flogging
at Harrow, can not bear malice against the author of "Childe Harold,"
but desires to forgive. To be the friend of those whom his satire
offended, so penetrates him with disgust for that poem, that his dearest
wish is to lose every trace of it; and, though the fifth edition is
nearly completed, he gives orders to his publisher, Cawthorn, to burn
the whole edition.
It is well known that on the occasion of the opening of the new Drury
Lane Theatre, the committee called upon all England's poetical talent
for an inaugural address. The committee received many, but found none
worthy of adoption. It was then that Lord Holland advised that Lord
Byron should be applied to, whose genius and popularity would enhance,
he said, the solemnity of the occasion. Lord Byron after a refusal, and
much hesitation arising partly from modesty and partly from the
knowledge that the rejected authors would make him pay a heavy price for
his triumph, at last, with much reluctance, accepted the invitation,
merely to oblige Lord Holland. He exchanged with the latter on this
topic a long correspondence, revealing so thoroughly his docility and
modesty, that Moore declares these letters valuable as an illustration
of his character; they show, in truth, the exceeding pliant good-nature
with which he listened to the counsel and criticism of his friends. "It
can not be questioned," says he, "that this docility, which he
invariably showed in matters upon which most authors are generally
tenacious and irritable, was a natural essence of his character, and
which might have been displayed on much more important occasions had he
been so fortunate as to become connected with people capable of
understanding and of guiding him."
Another time Moore wrote to him at Pisa:--"Knowing you as I do, Lady
Byron ought to have discovered, that you are the most docile and most
amiable man that ever existed, for those who live with you."
His hatred of contradiction and petty teasing, his repugnance to annoy
or mortify any one, arose from the same cause. Once, after having
replied with his usual frankness to an inquiry of Madame de Stael,
_that he thought a certain step ill-advised_, he wrote in his
memorandum-book:--"I have since reflected that it would be possible for
Mrs. B---- to be patroness; and I regret having given my opinion, as I
detest getting people into difficulties with themselves or their
favorites."
And again:--
"To-day C---- called, and, while sitting here, in came Merivale. During
our colloquy, C---- (ignorant that M----was the writer) abused the
mawkishness of the 'Quarterly Review,' on Grimm's correspondence. I
(knowing the secret) changed the conversation as soon as I could, and
C---- went away quite convinced of having made the most favorable
impression on his new acquaintance.... I did not look at him while this
was going on, but I felt like a coal; for I like Merivale, as well as
the article in question."
HIS INDULGENCE.
His indulgence, so great toward all, was excessive toward his inferiors.
"Lord Byron," says Medwin, "was the best of masters, and it may be
asserted that he was beloved by his servants; his goodness even extended
to their families. He liked them to have their children with them. I
remember, on one occasion, as we entered the hall, coming back from our
walk, we met the coachman's son, a boy of three or four years of age.
Byron took the child up in his arms and gave him ten pauls."
"His indulgence toward his servants," says Mr. Hoppner, "was almost
reprehensible, for even when they neglected their duty, he appeared
rather to laugh at than to scold them, and he never could make up his
mind to send them away, even after threatening to do so."
Mr. Hoppner quotes several instances of this indulgence, which he
frequently witnessed. I will relate one in which his kindness almost
amounts to virtue. On the point of leaving for Ravenna, whither his
heart passionately summoned him, Tita Falier, his gondolier, is taken
for the conscription. To release him it is not only necessary to pay
money, but also to take certain measures, and to delay his departure.
The money was given, and the much-desired journey postponed.
"The result was," says Hoppner, "that his servants were so attached to
him that they would have borne every thing for his sake. His death
plunged them into the deepest grief. I have in my possession a letter
written to his family by Byron's gondolier, Tita, who followed him from
Venice to Greece, and remained with him until his death. The poor fellow
speaks of his master in touching terms: he declares that in Byron he has
lost rather a father than a master, and he does not cease to dilate upon
the goodness with which Byron looked after the interests of all who
served him."
Fletcher also wrote to Murray after his master's death:--
"Pray forgive this scribbling, for I scarcely know what I do and say. I
have served Lord Byron for twenty years, and his lordship was always to
me rather a father than a master. I am too distressed to be able to give
you any particulars about his death."
Lord Byron's benevolence also shone forth in his tenderness toward
children, in the pleasure he experienced in mingling in their
amusements, and in making them presents. In general, to procure a
moment's enjoyment to any one was real happiness to him.
Quite as humane as he was benevolent, cruelty or ferocity he could not
brook, even in imagination. His genius, although so bold, could not bear
too harrowing a plot. "I wanted to write something upon that subject,"
he told Shelley at Pisa, "as it is extremely tragical, but it was too
heartrending for my nerves to cope with."
His works, moreover, from beginning to end, prove this. An analysis of
the character of all his heroes will prove that, however daring, they
are never ferocious, harsh, nor perverse. Even Conrad the Corsair, whose
type is sketched from a ferocious race, and who is placed in
circumstances that tempt to inhumanity,--Conrad is yet far removed from
cruelty. The drop of blood on Gulnare's fair brow makes him shudder, and
almost forget that it was to save him that she became guilty. The cruel
deeds of a man not only prevented Lord Byron from feeling the least
sympathy for him, but even made gratitude toward him a burden. However
much Ali Pasha, the fierce Viceroy of Janina, may overwhelm him with
kindness, wish to treat him as a son, address him in writing as
"Excellentissime and Carissime," the cruelties of such a friend are too
revolting for Byron to profit by his offer of services. He calls him the
man of war and calamity, and in immortal verse perpetuates the memory of
his crimes, and even _foretells the death he actually died a few years
later_. He can forgive him the weakness of the flesh, but not those
crimes which are deaf to pity's voice, and which, to be condemned in
every man, are still more so in an old man:--
"Blood follows blood, and through this mortal span
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began."
The recollection of human massacres spoilt in his eyes even a beautiful
spot. In exalting the Rhine, the beautiful river he so much admired, the
remembrance of all the blood spilt on its banks saddened his heart:--
"Then to see
The valley of sweet waters, were to know
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be:
* * * * * * *
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem."
As to being himself a witness and spectator of scenes of violence, it
was an effort which exceeded the strength, however great, of his will.
Gifted with much psychological curiosity, and holding the theory that
every thing should be seen, he was present at Rome at the execution of
three murderers, who were to be put to death, on the eve of his
departure. This spectacle agitated him to such a degree that it brought
on a fever.
In Spain he attended a bull-fight. The painful impression produced by
the barbarous sight is immortalized in verse (_vide_ "Childe Harold,"
1st canto).
But his actions, above all, testify to his humane disposition. He never
heard of the misfortune or suffering of a fellow-creature without
endeavoring to relieve it, whether in London, Venice, Ravenna, Pisa, or
Greece; he spared neither gold, time, nor labor to achieve this object.
At Pisa, hearing that a wretched man, guilty of a sacrilegious theft,
was to be condemned to cruel torture, he became ill with dread and
anxiety. He wrote to the English ambassador, and to the consuls, begging
for their interposition; neglected no chance, and did not rest until he
acquired the certainty that the penalty inflicted on the culprit would
be more humane.
In Greece, where traits of generous compassion fill the rest of his
life, Count Gamba relates that Colonel Napier, then residing in the
Island of Cephalonia, one day rode in great haste to Lord Byron, to ask
for his assistance, a number of workmen, employed in making a road,
having been buried under the crumbling side of a mountain in consequence
of an imprudent operation. Lord Byron immediately dispatched his
physician, and, although just sitting down to table, had his horses
saddled, and galloped off to the scene of the disaster, accompanied by
Count Gamba and his suite. Women and children wept and moaned, the crowd
each moment increased, lamentations were heard on all sides, but,
whether from despair or laziness, none came forward. Generous anger
overcame Lord Byron at this scene of woe and shame; he leapt from his
horse, and, grasping the necessary implements, began with his own hands
the work of setting free the poor creatures, who were there buried
alive. His example aroused the courage of the others, and the
catastrophe was thus mitigated by the rescue of several victims. Count
Gamba, after dwelling on the good Lord Byron did everywhere, and on the
admirable life he led in Greece, expresses himself as follows in a
letter to Mr. Kennedy:--
"One of his principal objects in Greece was to awaken the Turks as well
as the Greeks to more humane sentiments. You know how he hastened,
whenever the opportunity arose, to purchase the freedom of woman and
children, and to send them back to their homes. He frequently, and not
without incurring danger to himself, rescued Turks from the sanguinary
grasp of the Greek corsairs. When a Moslem brig drifted ashore near
Missolonghi, the Greeks wanted to capture the whole crew; but Lord Byron
opposed it, and promised a reward of a crown for each sailor, and of two
for each officer rescued."
"Coming to Greece," wrote Lord Byron, "one of my principal objects was
to alleviate, as much as possible, the miseries incident to a warfare so
cruel as the present. When the dictates of humanity are in question, I
know no difference between Turks and Greeks. It is enough that those who
want assistance are men, in order to claim the pity and protection of
the meanest pretender to humane feelings. I have found here twenty-four
Turks, including women and children, who have long pined in distress,
far from the means of support and the consolations of their home. The
Government has consigned them to me: I transmit them to Prevesa, whither
they desire to be sent. I hope you will not object to take care that
they may be restored to a place of safety, and that the governor of your
town may accept of my present. The best recompense I could hope for
would be to find that I had inspired the Ottoman commanders with the
same sentiments toward those unhappy Greeks, who may hereafter fall into
their hands.
"BYRON."
"Lord Byron," pursues Count Gamba, "never could witness a calamity as an
idle spectator. He was so alive to the sufferings of others, that he
sometimes allowed himself to be imposed upon too readily by tales of
woe. The least semblance of injustice excited his indignation, and led
him to intervene without a thought for the consequences to himself of
his interposition; and he entertained this feeling not only for his
fellow-creatures but even toward animals."
His compassion extended to every living creature, to every thing that
could feel. Without alluding to his well-known fondness for dogs, and
for the animals of every kind he liked to have about him, and of which
he took the greatest care, it will be sufficient to point out the motive
which led him to deprive himself of the pleasures of the chase,--a
pastime that would have been, from his keen enjoyment of bodily
exercises, so congenial to his tastes. The reason is found in his
memorandum for 1814:--
"The last bird I ever fired at was an eaglet, on the shore of the Gulf
of Lepanto, near Vostitza. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it,
the eye was so bright: but it pined and died in a few days; and I never
did since, and never will, attempt the death of another bird."
Angling, as well as shooting, he considered cruel.
"And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it."
And, as if he feared not to have expressed strongly enough his aversion
for the cruelties of angling, he adds in a note:--
"It would have taught him humanity at least. This sentimental savage,
whom it is a mode to quote (among the novelists) to show their sympathy
for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and
break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of
angling,--the cruelest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended
sports. They may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler
merely thinks of his dish of fish; he has no leisure to take his eyes
from off the streams, and a single bite is worth to him more than all
the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. The
whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have somewhat of noble and
perilous in them; even net-fishing, trawling, etc., are more humane and
useful. But angling!--no angler can be a good man."
"One of the best men I ever knew (as humane, delicate-minded, generous,
and excellent a creature as any in the world) was an angler; true, he
angled with painted flies, and would have been incapable of the
extravagances of Izaak Walton."
"The above addition was made by a friend, in reading over the
MS.:--'_Audi alteram partem_'--I leave it to counterbalance my own
observations."
It is well known that Lord Byron would not deride certain superstitions,
and was sometimes tempted to exclaim with Hamlet,--
"There are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
He, consequently, also conformed to the English superstition, which
involves, under pain of an unlucky year, the eating of a goose at
Michaelmas. Alas! once only he did not eat one, and that year was his
last; but he eat none because, during the journey from Pisa to Genoa, on
Michaelmas eve, he saw the two white geese in their cage in the wagon
that followed his carriage, and felt so sorry for them that he gave
orders they should be spared. After his arrival at Genoa they became
such pets that he caressed them constantly. When he left for Greece he
recommended them to the care of Mr. Kennedy, who was probably kind to
them for the sake of their illustrious protector.
Not only could Lord Byron never contribute voluntarily to the suffering
of a living being, but his pity, his commiseration for the sufferings of
his fellow-creatures showed itself all his life in such habitual
benevolence, in such boundless generosity, that volumes would be
necessary to record his noble deeds.
Although, in thus analyzing and enumerating the proofs of his innate
goodness, we have declared we did not entertain the pretension of
elevating them to the rank of lofty virtues, we are yet compelled to
state that if his generosity was too instinctive to be termed a virtue,
it was yet too admirable to be considered as an instinct; that while in
remaining a quality of his heart, it elevated and transformed itself
often through the exertion of his will into an absolute virtue, and
through all its phases and in its double nature, it presented in Lord
Byron a remarkably rare blending of all that is most lovable and
estimable in the human soul.
Here we merely speak of the generosity that showed itself in benefits
conferred. As to that which consists rather in self-denial, sacrifice
which forgives injuries, and which is the greatest triumph of mortal
courage, that, in a word, is indeed a sublime virtue. Such generosity,
if he possessed it, we will treat of in another chapter.[35]
As we here wish to establish by facts that only which appears to have
been the impulse of his good heart, the difficulty lies in the choice of
proofs, and in the necessity of limiting our narrative. We will,
therefore, in order not to convert this chapter into a volume, forbear
from quoting more than a few instances; but justice requires us to say,
that misfortune or poverty never had recourse to him in vain; that
neither the pecuniary embarrassments of his youth, nor the slender
merits of the applicants, nor any of the pretexts so convenient to weak
or hypocritical[36] liberality, ever could become a reason with him to
refuse those who stretched out their hand to him. The claim of
adversity, as adversity, was a sufficient and sacred one to him, and to
relieve it an imperious impulse.
An appeal was once made to Lord Byron's generosity by an individual
whose bad repute alone might have justified a harsh rebuff. But Lord
Byron, whose charity was of a higher order, looked upon it otherwise.
"Why," said Murray, "should you give L150 to this bad writer, to whom
nobody would give a penny?" "Precisely because nobody is willing to give
him any thing is he the more in need that I should help him," answered
Lord Byron.
A certain Mr. Ashe superintended the publication of a paper called "The
Book," the readers of which were attracted rather by its ill-nature and
scandal, and the revelations it made in lifting the veil that had so far
concealed the most delicate mysteries, than by the talent of the author.
In a fit of repentance this man wrote to Lord Byron, alleging his great
poverty as an apology for having thus prostituted his pen, and imploring
from Lord Byron a gift to enable him to live more honorably in future.
Lord Byron's answer to this letter is so remarkable for its good sense,
kindness, and high tone of honor, that we can not refrain from
reproducing it.
"SIR,--I leave town for a few days to-morrow; on my return I will
answer your letter more at length. Whatever may be your situation,
I can not but commend your resolution to abjure and abandon the
publication and composition of works such as those to which you
have alluded. Depend upon it they amuse few, disgrace both reader
and writer, and benefit none. It will be my wish to assist you, as
far as my limited means will admit, to break such a bondage. In
your answer inform me what sum you think would enable you to
extricate yourself from the hands of your employers, and to regain,
at least, temporary independence, and I shall be glad to contribute
my mite toward it. At present, I must conclude. Your name is not
unknown to me, and I regret, for my own sake, that you have ever
lent it to the works you mention. In saying this, I merely repeat
your own words in your letter to me, and have no wish whatever to
say a single syllable that may appear to insult your misfortunes.
If I have, excuse me: it is unintentional.
BYRON."
Mr. Ashe replied with a request for a sum of about four thousand francs.
Lord Byron having somewhat delayed answering him, Ashe reiterated his
request, complaining of the procrastination; whereupon, "with a kindness
which few," says Moore, "would imitate in a similar case," Byron wrote
to him as follows:--
"SIR,--When you accuse a stranger of neglect, you forget that it is
possible business or absence from London may have interfered to
delay his answer, as has actually occurred in the present instance.
But to the point. I am willing to do what I can to extricate you
from your situation.... I will deposit in Mr. Murray's hands (with
his consent) the sum you mentioned, to be advanced for the time at
ten pounds per month.
"P.S.--I write in the greatest hurry, which may make my letter a
little abrupt; but, as I said before, I have no wish to distress
your feelings.
BYRON."
Ashe, a few months later, asked for the whole amount, to defray his
travelling expenses to New South Wales, and Lord Byron again remitted to
him the entire amount.
On another occasion, some unhappy person being discussed in harsh terms,
the remark was made that he deserved his misery. Lord Byron turned on
the accuser, and fired with generous anger, "Well!" exclaimed he, "if it
be true that N---- is unfortunate, and that he be so through his own
fault, he is doubly to be pitied, because his conscience must poison his
grief with remorse. Such are my morals, and that is why I pity error and
respect misfortune."
The produce of his poems, as long as he remained in England, he devoted
to the relief of his poor relations, or to the assistance of authors in
reduced circumstances. I will not speak of certain traits of heroic
generosity which averted the disgrace and ruin of families, which robbed
vice of many youthful victims, and would cast in the shade many deeds of
past and proverbial magnanimity, and deserve the pen of a Plutarch to
transmit them to posterity.
When we are told, with such admiring comments, of Alexander's
magnanimity in respecting and restoring to freedom the mother and the
wife of Darius, we do not learn whether those noble women were beautiful
and in love with the Macedonian hero. But Lord Byron succored, and
restored to the right path, many girls, young and gifted with every
charm, who were so subjugated by the beauty, goodness, and generosity of
their benefactor, that they fall at his feet, not to implore that they
might be sent back to their homes, but ready to become what he bade
them. And yet this young man of six-and-twenty, thinking them fair, was
touched, and tempted perhaps, yet sent them home, rescued, and
enlightened by the counsels of wisdom.
There is more than generosity in such actions, and we therefore hold
back details for another chapter, in which we will examine this quality
under various aspects. Here we will content ourselves with stating that
these noble traits became known, almost in spite of himself; for his
benevolence was also remarkable in this respect, that it was exercised
with a truly Christian spirit, and in obedience to the Divine precept
that "the left hand shall not know what the right doeth." Having
conferred a great favor on one of his friends, Mr. Hodgson, who was
about to take orders, he wrote in the evening in his journal:--
"H---- has been telling that I ... I am sure, at least, I did not
mention it, and I wish he had not. He is a good fellow, and I oblige
myself ten times more by being of use than I did him,--and there's an
end on't."[37]
It was said of Chateaubriand that if he wished to do any thing generous,
he liked to do so on his balcony; the contrary may be said of Byron, who
would have preferred to have his good action hid in the cellars.
"If we wished to dwell," says Count Gamba in a letter to Kennedy, "on
his many acts of charity, a volume would not suffice to tell you of
those alone to which I have been a witness. I have known in different
Italian towns several honorable families, fallen into poverty, with whom
Lord Byron had not the slightest acquaintance, and to whom he
nevertheless _secretly_ sent large sums of money, sometimes 200 dollars
and more; and these persons never knew the name of their benefactor."
Count Gamba also tells us that, to his knowledge, in Florence, a
respectable mother of a family, being reduced to great penury by the
persecution of a malignant and powerful man, from whom she had protected
the honor of one of her _protegees_, Lord Byron, to whom the lady and
her persecutor were equally unknown, sent her assistance, which was
powerful enough to counteract the evil designs of her foes. He adds
that, having learnt at Pisa that a great number of vessels had been
shipwrecked during a violent storm, in the very harbor of Genoa, and
that several respectable families were thereby completely ruined, Lord
Byron _secretly_ sent them money, and to some more than 300 dollars.
Those who received it never knew their benefactor's name. His charity
provided above all for absent ones, for the old, infirm, and retiring.
At Venice, where it was difficult to elude the influence of the climate,
and of the manners of the time, and where he shared for a time the mode
of life of its young men, it was still charity, and not pleasure, that
absorbed the better part of his income. Not satisfied with his casual or
out-of-the-way charities, he granted a large number of small monthly and
weekly pensions. On definitely leaving Venice to reside in Ravenna, he
decided that, in spite of his absence, these pensions should continue
until the expiration of his lease of the Palazzo Mocenigo. Venice
watched him as jealously as a miser watches his treasure, and when he
left it the honest poor were grieved and the dishonest vexed. Listening
to these, one might have been led to believe, that Lord Byron had by a
vow bound himself and his fortune to the service of Venice, and that his
departure was a spoliation of their rights.[38]
In Ravenna his presence had been such a blessing, that his departure was
considered a public calamity, and the poor of the city addressed a
petition to the legate, that he might be entreated to remain.
Not a quarter of his fortune, as Shelley said in extolling his
munificence, but the half of it, did he expend in alms. In Pisa, in
Genoa, in Greece, his purse was ever open to the needy.
"Not a day of his life in Greece," says his physician, Doctor Bruno,
"but was marked by some charitable deed: not an instance is there on
record of a beggar having knocked at Lord Byron's door who did not go on
his way comforted; so prominent among all his noble qualities was the
tenderness of his heart, and its boundless sympathy with suffering and
affliction. His purse was always opened to the poor." After quoting
several traits of benevolence, he goes on to say:--"Whenever it came to
the knowledge of Lord Byron that any poor persons were lying ill,
whatever the maladies or their cause, without even being asked to do it,
my lord immediately sent me to attend to the sufferers. He provided the
medicines, and every other means of alleviation. He founded at his own
expense a hospital in Missolonghi."[39]
This noble quality of his heart had the ring of true generosity; that
generosity which springs from the desire and pleasure to do good, and
which is so admirable, that in his own estimate of benevolence he always
linked it with a sense of order. It never had any thing in common with
the capricious munificence of a spendthrift. His exceeding delicacy, the
loyalty and noble pride of his soul, inspired him with the deepest
aversion for that egotism and vanity which alike ignores its own duties
and the rights of others.
Lord Byron was, therefore, very methodical in his expenditure. Without
stooping to details, he was most careful to maintain equilibrium between
his outlay and his income. He attended scrupulously to his bills, and
said he could not go to sleep without being on good terms with his
friends, and having paid all his debts.[40]
He was often tormented, if his agents were tardy in making remittances,
with the dread of not being able to meet his engagements. Of his own
gold he was liberal, but he respected the coffers of his creditors.
"I have the greatest respect for money," he often said in jest. He cared
for it, indeed, but as a means of obtaining rest for his mind, and
especially of helping the poor. Although so generous, he was sometimes
annoyed and sorry at the thought of having ill-spent his money, because
he had in the same ratio diminished his power of doing good.
We should have given but an unfair idea of the lofty nature of his
generosity, if we did not add that it was not sustained by any illusory
hopes of gratitude. These illusions his confiding heart had entertained
in early manhood, and were those the loss of which he most regretted;
but their flight, though causing bitter disappointment, left his conduct
uninfluenced. He expected ingratitude, and was prepared for it; he
_gave_, he said, and _did not lend_; and preferred to expose himself to
ingratitude rather than to forsake the unhappy.
We fain would have concluded this long chapter, devoted to the proofs of
his goodness in all its manifestations, by gathering the principal
testimonies of that goodness which were received after Byron's death,
and show it in its original character and in its modifications through
life. But we must confine ourselves to the mention of a few testimonies
only, taken from among those borne him at the outset and at the end of
his life, so as to extend throughout its course, and to show what those
who knew him personally, and well, thought of it.
Mr. Pigott, a friend and companion of Byron's, who lived at Southwell,
in the neighborhood of Newstead, who travelled with Byron during his
holidays, told Moore that few people understood Byron; but that he knew
well how naturally sensitive and kind-hearted he was, and that there was
not the slightest particle of malignity in his whole composition. Mr.
Pigott, who thus spoke of Byron, was one of the most revered magistrates
of his county, and the head of that family with whom Byron was wont to
spend his holidays, and who loved him, both before and after his death,
as good people only can love and mourn. "Never," says Moore, "did any
member of that family allow that Byron had a single fault."
Mr. Lake, another biographer of Byron, says, "I have frequently asked
the country people what sort of a man Lord Byron was. The impression of
his eccentric but energetic character was evident in the reply. 'He's
the devil of a fellow for comical fancies--He flogs th' oud laird to
nothing, but he's a hearty good fellow for all that.'"
Here is Dallas's opinion, which can not be suspected of partiality, for
reasons which we have elsewhere given; for he believed himself
aggrieved, and considered as a great culprit the man who, ever so
slightly, could depart from the orthodox religious teachings; who had
not a blind admiration of his country; who could suffer his heart to be
possessed by an affection which marriage had not legitimatized; who
preferred to family pride the satisfaction of paying the debts
bequeathed to him by his ancestors, and who could make use of his right
of selling his lands. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Mr. Dallas
expresses himself to the following effect:--"At this time (1809), when
on the eve of publishing his first satire, and before taking his seat in
the House of Lords, I saw Lord Byron every day. (This was the epoch of
his misanthropy). Nature had gifted him with most amiable sentiments,
which I frequently had occasion to notice, and I have often seen these
imprint upon his fine countenance a really sublime expression. His
features seemed made expressly to depict the conceptions of genius and
the storms of passion. I have often wondered with admiration at these
curious effects. I have seen his face lighted up by the fire of poetical
inspiration, and, under the influence of strong emotions, sometimes
express the highest degree of energy, and at others all the softness and
grace of mild and gentle affection. When his soul was a prey to passion
and revenge, it was painful to observe the powerful effect upon his
features; but when, on the contrary, he was conquered by feelings of
tenderness and benevolence (which was the natural tendency of his
heart), it was delightful to contemplate his looks. I went to see Lord
Byron the day after Lord Falkland's death. He had just seen the
inanimate body of the man with whom, a few days before, he had spent
such an agreeable time. At intervals, I heard him exclaim to himself,
and half aloud, 'Poor Falkland!' His look was even more expressive than
were his words. 'But his wife,' added he, 'she is to be pitied!' One
could see his soul filled with the most benevolent intentions, which
were sterile.[41] If ever pure action was done, it was that which he
then meditated; and the man who conceived it, and who accomplished it,
was then progressing through thorns and thistles, toward that free but
narrow path which leads to heaven."
Several years later, Mr. Hoppner, English Consul at Venice, and who
spent his life with Byron in that city, wrote in a narrative of the
causes which created so much disgust in Byron for English travellers,
that Byron's affected misanthropy, as observable in his first poems, was
by no means natural to him; and he adds, that he is certain that he
never met with a man so kind as Byron.
We might stop here, certain as we are that all loyal and reasonable
readers are not only convinced of Byron's goodness, but experience a
noble pleasure in admiring it. We can not, however, close this chapter,
without calling the attention of our readers to the last and painful
proofs given of this kindness and goodness of Byron's nature: we allude
to the extraordinary grief, caused by his death.
"Never can I forget the stupefaction," says an illustrious writer, "into
which we were plunged by the news of his death, so great a part of
ourselves died with him, that his death appeared to us almost
impossible, and almost not natural. One would have said that a portion
of the mechanism of the universe had been stopped. To have questioned
him, to have blamed him, became a remorse for us, and all our
veneration for his genius was not half so energetically felt as our
tenderness for him.
"'His last sigh dissolved the charm, the disenchanted earth
Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering towers?
Her golden mountains where? All darkened, down
To naked waste a dreary vale of years!
The great magician's dead!'"--YOUNG.
Such griefs are certainly reasonable, just, and honorable: for the
deaths which bury such treasures of genius are real public calamities.
On hearing of Byron's death, one might repeat the beautiful and eloquent
words of M. de Saint Victor:
"What a great crime death has committed! It is something like the
disappearance of a star, or the extinction of a planet, with all the
creation it supposed. When great minds have accomplished their task,
like Shakspeare, Dante, Goethe, their departure from the scene of the
world leaves in the soul the sublime melancholy which presides over the
setting of the sun, after it has poured out all its rays. But when we
hear of the death of a Raphael, of a Mozart, and especially of Byron,
struck down in their flight, just at the time when they were extending
their course, we can not refrain from calling these an eternal cause for
mourning, irreparable losses, and inconsolable regrets! A genius who
dies prematurely carries treasures away with him! How many ideal
existences were linked with his own! What sublime thoughts vanish from
his brow! What great and charming characters die with him, even before
they are born! How many truths postponed, at least, for humanity!"
And we will add: to how many great and noble actions his death has put
an end!
Such regrets do honor as much to those who experience them as to those
who give them rise. But it is not to the enthusiasm created by his
genius, nor to the grief evinced by the Greek nation, for whom he died,
that we will turn for a last proof of the goodness of his nature. Such
regrets might almost be called interested,--emanating, as they do, from
the knowledge of the loss of a treasure. Of the tears of the heart,
which were shed for the man without his genius, shall we ask that last
proof.
These are the words by which Count Gamba describes his affliction:--
"In vain should I attempt to describe the deep, the distressing sorrow
that overwhelmed us all. I will not speak of myself, but of those who
loved him less, because they had seen him less. Not only Mavrocordato
and his immediate circle, but the whole city and all its inhabitants
were, as it seemed, stunned by the blow--it had been so sudden, so
unexpected. His illness, indeed, had been known; and for the three last
days, none of us could walk in the streets, without anxious inquiries
from every one who met us, of 'How is my lord?' We did not mourn the
loss of the great genius,--no, nor that of the supporter of Greece--our
first tears were for our father, our patron, our friend. He died in a
strange land, and among strangers: but more loved, more sincerely wept,
he could never have been, wherever he had breathed his last.
"Such was the attachment, mingled with a sort of reverence and
enthusiasm, with which he inspired those around him, that there was not
one of us who would not, for his sake, have willingly encountered any
danger in the world. The Greeks of every class and every age, from
Mavrocordato to the meanest citizen, sympathized with our sorrows. It
was in vain that, when we met, we tried to keep up our spirits--our
attempts at consolation always ended in mutual tears."
None but beautiful souls, and those who are really thoroughly good, can
be thus regretted; and heartfelt tears are only shed for those who have
spent their life in drying those of others.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 34: Galt's Life of Byron, p. 329.]
[Footnote 35: See chapter "Generosity raised to a Virtue."]
[Footnote 36: When travelling in Greece, he often found himself in
straitened circumstances, merely because he had helped a friend.
"It is probable," he wrote to his mother from Athens in 1811, "I may
steer homeward in spring: but, to enable me to do that, I must have
remittances. My own funds would have lasted me very well: but I was
obliged to assist a friend, who I know will pay me, but in the mean time
I am out of pocket."]
[Footnote 37: It may be observed here, that he was not willing, even to
confide to paper, the nature and degree of the act of kindness. Hodgson
wanted thirty-five thousand francs to establish himself. Byron actually
borrowed this amount, to give it to him, as he had not the sum at his
disposal.]
[Footnote 38: See his "Life in Italy."]
[Footnote 39: Vide Kennedy.]
[Footnote 40: "Yesterday I paid him (to Scroope Davies) four thousand
eight hundred pounds, ... and my mind is much relieved by the removal of
that debt," he says in his memorandum of 1813. All his difficulties were
inherited from his father, and not contracted by him personally.]
[Footnote 41: Although not rich, and on the point of undertaking a long
and expensive journey, he devoted a large sum to the alleviation of the
wants of that family.]