GENEROSITY A HEROISM.
PARDON, MAGNANIMITY.
It remains for us to examine Lord Byron's generosity under another form.
I mean that which, after having passed by different degrees of moral
beauty, may reach the highest summit of virtue, and become the greatest
triumph of moral strength, because it overcomes the most just
resentments, forgives, returns good for evil, and constitutes the very
heroism of Christian charity.
Did Lord Byron's generosity really attain such a high degree? To
convince ourselves of it, we must again examine his life.
Clemency and forgiveness showed themselves in Lord Byron at all periods
of his life. In childhood, in youth, though so passionate, and so
sensitive at school and at college, so soon as the first explosion was
over, he was ever ready to make peace.
In the poems composed during his boyhood and early youth, he was always
the first to forgive. He even forgave his wicked guardian (Lord
Carlisle). Although this latter only evinced indifference, or worse,
with regard to his ward, Lord Byron dedicated his first poems to him.
The noble earl having further aggravated his faults by behaving in an
unjustifiable manner, Lord Byron was of course greatly irritated, since
he hurled some satirical lines at him. But soon after, at the
intercession of friends, and especially at that of his sister, he showed
himself disposed to forget the faults of his bad guardian with all the
clemency inherent to his generous nature. He writes to Rogers, 27th
June, 1814:--"Are there any chances or possibility of ending this, and
making our peace with Carlisle? I am disposed to do all that is
reasonable (or unreasonable) to arrive at it. I would even have done so
sooner; but the 'Courier' newspaper, and a thousand disagreeable
interpretations, have prevented me."
Afterward, he further sealed this generous pardon by those fine verses
in the third canto of "Childe Harold," where he laments the death of
Major Howard, Lord Carlisle's son, killed at Waterloo.[89]
He forgave Miss Chaworth; and in this case also there was great
generosity. The history of this boyish love is well known. Even if the
name of love should be refused to the feeling entertained by a child of
fifteen for a girl of eighteen, who only looked upon him, it is said, as
a boy, and liked him as a brother, not only on account of the difference
of age, but also because she was already attached to the young man whom
she afterward married, still it can not be denied that these first
awakenings of the heart, though full of illusion, cause great suffering.
For if Lord Byron was a child in years, he was already a young man in
intellect, soul, imagination, and sensibility. That Miss Chaworth should
raise emotion in his heart is very comprehensible, for every girl has
good chances of appearing an angel to youths, whose preference
invariably falls on women older than themselves. Besides, Miss Chaworth
was placed in quite exceptional circumstances with regard to Lord Byron,
such as were well calculated to act powerfully on the imagination of a
boy, and render the dispelling of his poetic dream a most painful
reality.
Miss Chaworth was heiress of the noble family whose name she bore, and
her uncle had been killed in a duel by the last Lord Byron, grand-uncle
of the poet. She resided with her family at Annesley, a seat two miles
distant from Newstead Abbey. Their two properties touched each other;
but the slight barrier separating them was marked with blood. The two
children then, despite their near vicinity, only saw each other by
chance, or by secretly getting over the boundary of their respective
grounds. The chief obstacle to the reconciliation of the two families
was the young girl's father. But when Lord Byron reached his fourteenth
year, and, according to custom, came from Harrow to pass his holidays at
Newstead, Mr. Chaworth was dead, and the mother of the young heiress
received him at Annesley with open arms, for she did not partake her
husband's feelings, but, on the contrary, looked forward with pleasure
to the possibility of a union with her daughter, despite the difference
of age between them. The development of their mutual sympathy was
equally encouraged by the professors, governesses, and all surrounding
the young lady, for they liked young Byron extremely.
From that time he had his room at Annesley, and was looked upon as one
of the family. As to the young lady, she made him the companion of her
amusements. In the gardens, parks, on horseback, in all excursions, he
was constantly by her side. For him she played, and sang to the piano.
What was her love for him? Were there not moments in which she did not
look upon him only as a brother, or a child? Did she ever contemplate
the possibility of becoming his wife?
Moore does not think so.
"Neither is it, indeed, probable," says he, "had even her affections
been disengaged, that Lord Byron would, at this time, have been selected
as the object of them. A seniority of two years gives to a girl, 'on the
eve of womanhood,' an advance into life with which the boy keeps no
proportionate pace. Miss Chaworth looked upon Byron as a mere schoolboy.
His manners, too, were not yet formed, and his great beauty was still in
its promise and not developed."
Galt is still more explicit in the same sense. Washington Irving appears
to think the contrary:--
"Was this love returned?" says he. "Byron sometimes speaks as if it had
been; at other times he says, on the contrary, that she never gave him
reason to believe so. It is, however, probable, that at the commencement
her heart experienced at least fluctuations of feeling: she was at a
dangerous age. Though a child in years, Lord Byron was already a man in
intelligence, a poet in imagination, and possessed of great beauty."
This opinion is the most probable. We may add that every thing must have
contributed to keep up his illusion. Miss Chaworth gave him her
portrait, her hair, and a ring. Mrs. Chaworth, the governess, all the
family of the young heiress liked him so much, that after his death,
when Washington Irving visited Annesley, he found proofs of this
affection in the welcome given to, and the emotion caused even by the
presence of a dog that had belonged to Lord Byron. This beautiful waking
dream lasted, however, only the space of a dream in sleep.
At the expiration of his six weeks' holidays, young Byron returned to
Harrow.
While he was cherishing the sacred flame with his purest energies of
soul, what did she? She had forgotten him! The impression made on her
heart by the schoolboy's love could not withstand the test of absence.
She gave her heart to another.
"I thought myself a man," says he; "I was in earnest, she was fickle."
It was natural, however. She had arrived at the age when girls become
women, and leave their childish loves behind them.
While young Byron was pursuing his studies, Miss Chaworth mixed in
society. She met with a young man, named Musters, remarkable for his
handsome person, and whose property lay contiguous to her own.
She had perceived him one day from her terrace, galloping toward the
park followed by his hounds, the horn sounding in front, and he leading
a fox hunt; she had been struck with his manly beauty and graceful
carriage. From that day his image seated itself in her remembrance, and
probably in her heart. It was under these favorable auspices that he
made her acquaintance in society. Soon he gained her love. And when
young Byron at the next vacation saw her again, she was already the
willing betrothed of another.
That was still, however, a secret locked up in her heart. Her parents
would not have wished this union. She had not then declared her
intentions, and Lord Byron could not of course guess them. He was still
welcomed at Annesley, and treated as heretofore. The young lady herself,
instead of repelling him, continued to accept his attentions. This
lasted until one day when Musters was bathing with Byron in a river
that ran through the park he perceived a ring which he recognized as
having belonged to Miss Chaworth. This discovery, and the scenes it gave
rise to, obliged the lady to declare her preference.
The grief this broken illusion caused Lord Byron is shown by some of his
early verses, and by the "Dream," written at Geneva, while musing how
different his fate might have been if he had married Miss Chaworth,
instead of Miss Milbank. It might be objected that sorrows, the proof of
which rests on poetry, are not very authentic, and that it is not quite
certain they really did pass through his heart. One might consider with
Galt that this childish sentiment was less a real feeling of love than
the phantom of an enthusiastic attachment, quite intellectual in its
nature, like others that possessed such power over Lord Byron, since
Miss Chaworth was not the sole object of his attention, but divided it
with study and passionate friendships. One might say, with Moore, that
the poetic description given by Lord Byron of this childish love, ought
to serve especially to show how genius and sentiment may raise the
realities of life, and give an immense lustre to the most ordinary
events and objects. In short, one might think that Lord Byron perceived
all the poetic advantages accruing from the remembrance of a youthful
passion, at once innocent, pure, and unhappy; how it would furnish him
with a magic tint to enrich his palette with an inexhaustible fund of
sweet, graceful, and pathetic fancies, with delicate, lofty, and noble
sentiments, and therefore that he resolved to shut it up in his heart,
so as to preserve its freshness amid the withering atmosphere of the
world; and in order to draw thence those exquisite images that so often
shed ineffable grace and tenderness over his poems. It may, then, be
said that, by maintaining alive in his mind scenes passed at Annesley,
which recall the chaste, unhappy loves of Romeo and Juliet, and Lucy, he
thereby satisfied an intellectual want of the poet that was quite
independent of his heart as a man.
But, nevertheless, all those who can feel the heart's beatings through
the veil of poetic language will understand that Lord Byron's verses on
Mary Chaworth owe their origin to real grief.
Could it be otherwise? The experience resulting from reflection and
comparison, which made him afterward say, that the perfections of the
girl were the creation of his imagination at fifteen, because he found
her in reality quite other than angelic;[90] that she was fickle, and
had deceived him. This experience, I say, was wanting to the child.
Thus, then, Miss Chaworth was for him at that period the beau ideal of
all his young fancy could paint as best and most charming.
At the same time, this love, notwithstanding the difference of age, was
not, on his side, the giddy result of too much ardor. It was composed of
a thousand circumstances and feelings,--of practical, wise, and generous
thoughts. A far-off prospect of happiness heightened all the noble
instincts of the boy, and all the ideas of order that belonged to his
fine moral nature.
To reunite two noble families,--to efface the stain of blood and hatred
through love,--to revive again the ancient splendor of his ancestral
halls,--all these thoughts mingled with the idea of his union with Miss
Chaworth, and made his heart beat with hope. If there were excess in
such hope,--if there were illusion,--the fault lies with the relatives
of the young lady and herself, rather than with him. Generosity was on
his side alone, because he alone had a right to feel rancor.
"She jilted me," says he in prose, and in verse we read,--
"She knew she was by him beloved,--she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched."
If, then, it was natural for a girl to prefer a young man of more
suitable age, handsome and fashionable, to a boy whose features were yet
undeveloped, and whom she treated as a child and a brother; was it quite
as natural to flatter him,--load him with caresses,--with those gifts
likely to foster illusion and hope,--pledges considered as love tokens?
Was it natural that in order to justify certain coquetries to her
affianced, she should make use of insulting expressions with regard to
young Byron? But, on the other hand, would it not have been very
natural for him, having heard them, to feel a little rancor against her?
Surely she was guilty if she had spoken in jest, and more guilty still
if she were in earnest.
And yet what was his conduct? In his poem called the "Dream," where he
sings this romance of his boyhood, he tells us how he quitted Annesley,
after having learned that Miss Chaworth was engaged to Mr. Musters:--
"He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more."
Then he jumped upon his horse, intending to gallop over the distance
separating Annesley from Newstead. But when he arrived at the last hill
overlooking Annesley, he stopped his horse, and cast a glance of mingled
sorrow and tenderness at what he left behind,--the groves, the old
house, the lovely one inhabiting there. But then the thought that she
could never be his dispelled his reverie, and putting spurs to his horse
he set off anew, as if rapid motion could drown reflection. However,
instead of the reflections he could not succeed in drowning, _he cast
away all rancor_.
When he alludes to her in his early poems it is always with tenderness
and respect.[91] He contents himself with calling her once, _deceitful
girl_, and another time, _a false fair face_.
After an interval of some years, when the boy had become a fine young
man, before setting out for the East, he accepted the proffered
hospitality of Annesley.
He never ceased to welcome Musters at Newstead, and, lest he should
disturb the peace of Mrs. Musters, he had even concealed his agitation
on kissing his rival's child. Heretofore she had only seen the boy or
youth, now she beheld the young man whose genius and personal
attractions lent to each other light and charm.
It was about this time that the bright star of Annesley began to pale.
On her brow, formerly so gay, a veil of sadness was overspread. It
seemed as if the gardens had lost their charm for her; as if the
spreading foliage of Annesley had become dark for her. What caused this
change? On seeing again the companion of her childhood, did she contrast
her now solitary walks with those of earlier days in his beautiful park,
where beside her was the youth who would fain have kissed the ground on
which she trod? The sound of that hunting horn, which anon made her
thrill with joy, when it announced the approach of her handsome
betrothed, and awakened all the illusions of love,--had it now become to
her more discordant and painful by its contrast with the harmonious
voice and sweet smile of him whom she had just seen again so changed to
his advantage?
It was during his travels in the East that Lord Byron heard of this
mysterious melancholy. Given the circumstances, such a report would not
have displeased, even if it had not pleased, vulgar, rancorous souls.
But it produced quite a contrary effect on him. The feeling of his own
worth, doubtless, must and ought to have brought certain ideas to his
mind; but they saddened his generous nature, and he experienced a desire
to drive them away by saying, "Has she not the husband of her choice,
and lovely children to caress her?"
"What could her grief be?--she had all she loved.
* * * * * * *
What could her grief be?--she had loved him not,
* * * * * * *
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind--a spectre of the past."
Lord Byron returned from his travels, and by degrees, as he rose in the
admiration of England, the melancholy observable in Mrs. Musters
deepened.
One day she felt such a longing to see again the companion of her
childhood, that she asked for an interview. Could he not desire the
meeting? But ought he to grant it? He had had the courage to meet her
again when he thought her happy, when sorrow for the past belonged to
him alone, when she appeared neither to understand nor to share it. But
would his heart be equally strong--would it not yield on seeing her
unhappy?[92] And yet, what could he then do for her happiness? With the
same generosity that induced him always to sacrifice his pleasure to the
happiness of others, he listened to his reason, his heart, and the
prudent counsels of his sister; he refrained from an interview which
could only augment the troubles of that devastated soul, soon to become
the "_queen of a fantastic kingdom_" in reason's night. But he ever
preserved a tender remembrance of Miss Chaworth, only forgetting the
wrong she had done him.[93]
Lord Byron's conduct had been no less generous toward Mr. Musters, his
triumphant rival in the affections of Miss Chaworth. Mr. Musters, though
several years older than Lord Byron, was, nevertheless, among his early
companions. The parents of this young man resided at their country-seat,
called Colwich, a few miles distant from Newstead, and Lord Byron often
accepted their hospitality. One day the two youths were bathing in the
Trent (a river which runs through the grounds of Colwich), when Mr.
Musters perceived a ring among Lord Byron's clothes, left on the bank.
To see and take possession of it was the affair of a moment. He had
recognized it as having belonged to Miss Chaworth. Lord Byron claimed
it, but Musters would not restore the ring. High words were exchanged.
On returning to the house, Musters jumped on a horse and galloped off
to ask an explanation from Miss Chaworth, who, being forced to confess
that Lord Byron wore the ring with her consent, felt obliged to make
amends to Musters by promising to declare immediately her engagement
with him. Proud of his success, he returned home and acquainted Lord
Byron with Miss Chaworth's determination. Dinner was announced. The
family sat down, and soon perceived there was something amiss between
the two friends, whose gloomy silence spoke more eloquently than words.
Before the end of dinner Lord Byron left the table, unable to endure the
provocations of his rival.
The parents of Musters, though completely ignorant of what had caused
the quarrel, were uneasy for the consequences. After dinner bitter words
were again exchanged between the two young men, and Musters used such
coarse, insolent language that Lord Byron could ill restrain his
indignation. Anger flashing from his eyes expressed itself as warmly in
words. In this frame of mind he retired to his room, and remained long
shut up there, while Musters believed he was preparing to leave Colwich
that very night. But the magnanimous youth, on reflection, understood
that at fifteen he ought not to pretend to carry off the fair prize of
seventeen from a man nine years his senior; and that it was not generous
to grieve his hosts and hurt the reputation of the lady he loved.
Accordingly, he suppressed his sorrow, his pride, his anger. Instead of
returning to Newstead, he made his appearance as usual in the
drawing-room, and to the astonishment of his rival, excused himself for
having shown anger, and thus failed in politeness to his hosts.
Candidly, and with regret, he acknowledged that the excess of his
feelings had caused the outburst. From that day forth he gave up all
pretensions to Miss Chaworth's love, and, forgiving them both with equal
magnanimity, he even continued inviting his rival to Newstead. "But,"
said he, "now my heart would hate him if he loved her not."
On declaring to Moore, in a letter written from Pisa, that he would
still forgive fresh wrongs, Lord Byron made this avowal:--"The truth is,
I can not keep up resentment, however violent may be its explosion."
At all periods of his life, he remained the young man of 1814, saying
that he could not go to rest with anger at his heart. In Greece, a few
weeks before his glorious death, he gave another proof of it by his
conduct toward Colonel Stanhope (afterward Lord Harrington). They had
persuaded Lord Byron that the colonel was very jealous of his influence,
and of the enthusiasm manifested for him. True or not, Lord Byron could
not but believe it. The colonel arrived in Greece (sent by the London
committee), for the purpose, it was said, of uniting with Lord Byron,
and acting jointly in favor of Greek independence; but in reality, it
would have seemed as if he came only to counteract what Byron wished.
Their ideas on matters of administration and on political economy, their
principles with regard to institutions and means of government, were
totally opposed. Bentham was the colonel's idol and model, while Lord
Byron particularly disliked the moral and social consequences flowing
from Bentham's doctrines. Ever straightforward and practical, Lord Byron
thought the Greeks ought to begin by gaining their independence, _and
that they had better be taught to read before they were made to buy
books, and the liberty of the press were given them_. Good and
honorable, but fond of systems, the colonel always wished to begin by
the end. Thence resulted long discussions between them, which produced
hours of ennui for Lord Byron, and many annoyances, most prejudicial to
his health, which was then very delicate. One evening, among others, the
colonel grew so excited, that he told him he believed him to be a friend
of the Turks. Lord Byron only answered: "Judge me by my actions." Both
appeared angry; the colonel got up to leave. Lord Byron, who was the
offended party, instead of bearing rancor, rose also, and, going
straight to the colonel, said: "Give me your honest hand, and
good-night." The night would not have passed tranquilly for Lord Byron
without this reconciliation.
Among numerous proofs of this generous spirit of forgiveness,--so
numerous that choice is difficult--we shall select his behavior toward a
certain Mr. Scott, who, at the time of his separation, had attacked him
in a savage, cruel manner,--not only unjustly, but even without any
provocation.
"I beg to call particular attention," says Moore, "to the extract about
to follow.
"Those who at all remember the peculiar bitterness and violence, with
which Mr. Scott had assailed Lord Byron, at a crisis when both his heart
and fame were most vulnerable, will, if I am not mistaken, feel a thrill
of pleasurable admiration, in reading these sentences, such as they were
penned by Lord Byron, for his own expressions can alone convey any
adequate notion of the proud, generous pleasure that must have been felt
in writing them:--
"'Poor Scott is no more! In the exercise of his vocation, he contrived,
at last, to make himself the subject of a coroner's inquest. But he died
like a brave man, and he lived an able one. I knew him personally,
though slightly; although several years my senior, we had been
school-fellows together, at the grammar-school of Aberdeen. He did not
behave to me quite handsomely, in his capacity of editor, a few years
ago, but he was under no obligation to behave otherwise. _The moment was
too tempting for many friends, and for all enemies._ At a time when all
my relations (save one) fell from me, like leaves from the tree in
autumn winds, and my few friends became still fewer,--when the whole
periodical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not the _literary_,
press) was let loose against me, in every shape of reproach, with the
two strange exceptions (from their usual opposition) of, "The Courier"
and "The Examiner,"--the paper of which Scott had the direction was
neither the last nor the least vituperative. Two years ago, I met him at
Venice, when he was bowed in grief, by the loss of his son, and had
known, by experience, the bitterness of domestic privation. He was then
earnest with me to return to England, and on my telling him, with a
smile, that he was once of a different opinion, he replied to me, "_that
he, and others, had been greatly misled; and that some pains, and rather
extraordinary means, had been taken to excite them_." Scott is no more,
but there are more than one living who were present at this dialogue. He
was a man of very considerable talents and of great acquirements. He had
made his way, as a literary character, with high success, and in a few
years. Poor fellow! I recollect his joy, at some appointment, which he
had obtained, or was to obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, and which
prevented the further extension (unless by a rapid run to Rome) of his
travels in Italy. I little thought to what it would conduct him. _Peace
be with him! and may all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity
be as readily forgiven him as the little injury which he had done to one
who respected his talents and regrets his loss._
BYRON.'"
Nor did his magnanimity stop here. After Scott's death, a subscription
for his widow was got up, and Lord Byron was requested to contribute ten
pounds.
"You may make my subscription for Mr. Scott's widow thirty pounds,
instead of the proposed ten," answered he; "but do not put down _my
name_. As I mentioned him in the pamphlet, it would look indelicate."
But this refined generosity was only one of the forms which Lord Byron's
kindliness took. To act thus, was a necessity for this privileged
nature, that could not endure to hate, and loved to pardon. Still, his
generosity had not yet entered on the road of great sacrifices. It had
not yet reached the highest degree of power over self. It did attain to
that, when it led him to comprise in one general pardon the so-called
friends who had abandoned him in his hour of sacrifice, and those bitter
enemies who knew no reconciliation, _when he forgave Lady Byron_. Then
his generosity merited the name of virtue.
Pusillanimity, which binds with an invisible chain the hearts and
tongues of vulgar souls, in unreal exacting society, had carried away
some; jealousy of his superiority had rendered others ferocious; and an
absolute moral monstrosity--an anomaly in the history of types of female
hideousness--had succeeded in showing itself in the light of
magnanimity. But false as was this high quality in Lady Byron, so did it
shine out in him true and admirable. The position in which Lady Byron
had placed him, and where she continued to keep him by her harshness,
silence, and strange refusals, was one of those which cause such
suffering, that the highest degree of self-control seldom suffices to
quiet the promptings of human weakness, and to cause persons of even
slight sensibility to preserve moderation. Yet, with his sensibility and
the knowledge of his worth, how did he act?--what did he say? I will not
speak of his "Farewell," of the care he took to shield her from blame by
throwing it on others, by taking much too large a share to himself,
when in reality his sole fault lay in having married her; because it
might be objected that, when he acted thus, he had _not given up the
wish of reunion_.
But at Venice, and more especially at Ravenna and Pisa, this project
certainly had ceased to exist; the measure of insult was filled up to
overflowing. And yet, in one of those days of exasperation which letters
from London never failed to produce, and precisely when he was writing
pages on Lady Byron that could scarcely be complimentary, he learned
that she had been taken ill. His anger and his pen both fell
simultaneously, and he hastened to throw into the fire what he had
written. Another time he was told that Lady Byron lived in constant
dread of having Ada forcibly taken from her.
"Yes," he replied, "I might claim her in Chancery, without having
recourse to any other means; but I would rather be unhappy myself than
make Lady Byron so."
And he said this, well knowing how his name was kept from his daughter,
like a forbidden thing; and that his picture was hidden from her sight
by a curtain.
One day at Rome, while he was walking amid the ruins of the Forum,
treading upon those mighty relics that, to him, breathed language and
well-nigh sentiments, that seemed like some magic temple of the past,
Lord Byron traced back, in thought, his own career. The meannesses of
which he had been, and still was, the victim rose up to view. He allowed
his thoughts to wander amid the saddest memories. All the wounds of his
still bleeding heart opened afresh. The serenity of the starry sky, the
silence of that solemn hour, the ideas of order, peace, and justice,
which such a scene ever awakens, contrasted strangely with the material
devastation around worked by time. The natural effect of a grand
spectacle like this, is to render sadder still those moral ruins
accumulated within by the wickedness of man.
Then did his past, so recent still, rise up before him in all its
bitterness. And, taking earth and heaven to witness, he exclaimed:--
"Have I not had to wrestle with my lot?
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven?
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven,
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away?
And only not to desperation driven,
Because not altogether of such clay
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.
"From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy,
Have I not seen what human things could do?
From the loud roar of foaming calumny
To the small whisper of the as paltry few,
And subtler venom of the reptile crew,
The Janus glance of whose significant eye,
_Learning to lie with silence, would_ SEEM _true,
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh,
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy_."
His spirit stirred with excitement, he invoked the aid of the divinity
whose shrine these Roman remains appeared to be:--
"O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled;
Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
The test of truth, love--sole philosopher,
For all beside are sophists--from thy thrift,
Which never loses though it doth defer--
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift."
And what was this gift? Was it vengeance? No! It was the _repentance_ of
those who had done and were still doing him wrong; that was the prayer
he sent up to heaven, so as not to have worn in vain this iron in his
soul, and so that, when his earthly life should cease, his spirit,--
"_Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre,
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move,
In hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love._"[94]
Arrived before the temple of Nemesis,--that dread divinity who has never
left unpunished human injustice,--Lord Byron evokes her thus:--
"Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must."
He feels that the guilty will not escape the vengeance of the goddess,
since it is _inevitable_; but, as to him, he will not wreak it. Nemesis
shall watch; he will sleep. _He reserves to himself, however, one
revenge. Which? Ever the same:--Forgiveness!_
"That curse shall be forgiveness."[95]
Now, we have seen that his generosity did not recoil from any sacrifice
of fortune, repose, affection; we have seen it strong against all
privations, all instincts, all interests; in short, we have looked at it
under all the aspects that constitute great beauty of soul. There
remains only one degree more for him to attain--heroism. But the
constant exercise of generosity of soul, in inferior degrees, will give
him power to reach that sublime height, and, summing up all in one,
arrive at _the crowning sacrifice of his life_.
Already more than once, in Italy, and especially in Romagna, when that
peninsula was preparing a grand struggle for independence, Lord Byron
had shown himself ready to make any sacrifice, to aid in throwing off
Austrian chains. But, owing to subsequent events, his extreme
devotedness could not then go beyond the offer made. Two years later it
was accepted; an enslaved nation, eager for redemption, asked Lord
Byron's assistance toward regaining its liberty. In this sacrifice on
his part, no single feature of greatness is wanting. Lord Byron would
have been great, had he sacrificed himself for his country; but how much
greater was he in sacrificing himself for a foreign nation, for the
general cause of humanity? He would still have remained great, had he
been led into this noble sacrifice by his own enthusiasm, by his
illusions, by personal hopes. But no illusion, no enthusiasm, impelled
him toward Greece; naught save the satisfaction caused in a noble mind
by the performance of a great action. He did not even hope to escape
ingratitude or to silence calumny; for, although so young, he had
already acquired the experience of mature years. He knew Greece, and was
well aware what he should find there, in exchange for his repose and for
all dear to him in this world. We know what sadness overwhelmed his soul
during the last period of his sojourn at Genoa. The struggles he had
with his own heart may be imagined, when we reflect, that despite his
self-control, he was more than once surprised with tears in his eyes.
When hardly out of port from Genoa, a tempest cast him back. He landed,
and resolved on visiting the abode he had left with such anguish the day
before. While climbing the hill of Albano, the darkest presentiments
took possession of his soul. "Where shall we be this day next year?"
said he to Count Gamba, who was walking by his side. Alas! we know that
precisely that day next year, his mortal remains were carried through
the streets of London, on their way to repose with his ancestors, near
Newstead. His sorrow only increased on arriving at the palace. His
friends were gone; all within that dwelling was silent, deserted,
solitary. He asked to be left alone; and then shut himself up in his
apartments, remaining there for several hours. What was his occupation?
What were his thoughts? Through what strange agony did he pass? Who
shall tell us (since he concealed it), of that last struggle between the
Man and the Hero?
The sadnesses of great souls are _unspeakable_, almost _superhuman_.
They are beyond the scales where we would weigh them. But we know that
he understood and tasted the bitterness of this chalice,[96] without
drawing back, without failing to drain it to the last.
Night came, and behold him once more on board the vessel. The tempest
roared again, then ceased; but the storm within his soul did not cease.
Only when a tear sometimes threatened betrayal, did he hasten to the
privacy of his cabin.
We will not give here the narrative of this voyage. These pages, we
again repeat, are not a biography, but the picture of a soul.
On arriving at the Ionian Islands, he soon understood that his
sacrifice, though not beyond what circumstances demanded, certainly far
transcended any hope that could exist of regenerating this fallen race,
and constituting a nation worthy to bear the glorious name of Greece.
But it mattered not: he had given his word, and he was resolved to
remain in the country. He even quitted the asylum afforded by the Ionian
Islands, and determined to encounter all dangers, the better to
accomplish his mission.
Then he went to Missolonghi. The privations he underwent there, the
moral and physical fatigue, the effluvia from the adjoining marshes, and
the mode of life he was forced to lead, all combined to affect his
naturally good health. He was entreated to leave this unhealthy place,
and told that his life depended on it. He felt it and knew it. Already
he perceived the spectre of the future, and, at the same time, the image
of his beloved Italy floated before his eyes,--all that he had left, and
would still find there; he represented to himself the existence he might
lead there, quiet and happy, surrounded with love and respect. Still so
young, handsome, rich, and almost adored, for whom could life have more
value? But, if he left, what would become of Greece? His presence was
worth an army to that unhappy country. So, then, he would not desert his
post; _he resolved to remain, come what might_. "_No, Tita; no, we will
not return to Italy_," said he sadly to his faithful Venetian follower a
few days before he fell ill. _He did remain, and he died._
By this action, in which he overcame himself, Lord Byron gave one of
those rare examples of self-immolation, of virtue, and heroism, which,
says a noble mind of our day,[97] "afford real consolation to the soul,
and reflect the greatest honor on the human race."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 89:
"Their praise is hymn'd by loftier hearts than mine,
Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
Partly because they blend me with his line,
And partly that I did his sire some wrong."]
[Footnote 90: See Medwin.]
[Footnote 91:
"In the shade of her bower, I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere;
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear."
"_The Tear_" (October, 1806).]
[Footnote 92: She had been obliged to separate from her husband, who
returned her sacrifices by bad and even brutal treatment.]
[Footnote 93:
"Oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy."]
[Footnote 94: "Childe Harold," canto iv.]
[Footnote 95: Ibid.]
[Footnote 96: See his "Life in Italy."]
[Footnote 97: M. Janet.]