THE VANITY OF LORD BYRON.
But it is incomprehensible that any one should have been found to accuse
Lord Byron of vanity. For is not the vain man one who lies in order to
appear better and more highly gifted than he really is; who knows full
well that the good opinion he so ardently seeks is not what he deserves;
who endeavors by every means to attract the attention of others; who
flatters in order to be flattered; whose willingness to oblige, whose
care and kindness, all flow from interested motives; whose whole
character savors of ostentation and show; and who despises humble
friends, in order to run after brilliant society and wear borrowed
plumes? All these signs indicate vanity. Can a single one be found in
Byron's character?
Surely our readers will not have forgotten that, for fear of making
himself out better, he always wished to appear worse than he was; that
he exaggerated the weaknesses common to most of us, and which every body
else hides, magnifying them into serious faults; that he never flattered
others, nor wished to be flattered himself; that he concealed the
services he rendered, the good he did; and kept aloof from those in
power so as to give himself more to true friendship.
We know besides that his love of _meriting_, rather than _obtaining_,
admiration, went so far as to make undeserved praise quite offensive to
him. If eulogiums did not seem to him duly bestowed, his soul, athirst
for justice and truth, repelled them indignantly. Blame, or harsh
criticism, annoyed him far less than unmerited praise or suffrages
obtained through favor or intrigue. At the moment he was about to
publish his first poem, "Childe Harold," which might naturally be
expected to prove the making of his literary reputation, Dallas having
given him some advice with a view to gaining popularity, Lord Byron
answered:--
"My work must make its way as well as it can; I know I have every thing
against me, angry poets and prejudices; but if the poem is a _poem_, it
will surmount these obstacles, and if _not_, it deserves its fate."
And then, when he discovered that his publisher had been taking steps to
obtain the approbation of Gifford, the great critic, he wrote
indignantly to Dallas, calling this proceeding of Murray's _a paltry
transaction_.
"The more I think, the more it vexes me," said he. "It is bad enough to
be a scribbler, without having recourse to such shifts to extort praise
or deprecate censure, ... and all without my wish, and contrary to my
express desire....[131]
"I am angry with Murray: it was a bookselling, back-shop, paltry
proceeding.... I have written to him as he never was written to before
by an author, I'll be sworn."
Why, then, accuse a man of vanity when he never complained of criticism
and never solicited praise? Was it on account of some of his tastes,
particularly the importance he attached to his superiority in boyish
games, in bodily exercises, on those which showed dexterity in swimming,
fencing, shooting? But all these tastes were as manly as they were
innocent. The really trifling tastes common to the youth of his rank and
country Lord Byron did not share.
It has also been said that he attached far too much importance to his
noble birth. _Much_, perhaps; _too much_, by no means. His ancestors
were all illustrious. They were illustrious for their military exploits,
and were already nobles in France when they shared the dangers and
successes of William the Conqueror; they had followed their kings to
Palestine; seven brothers bearing the name of Byron had fought on the
same battle-field, and four fell there in defense of their true
sovereign and their new country. By his mother he was descended from the
kings of Scotland. "Nothing is nobler," says a moralist of our day,
"than to add lustre to a great name by our own deeds."
Many of his early compositions testify to the desire he felt of
increasing the fame that belonged to his family. For instance, in the
poem written at fourteen, and which is entitled "Verses composed on
leaving Newstead Abbey," after having sung the valor of his ancestors
displayed on the plains of Palestine, in the valley of Crecy, and at
Marston, where four brothers moistened the field with their blood, he
exclaims:--
"Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
* * * * * * *
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.
"That fame and that memory still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish." 1803.
The same sentiments appear in other poems, and particularly in the
"Elegy on Newstead," written at sixteen. His wish of adding fresh lustre
to the family name was all the stronger because the last lord, his great
uncle, had somewhat blemished it by his eccentric conduct.
But there is a vast difference between this just feeling of pride and
the vanity that leads to exultation in mere titles of nobility, which
often owe their origin to the favor of princes. Besides, although Lord
Byron was aristocratic by birth, and in his every instinct and taste, he
was nevertheless truly liberal on principle and through virtue, in
politics as well as in private life; for he always admitted into his
affections those who possessed fitting qualities of head and soul,
without any consideration of their birth.
After having studied Lord Byron's character under the headings of pride
and vanity, we must now examine him with regard to ambition: a third
form of self-love, which, though separated from the other two by
scarcely perceptible shades, and even being often confounded with them,
so as to appear one and the same feeling, does not, however, less retain
its permanent and distinguishing traits.
Was Lord Byron ambitious?
"Ambitious men must be divided into three classes," says Bacon; "some
seek only to raise themselves, forming a common and despicable species;
others, with like intent, make the elevation of country enter into the
means they employ; this is a nobler ambition, one more refined, and
perhaps more violent; lastly, others embrace the happiness and glory of
all men in the immensity of their projects.... Ambition is, then,
sometimes a vice, and sometimes a virtue."
That Lord Byron's ambition did not range him among either of the two
first classes was abundantly proved by the actions of his whole life;
and as to his writings, letters, or poetic works, we should vainly seek
a single word in them that could be attributed to any low ambition.
An ambitious man has generally been an ambitious child. Now, according
to unanimous and competent testimony, Lord Byron was not an ambitious
child. The usual emulation founded on ambition had no effect on his
progress. All his advancement proceeded from heart and imagination. It
was his heart, as we have seen, that made him take his pen in hand, that
dictated his first verses; and he was likewise actuated by the need and
the pleasure of trying and exercising the strength of his intellectual
faculties, of keeping up the sacred fire that warmed his breast, and
appeasing his ardent thirst after truth. We have given too many proofs
of all this to require to insist upon it any further.
We have also seen that it was disagreeable to him to be admired and
praised without having merited it. He felt the same repugnance to
seeking for popularity. When "Childe Harold" appeared, Dallas advised
him to alter some passages, because, he said, certain metaphysical ideas
expressed in the poem might do him harm in public opinion, and that, at
twenty-three years of age, it was well to court in an honorable way the
suffrages of his countrymen, and to abstain from wounding their
feelings, opinions, and even their prejudices.[132] Lord Byron
replied:--
"I feel that you are right, but I also feel that I am sincere, and that
if I am only to write _ad captandum vulgus_, I might as well edit a
magazine at once, or concoct songs for Vauxhall."[133]
And yet when he wrote thus to Dallas he had not arrived at any
popularity.
Soon, however, it came to him unsought; but he did not appreciate it
nor flatter it to stay, as an ambitious man would not have failed to do.
On the contrary, his noble independence of character and incapacity for
flattering the multitude gained strength every day. Proofs of the same
abound at every period of his life.
"If I valued fame," he said in his memoranda, 1813, "I should flatter
received opinions, which have gathered strength by time, and which will
last longer than any living works that are opposed to them. But, for the
soul of me, I can not and will not give the lie to my own thoughts and
doubts, come what may. If I am a fool, I am, at least, a doubting one;
and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom."
And then, at the same time, he wrote:--
"If I had any views in this country they would probably be
parliamentary. But I have no ambition; at least, if any, it would be
'_aut Caesar aut nihil_.' My hopes are limited to the arrangement of my
affairs, and settling either in Italy or in the East (rather the last),
and drinking deep of the language and literature of both."
The catastrophe that overtook Napoleon, his hero, and the success of
fools, quite overcame him at this time:--
"Past events have unnerved me, and all I can now do is to make life an
amusement and look on while others play. After all, even the highest
game of crosses and sceptres, what is it? _Vide_ Napoleon's last
twelvemonth," etc., etc.
The following year (1814), when political feeling ran so high against
him as to threaten his popularity on account of the lines addressed to
the Princess Charlotte, which had offended the regent, who had just gone
over from the Whigs to the Tories, Byron wrote to Rogers:--
"All the sayings and doings in the world shall not make me utter one
word of conciliation to any thing that breathes. I shall bear what I
can, and what I can not I shall resist. The worst they could do would be
to exclude me from society. I have never courted it, nor, I may add, in
the general sense of the word, enjoyed it--and 'there is a world
elsewhere.'"
When once he had quitted England his indifference to popularity and its
results further increased. He wrote from Venice to Murray:--
"I never see a newspaper, and know nothing of England, except in a
letter now and then from my sister" (1816).
But that did not at all suit his publisher, who set about sending him
reviews, criticisms, and keeping him up to all that was going on in the
literary and political world, thinking thus to stimulate and keep alive
the passions that kindle genius. Then it was that Lord Byron,
considering this intellectual regime unwholesome for mind and heart,
signified to Murray that their correspondence could not continue unless
he consented to _six_ indispensable conditions. We regret not being able
to give the whole of this beautiful letter, circumscribed as we are by
certain necessary limits. Thus we shall only quote what more
particularly relates to our subject:[134]--
"I have been thinking over our late correspondence, and wish to propose
to you the following articles for our future:--
"1st. That you shall write to me of yourself, of the health, wealth, and
welfare of all friends; but of _me (quoad me) little or nothing_.
"2dly....
"3dly....
"4thly. That you send me no periodical works whatsoever, no 'Edinburgh,'
'Quarterly,' 'Monthly,' or any review, magazine, or newspaper, English
or foreign, of any description.
"5thly. That you send me no opinion whatsoever, either _good_, _bad_, or
_indifferent_, of yourself, or your friends, or others, concerning any
work of mine, past, present, or to come.
"6thly.... If any thing occurs so violently gross or personal as
requires notice, Mr. Kinnaird will let me know; but of praise I desire
to hear nothing.
"You will say, 'To what tends all this?' I will answer--to keep my mind
free, and unbiased by all paltry and personal irritabilities of praise
or censure; to let my genius take its natural direction. All these
reviews, with their praise or their criticism, have bored me to death,
and taken off my attention from greater objects."
Byron wished, he said, to place himself in the position of a dead man,
knowing nothing and feeling nothing of what is done and said about
him.[135] At the same time he gave the greatest proof of the reality of
the sentiments expressed in this letter by continuing to stay at
Ravenna, where people were ignorant of his language, his genius, and his
reputation, and where consequently he could only be remarked and
appreciated for his external gifts and his deeds of benevolence. When he
went from Ravenna to Pisa, Murray, who had not been discouraged by the
six conditions, and who was really attached to Lord Byron more as a
friend even than as a publisher, became alarmed at the angry feeling
stirred up by "Cain," the "Vision of Judgment," "Don Juan," etc., and
feared seeing him lose his popularity. So he wrote begging him to
compose something in his first style, which had excited such general
enthusiasm. But Lord Byron answered:--
"As to 'a poem in the old way,' I shall attempt of that kind nothing
further. I follow the bias of my own mind, without considering whether
women or men are or are not to be pleased."
His whole conduct in Greece was one long act of abnegation, of
disinterested and sublime self-devotion. Let people read Parry, Gamba,
even Stanhope.[136] He sacrificed for Greece all his revenue, his time,
pleasures, comforts, even life itself, if necessary, and at the age of
thirty-five; and then, after success, he refused every honor, satisfied
with having deserved them.
"My intentions with regard to Greece," said he to Parry, at Missolonghi,
"may be explained in a few words. I will remain here until Greece either
throws off the Turkish yoke, or again sinks beneath it. All my revenue
shall be spent in her service. All that can be done with my resources,
and personally, I will do with my whole heart. But as soon as Greece is
delivered from her external enemies, I will leave without taking any
part in the interior organization of the government. I will go to the
United States of America, and there, if requisite and they like it, be
the agent for Greece, and endeavor to get that free and enlightened
government to recognize the Greek federation as an independent State.
England would follow her example, and then the destiny of Greece would
be assured. She would take the place that belongs to her as a member of
Christendom in Europe."
One day, at Missolonghi, a Prussian officer came to complain to Lord
Byron, saying, that his _rank_ would not allow him to remain under
command of Mr. Parry, who was his inferior both in a civil and military
capacity, and consequently that he was going to retire. After having
done all he could to bring the German to more reasonable sentiments,
after having even joked him on his quarterings of nobility, and the
folly of wishing to introduce such prejudices into a country like
Greece, Lord Byron did not scruple adding:--
"As to me, I should be quite willing to serve as a simple soldier, in
any corps, if that were considered useful to the cause."
But if Lord Byron's absence of ambition under the two first categories,
as established by Bacon, is well proved; the same can not be said with
regard to the third. To deny it would be not only contrary to truth, but
especially would it be contrary to all justice; for the third order of
ambition ceases to be a fault; it is the love of glory, and, according
to Bacon, that is a virtue. At least it is a quality pertaining to noble
minds; and could it, then, be wanting in Lord Byron? He had always had a
presentiment that glory would not fail him. But he was not satisfied
with obtaining it, his special wish was to _deserve_ it with just and
undeniable right. While yet a child in his fourteenth year, he wrote, in
A FRAGMENT.
"When to their airy hall my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit
* * * * * * *
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:
If _that_ with honor fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
_That_, only _that_, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot."
Another time, replying in verse to a poetic composition of one of his
comrades which spoke of _the common lot of mortals as lying in Lethe's
wave_, Lord Byron, after some charming couplets, ends thus:--
"What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd
By those whose virtues claim reward.
"Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;
Some few, who ne'er will be forgot,
Shall burst the bondage of the grave."
Several other compositions belonging to the same period prove that this
child, who was so unambitious, and devoid of the usual sort of
emulation, did, however, desire to excel in great and virtuous things.
In his adieu to the seat of his ancestors, he says, that,--
"Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.
That fame, and that memory still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish."
And when the Rev. Mr. Beecher, his friend and guide during the college
vacation passed at Southwell, reproached him with not going enough into
the world, young Byron answered, that retirement suited him better, but
that when his boyhood and years of trial should be over, if the senate
or the camp claimed his presence, he should endeavor to render himself
worthy of his birth:--
"Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise;
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I could wish to expire in the blaze."
But the fame to which he aspired was not literary fame. Garlands weaved
on Mount Parnassus had no perfume for him, and to seek after them would
have appeared in his eyes a frivolous, unmeaning pastime. This severe
and unjust judgment, this sort of antipathy, could they have been a
presentiment of the dangers with which the glory obtained by literary
fame threatened his repose? However that may be, it is certain that he
endured rather than sought after it; and we may be equally sure that
the glory to which his soul aspired was such as could be reaped in the
senate, the camp, or amid the difficulties of an active, virtuous life.
At sixteen he wrote:--
"For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath;
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave." 1806.
We find the following in his examination of conscience, written when he
was given up to fashionable London life, and in the heyday of his poetic
fame:--
"To be the first man--not the dictator, not the Sylla, but the
Washington or the Aristides--the leader in talent and _truth_--is next
to the Divinity!" (1813.)
These lines show that he did not feel himself in the position he could
have wished to occupy, and that he would fain have achieved other
success.
But the destiny that was evidently contrary to his tastes, and which
through a thousand circumstances carried him away both from a military
and a parliamentary career, to keep him almost perforce in the high
walks of literature, was this destiny in accordance at least with his
nature? Lord Byron's brilliant debut in the senate, and his whole
conduct in Greece when that country was one great military camp, prove
certainly that he might have reaped full harvest in other fields, if
fate had so allowed. But nevertheless when we see how prodigious were
his achievements, concentrated within the domain of poetry; when we see
that, despite himself, despite the resolution he occasionally took of
writing no more, that yet, tortured by the energy of his genius, there
was no remedy for him but to seize his pen; that he wrote sometimes
under the influence of fever; that sleep did not still his imagination,
nor travelling interrupt his works; that sorrow did not damp his ardor,
nor amusement and pleasure weaken his wondrous energy. When we think
that he united to this formidable vigor of genius such a luxuriant
poetic vein; that his poems, unrivalled for depth of thought,
conciseness, and magic beauty of style, were composed with all the ease
of ordinary prose; that he could write them while conversing, interrupt
his thread of ideas, and take it up again without difficulty, carry on
his theme without previous preparation, not stay his pen except to turn
the leaf, not change a single word in whole pages, generally only
correcting when the proof-sheets came. When we know that a poem like the
"Bride of Abydos" was written in four nights of a London season, the
"Corsair" in ten days, "Lara" in three weeks, his fourth Canto of
"Childe Harold" in twenty days, the "Lament of Tasso" in the space of
time requisite for going from Ferrara to Florence; the "Prisoner of
Chillon" by way of pastime during the day bad weather forced him to
spend at a hotel on the borders of the Lake of Geneva; when we know that
he wrote the "Siege of Corinth" and "Parisina" amid the torments caused
by his separation, and when besieged with creditors; that at Ravenna, in
the space of one year, while torn by many sorrows, and annoyed by
conspiracies, though he generously aided the conspirators, he yet found
leisure to write "Marino Faliero," the "Foscari," "Sardanapalus,"
"Cain," the "Vision of Judgment," and many other things; that the fifth
act of "Sardanapalus" was the work of forty-eight hours, and the fifth
act of "Werner" of one night; that during another year passed between
Pisa and Genoa, in the midst of annoyances, sorrows, perpetual changes,
he wrote ten cantos of "Don Juan," his admirable mystery of "Heaven and
Earth," his delightful poem of the "Island," the "Age of Bronze," etc.
When we see all that, it must be acknowledged that if Lord Byron, in
devoting himself to poetry, took a false step for his own happiness, it
did not mar the manifestation of his genius. But if the world had cause
to applaud, he did not share this sentiment. It might almost be said
that he always wrote unwillingly; and certainly it may be added that
fame never inspired him with vanity. That noble desire might, doubtless,
have made his heart beat for a while, but it yielded to his
philosophical spirit. If at twenty-six, being repelled from public
business by the political bias of the day, and from a military career by
other circumstances, he could write in his memoranda "I am not
ambitious," how much more disposed did he feel to renounce every kind of
ambition two years later, when he was leaving England, full of disgust,
and having sounded all the depths of the human soul.
"The wise man is cured of ambition by ambition itself," says La
Bruyere; "he tends toward such great things that he can not confine
himself to what are called treasures, high posts, fortune, and favor. He
sees nothing in such poor advantages _good_ or _solid_ enough to fill
_his heart_, to deserve his cares and desires; and it even requires
strong efforts for him not to disdain them too much. The only good
capable of tempting him is that sort of fame which ought to be the meed
of pure, simple virtue; but men are not wont to give it, and he is fain
to go without it."
The only advantage Lord Byron wished to derive from his reputation was
to render it subservient to his heart--the true focus of his noble
existence. Even in the first days of youth, when his pulses beat
strongly for glory, it is evident that he would make it tributary to
heart--a means rather than an end. But this became more and more
conspicuous when he had really attained to fame. In Italy especially he
had become quite indifferent to the pompous praise accorded by reviews,
while a single word emanating from the heart made an impression on him,
ofttimes causing tears to start. He wrote to Moore from Ravenna, in
1821:--
"I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in England (I never saw
her), who says she is given over of a decline, but could not go out of
the world without thanking me for the delight which my poesy for several
years, etc., etc., etc. It is signed simply N.N.A., and has not a word
of 'cant' or preachment in it upon my opinions. She merely says that she
is dying, and that, as I had contributed so highly to the pleasure of
her existence, she thought that she might say so, begging me to _burn_
her _letter_--which, by the way, I can _not_ do, as I look upon such a
letter in such circumstances as better than a diploma from Gottingen.
"I once had a letter from Drontheim, in Norway (but not from a dying
woman), in verse, on the same score of gratulation. These are the things
which make one at times believe one's self a poet."[137]
And in "Detached Thoughts," which he wrote at Ravenna, we find:--
"A young American, named Coolidge, called on me not many months ago. He
was intelligent, very handsome, and not more than twenty years old,
according to appearance; a little romantic--but that sits well upon
youth--and mighty fond of poesy, as may be suspected from his
approaching me in my cavern. He brought me a message from an old servant
of my family (Joe Murray), and told me that he (Mr. Coolidge) had
obtained a copy of my bust from Thorwaldsen at Rome, to send to America.
I confess I was more flattered by this young enthusiasm of a solitary
trans-Atlantic traveller, than if they had decreed me a statue in the
Paris Pantheon (I have seen emperors and demagogues cast down from their
pedestals even in my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the street
called after him in Dublin); I say that I was more flattered by it,
because it was _simple, unpolitical, and was without motive or
ostentation_, the pure and warm feeling of a boy for the poet he
admired."
The lines written on the road between Ravenna and Pisa, scarcely two
years before his death, beginning with--
"Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story,"
would alone suffice to prove that his love of fame had both its source
and its sole gratification in his heart. These charming verses end
thus:--
III.
"Oh FAME!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
IV.
"_There_ chiefly I sought thee, _there_ only I found thee:
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee:
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory."
Some days before setting out for Genoa, while walking in the garden with
Countess G----, he went into a retrospective view of his mode of life in
England. She, on hearing how he passed his time in London, perceiving
what an animated existence it was, so full of variety and occupation,
showed some fears lest his stay in Italy, leading such a peaceful,
retired, concentrated sort of life, away from the political arena
presented by his own country, might entail too great a sacrifice
offered on the altar of affection. "Oh no," said he, "I regret nothing
belonging to that great world, where all is artificial, where one can
not live to one's self, where one is obliged to be too much occupied
with what others think, and too little with what we ought to think
ourselves. What should I have done there? Made some opposition speeches
in the House of Lords, that would not have produced any good, since the
prevailing policy is not mine. Been obliged to frequent, without
pleasure or profit, society that suits me not. Have had more trouble in
keeping and expressing my independent opinions. I should not have met
you.... Ah, well! I am much better pleased to know you. What is there in
the world worth a true affection? Nothing. And if I had to begin over
again, I would still do what I have done." When Lord Byron thus unfolded
the treasures concealed in his heart, his countenance spoke quite as
much as his words.
It was at this same period that he wrote in his drama of "Werner:"--
"Glory's pillow is but restless,
If love lay not down his cheek there."
And now to sum up, let us say that, after having considered Lord Byron
not only in his actions, and their most apparent motives; not only in
the exercise of all his faculties, and in his sentiments sincerely
expressed, but that, having likewise confronted him with all the forms
of self-love, it is impossible for us to see aught else in him but that
legitimate pride belonging to great souls, and the noble passion for
glory--sentiments united in him with the peculiar feature of being under
control of his affections. Thus, then, when the day came that he was
called upon to sacrifice his affections, not only in the name of
humanity, but also in the name of his love for glory, which was already
a virtue, since he only desired and sought it to become a benefactor of
mankind; then, by this new sacrifice, and by that even of life, his
noble passion for glory attained to the height of a sublime virtue.
Although our impartial examination of Lord Byron's faults end really in
demonstrating their absence, let us beware nevertheless of raising him
above humanity by asserting that he had none. La Bruyere thus sums up
his portrait of the great Conde:--"_A man who was true, simple, and
magnanimous, and in whom only the smallest virtues were wanting._" This
fine sentence may partly apply to Lord Byron also. Only, to be just, we
must substitute the singular for the plural. And instead of declaring
that the lesser virtues were wanting in him, we must say _one_ of the
smaller virtues. In truth, he had not that prudence which proposes for
our supreme end the preservation of our prosperity, fortune, popularity,
tranquillity, health--in a word, of all our goods--and which constitutes
Epicurean wisdom. But this virtue is really so mixed up with personality
and egotism, that one may hesitate ere granting it the rank of a virtue;
and we ought not to be astonished if it were wanting in Lord Byron, for
it can with difficulty be found united to great sensibility of heart and
great generosity of character. Nevertheless, had he possessed it, his
life might have been much happier. Had he possessed it, instead of
devoting his revenue and all his literary gains to friends, disappointed
authors, and unfortunates of all kinds, he would have kept them for
himself; and thus he might have been able to brave almost all the storms
of his sad year of married life, when his annoyances were greatly
increased by the embarrassed state of his affairs. Had he possessed this
prudence, he would not in his boyish satire have attacked so many
powerful persons, nor, at a later period, would he have made to himself
idols of truth and justice. He would have spared the powers that be, and
respected national prejudices, in order not to draw down on his own head
so much rancor and calumny; he would not have given a hold to slander,
nor suffered himself to be insulted by being identified with the heroes
of his poems; he would not have compromised his fine health by an
anchorite's regimen; he would not have depreciated himself; he would
have extended to himself the indulgence with which he knew so well how
to cloak the faults of others, and instead of confiding to indiscreet
companions, as subjects for curiosity and study, adventures somewhat
strange, and the usual routine of juvenile follies, he would have
profited by the system so current in our day of satisfying inclinations
silently and covertly; lastly, and above all, he would not have married
Miss Milbank.
All these reproaches are well founded. But if we may say with reason
that he wanted prudence for his own interests, we ought at the same time
to _add that he never wanted it for the interests of others_. Did we not
see him, even in earliest youth, burn writings, or abstain from writing,
through excess of delicacy and fear of wounding his neighbors?
"I have burned my novel and my comedy," said he in 1813. "After all, I
see that the pleasure of burning one's self is as great as that of
printing. These two works ought not to have been published. I fell too
much into realities; some persons would have been _recognized_, and
others _suspected_."
When he sent Murray his stanzas to the Po, he forbade him to print it,
because it gave intimate details.
His greatest fear at Pisa and Genoa was lest the newspapers should have
spoken of his feelings for the Countess G----.
But without seeking other examples, it suffices to glance at his conduct
in Greece, where his prudence formed matter of astonishment to every
body. Monsieur Tricoupi, the best historian of the war of Greek
independence, has rendered him the most complete justice on this head.
Let us then sum up by saying that, contrary to what is found in most,
even virtuous men, Lord Byron possessed great and sublime virtues in the
highest degree, and the lesser ones only in a secondary degree. As to
his faults, it is evident they all sprang from his excellent qualities.
Endowed with all kinds of genius, except the one of calculating his
personal interest, he failed in different ways to discharge his duty
toward himself; and though he only harmed himself by his want of
prudence, yet was he cruelly punished for it by sorrows, regrets, and
even by a fatally premature death.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 131: Letter 68, to Dallas, 17th September, 1811.]
[Footnote 132: Dallas, Letter 45.]
[Footnote 133: Lord Byron to Dallas, Letter 66; Moore, vol. ii.]
[Footnote 134: See Moore, Letter 456.]
[Footnote 135: See Moore, Letter 456 (Ravenna, 24th September, 1821).]
[Footnote 136: See his "Life in Italy."]
[Footnote 137: Letter 436, Moore.]