CHAPTER XXV.

LOVE OF TRUTH; OR, CONSCIENCE A CHIEF CHARACTERISTIC OF LORD BYRON.

Some of Lord Byron's biographers, unable to overcome the difficulty of

defining so complete a character, or of explaining, by ordinary rules,

certain contradictions apparent in his rich nature, think to excuse

their own inefficiency and elude the difficulty, by saying that he did

not possess one of those striking points, or decided inclinations, that

constitute a man's moral physiognomy. They pretend that his qualities of

heart and mind, his passions, inclinations, virtues, faults, are so

combined in his ardent, mobile nature, as to make him in reality the

sport of chance; and that no inclination or passion whatsoever could

ever become mistress of his heart or mind, so as to constitute the basis

of a character, and render it possible to define it.

Moore himself, for reasons I have mentioned,[195] and which have been

sufficiently spoken of in another chapter, contents himself with saying

that Lord Byron's intellectual and moral attributes were so dazzling,

contradictory, complicated, and varied, beyond all example, that it may

be truly said there was not one man, but several men, in him:--

"So various, indeed, and contradictory, were his attributes, both moral

and intellectual, that he may be pronounced to have been, not one, but

many; nor would it be any great exaggeration of the truth to say that,

out of the mere partition of the properties of his single mind, a

plurality of characters, all different and all vigorous, might have been

furnished. It was this multiform aspect exhibited by him that led the

world, during his short, wondrous career, to compare him with that

medley host of personages, almost all differing from each other, which

he playfully enumerates in one of his journals."

These observations of Moore's are only true from a certain point of

view--the richness of Lord Byron's nature. But even if this exuberance

of faculties, united in one individual, had not been already in itself a

character, and had not constituted a well-marked distinct personality,

almost unique in kind, Moore would have been at variance with the most

profound moralists, who agree that human nature never has the simplicity

of a geometrical figure, and that, in reality, characters always are

mixed, complicated, composed of opposite elements of incompatible

inclinations and passions. For Moore appears to think that men are

almost always swayed by one chief passion, round which, as round a

pivot, life unrolls itself, just as we see in theatrical pieces. But

even if this system were correct, intimate, as he was with Lord Byron,

and so full of perspicacity, could he not have found, towering above the

rich profusion of qualities in his friend, one dominant passion? Yes, he

ought to have discovered it; but there was a _struggle_ in Moore between

the love of justice and his friendship for Lord Byron on one side, _and

the desire, alas! of keeping fair with a host of prejudices_ arrayed

against Lord Byron on the other; and on the favor of these persons Moore

felt that his own position, or rather his pleasure in society, depended.

The master-passion that occupied so great a place in Lord Byron's mind

was his _love of truth, with all the qualities flowing from it_.

It may, perhaps, be said that all beautiful souls love truth more or

less. Yes; but seldom does this quality acquire such complete

development as in Lord Byron. For with him it was a _real passion_,

since it gave the law, so to say, to his heart, his mind, and all the

actions of his life. This extraordinary attraction, coming in contact

with the lies, hypocrisy, baseness, cowardice, and deceitfulness of

others, often raised indignation to such a pitch that he could not help

showing and expressing it. Thus his love of truth affected his social

status in England, doing him immense harm; and, if it contributed to his

greatness and his heroism, so it likewise added to his sorrows.

This noble quality showed itself in him, we may say, from his birth,

under the form of _sincerity, frankness, a passion for justice, loyalty,

delicacy, honor, and likewise in the shape of special hatred for all

hypocrisy, and for that shade of it peculiar to England, called cant_.

Amid all the passions and events of life, whatsoever the consequences,

Lord Byron always went straight at truth; as the hero marches up under

fire, or the saint to martyrdom. A lie was not only a lie to him, it was

also an injustice, a cowardice, the mark of a corrupt soul, an

inconceivable thing, and not to be forgiven. A child, at Aberdeen, he

was taken to the play to see one of Shakspeare's pieces, wherein an

actor, showing the sun, says it is the moon. He was a timid child, but

(incapable then of understanding Shakspeare's meaning) this outrage on

truth excited him so far that he rose from his seat and exclaimed, "_I

tell you, my dear sir, that it is the sun_." With regard to lying, he

remained his whole life the child of Aberdeen.

Neither his nurses nor preceptors ever surprised him in a lie.

Education, which in England, more than elsewhere, modifies and shapes

men according to the requirements of their social position, had no power

to affect the fundamental part of his nature. While forming his mind, it

did not change his heart. It destroyed some very dear illusions, and

made his soul grow sick with disappointment, so that he never ceased

regretting his happy childhood. In some respects it even had power to

superadd a fictitious character to his real one, but his qualities of

soul and his natural character still remained untouched.

The ardent affection he entertained for one of the masters at

Harrow--Dr. Drury--made him feel dislike to this gentleman's successor.

Having been asked to dinner by him, Lord Byron declined, because, he

said, that by accepting, _he should belie his heart_. At the university,

he, like his companions, ran after the young girls of Cambridge and its

environs, but he never seduced or deceived any. Early in life he adopted

the good habit of examining himself most rigidly; and so strict was his

conscience, that, where his companions saw reason to excuse him, he, on

the contrary, found cause for self-reproach.

It was this same imperious, innate want of his nature, which, combined

with certain circumstances, made him ill for a time. The malady was one

quite foreign to his temperament, springing from self-depreciation, and

because he did not then find sufficient gratification in society. A sort

of misanthropy stole over his soul, chaining him to the East for two

years, as a land where both soul and heart were less tried.

On his return home, the impressionability belonging to his ardent,

enthusiastic nature may have produced undue excitement, but no bad

feeling could ever dim the lustre of the nobler passion that held sway

over him.

For him truth was more than a virtue, it was an imperative duty.

Indulgent as he ever showed himself toward all weaknesses in general,

and especially toward the faults committed by his servants, he could not

forgive _a lie_.

At Ravenna, a young woman attached to the service of his little Allegra,

being unwilling to avow, for fear of dismissal, that Allegra had had a

fall, though the child bore the mark of it, told an untruth instead. No

intercession could prevail on Lord Byron to pardon her, and she was sent

away.[196]

Though eager for glory--especially at an age when not having yet arrived

at it, he ignored the bite of the serpent that often lurks within a

garland of roses--he yet repelled all undue praise, and was much more

indignant at receiving it, than when unmerited blame was heaped upon

him. Once, having been compared to a man of high standing in French

literature, he, anxious to prove that there could be no resemblance

between him and this great man, replied:--"If the thing were true, it

might flatter me; but it is impossible to accept fictions with

pleasure."

When Dallas--who only knew him then by his family name--read his early

productions, he was enchanted with poetry that often rose to the

sublime, and was always chivalrous in feeling, "which denoted," he said,

"a heart full of honorable sentiments, and formed for virtue." This is a

precious verdict, coming as it does, from a man so bigoted in all

respects as the elder Dallas. He adds afterward that the perusal of

these verses, and the sentiments contained in them, made him discover

great affinity of mind between the young author and another literary

man, who was equally remarkable as a poet, an orator, and a

historian--"_the great and good Lord Lyttelton of immortal fame_." "And

I doubt not," added Dallas, "that one day, like him, he will confer more

honor on the peerage than it can ever reflect on him." Such a compliment

from a man so rigid and respectable might certainly have tempted the

most ordinary self-love, but Lord Byron, applying his magnifying-glass

to his conscience, and comparing what he saw there with his ideal, did

not conceive he merited such praise. Accordingly he answered with candor

that enchanted Dallas himself:--

"Though our periodical censors have been uncommonly lenient, I confess a

tribute from a man of acknowledged genius is still more flattering. But

I am afraid I should forfeit all claim to candor, if I did not decline

such praise as I do not deserve, and this is, I am sorry to say, the

case in the present instance. My pretensions to virtue are, unluckily,

so few, that, though I should be happy to deserve your praise, I can not

accept your applause in that respect."

Thus, from fear of being wanting in truth, he exaggerated his youthful

imperfections, nor could find any excuse for them. And in the same way

throughout life his dread of making himself out better than he was, led

him into the opposite defect of representing himself as far inferior to

his real worth.

If from considering of the man, we turn to look at the author, we shall

still always find the same passion for truth. By degrees, as he observed

society around him, this passion increased, for he found the dominant

vice was precisely that one most repugnant to his nature. If Lord Byron

ever admitted, with La Rochefoucault, _that hypocrisy is a homage vice

renders to virtue_, he did not the less consider this homage as

degrading to him who offered it, insulting to those to whom it is

addressed, and most corrupting in its effect upon the soul.

Thus, then, he from an early period considered hypocrisy and cant as

monsters, in the moral world, to be combated energetically whenever an

opportunity should present itself, and he resolved on doing so with all

the intrepidity and independence of which his nature was capable. His

natural gentleness disappeared in presence of the _whited sepulchres_,

the _Pharisees_ of our day. His whole literary life was one struggle

against this vice, "the crying sin of the times,"[197] as he called it.

His conscience was quite as strict with regard to intellectual things as

it was in the domain of morals. We might even call it marvellously

strict for our epoch, for the decay of truth forms a sadly striking

characteristic of the present time. I know not what modern critic it is

who says that a general enervation of intelligence and languor of soul

now prevail in this respect; that the majesty of truth has been

profaned, and the ancient regard in which she was held has been

destroyed by religious sects, philosophical systems, the insolent

attacks of the press, and by the revolution that has taken place in

ideas as well as in deeds. Thence the general tendency to place truth

and error on the same footing, in theory and in practice. Thence the

equality of rights established between both, and which has become like

the normal state of mind general in society.

Certainly, in our day, the love and practice of truth have grown

obsolete; dramatic pieces and works of fiction, indeed all kinds of

literature, especially biography, and even history, combine to outrage

truth with impunity; no compunction is felt in transforming great

characters into monsters, and monsters into heroes. People are no longer

astonished that travellers' narratives should be like poems, good or

bad, works of imagination full of anachronisms, exaggerations,

impossibilities, making the sea take the place of mountains, and putting

mountains where the sea should be. Truth is hidden as dangerous, not

always to humanity, but to private interests to which it might bring

smaller gains. Now if, at an epoch like this, we meet with geniuses, or

even conscientious talents, sacrificing, both in their works and their

actions, every interest or consideration to truth, ought we not to look

upon them as real marvels? Undoubtedly we ought, and there can be no

question that Lord Byron belonged to the small number of such marvels.

Friends and enemies are agreed thereupon.

Galt, who was brought into contact with the poet by chance, at the time

of his first journey into Greece, and who travelled with him for several

days, when remarking the beauty of Lord Byron's poems on Greece, says,

"they possess the great and rare quality of being _as true with regard

to nature and facts as they are sublime for poetic expression_."

He quotes those beautiful lines with which the third canto of the

"Corsair" opens, wherein Lord Byron describes the lovely scenery that

met his eye on ascending the Piraeus;[198] and to the Cape Colonna, and

to the so-called Tomb of Themistocles in the "Giaour;" and Galt fancies

he can remember by what circumstance and aspect of nature they were

inspired.

Lord Byron did not admit the possibility of describing a site that had

not been seen, a sentiment that had not been experienced, or at least

well known on certain and direct testimony. Never could people say of

him, what M. Sainte-Beuve asserted of Chateaubriand, namely, _that he

had not visited the places he described, that he lent to some what of

right belonged only to others, and that he had not even seen Niagara_.

On the contrary, when Lord Byron was writing, the objects described were

really present, so to say, as facts rather than in imagination.

Mr. Galt was so persuaded of this that he almost denied him the

possession of imagination, and he says that the stamp of personal

experience is so strongly marked in many of Lord Byron's productions,

usually considered fancies or inventions, that he deems it impossible

not to assign for their basis real facts or events wherein he had been

either actor or spectator.

To refuse Lord Byron imagination would be absurd; but it is true that

his imagination could only have discovered the elements and materials so

wonderfully put together, through a scrupulous and profound observation

of reality. And it was only afterward, that superadding sentiment and

thought, he wrought out such splendid truths, which, if not precisely

combined in the living reality, were so far superior that any absence in

the original model appeared like a forgetfulness of nature.

Without, then, admitting Mr. Galt's ideas, in their extreme

consequences, it is at least certain that Lord Byron's genius required

so much to lean on truth in all things, that it may be said he owed far

more to facts than to the power of imagination.

Apart from the faculty of combining, which he possessed in a splendid

manner, if any one should take the trouble to observe, one by one, the

characters he has painted, we should be still more confirmed in the

above opinion. For instance, Conrad, that magnificent type of the

corsair, that energetic compound of an Albanese warrior and a naval

officer, far from being an imaginary character, was entirely drawn from

nature and real history. All who have travelled in the Levant, and

especially at that period, must have met with personages whose

appearance distinctly recalled Conrad.

That peaceful men, leading a regular monotonous life in the midst of

civilized Europe, or persons who have only travelled over their maps or

their books, quietly seated in their library--that they should find

characters like Conrad's eccentric, and the incidents of such a career

improbable, may easily be conceived; but it is not the less true that

both are in perfect keeping with each other and with truth.

I might say the same thing of "Childe Harold." But having spoken of this

character sufficiently elsewhere, in order to repel the unjust

identification of the Pilgrim with the author,--for "Childe Harold"

appears to me the personification of a moral idea, of the accidental

transitory state of a soul placed under certain circumstances, rather

than type,--I will only add here, that this unjust identification was

also caused by that craving which Lord Byron experienced of leaning, in

all things, on reality, on facts acquired through his own experience.

For although it is incorrect to imagine that he made use of his

looking-glass for drawing the portraits of his heroes, since the glass

could not even for a passing moment--such as suffices only for a

daguerreotype--have converted his gentle, beautiful expression of face

into the dark countenance of a Harold, a Giaour, a Conrad, or a Lara;

still it is true that he lent them some of his own noble, fine

lineaments, some faint shadow of his beauty, and that more than once he

committed the fault of placing them in situations exactly similar to his

own, even going so far as to install his heroes within the ancient abbey

of Newstead,--a hospitality that cost him dear.

Characters that had produced a strong impression on him easily became

models for the personages portrayed in his poems. It was the terrible

Ali Pasha of Yanina who furnished the most striking features depicted in

the heroes of his Eastern poems. The reports current about Ali Pasha's

uncle served to lend their share of truth; and we may say, in general,

that those acquainted with Lord Byron and his history possessed the clew

to his imaginary personages; they could even recognize his Adelinas,

Dudus, Gulbeyazs, Angelinas, Myrrhas, Adahs; and having first taken his

stand on earth, it cost his fancy very little to soar and idealize what

might else have been too commonplace.

As to the historical characters, we are certain of finding them in the

most authentic histories; for it would be impossible to carry scrupulous

research further than he did. Some observations on "Marino Faliero," his

first historical drama, will suffice for an example.

The impression made on Lord Byron, when he arrived in Venice, by the

character of this old man, and the terrible catastrophe that overtook

him, first gave rise to his idea of the tragedy. But four years

intervened between the project and its execution. During this time he

consulted all the histories of Venice, every document and chronicle he

could lay his hands on. He passed long hours in the hall of the great

council, opposite the gloomy black veil surmounted by that terrible

inscription--"_Hic est locus Marino Faliero decapitati pro criminibus

suis_;" on the Giants' staircase, where the Doge had been crowned ere he

was degraded and beheaded; he had interrogated the stones forming the

monuments raised to the Doges; often was he seen in the church of St.

John and St. Paul, seeking out the tomb of Faliero and his family: and

still he was not satisfied, for the motives of the conspiracy did not

yet present themselves so clearly to his mind as the fact of the

conspiracy itself. Then he wrote to Murray, to search him out in England

other _more authentic_ documents concerning this tragical end.

"I want it," he said to him in February, 1817, "and can not find so good

an account of that business here.... I have searched all their

histories; but the policy of the old aristocracy made their writers

silent on his motives, which were a private grievance against one of the

patricians."

And not only did he seek for truth in books and monuments, but he

likewise sought it in the character and manners of all classes

inhabiting the lagoons. It was only toward the close of 1820, at

Ravenna, that he felt ready to write his magnificent drama.

All the characters in this tragedy, except that admirable one of

Angiolina, which he drew from imagination and traced with his heart,

were supplied by history. In it Lord Byron has scrupulously respected

places, epoch, and the time of duration for the action; points which he

considered as elements of truth in art; in short, all essential

circumstances were faithfully reproduced in his drama.

Even the faults which critics little versed in psychological science,

and obstinately forgetful that this work was _not intended for acting_,

pretend to find in it, were but the necessary results of historical

accuracy. These critics wished to meet with the love, jealousy, and

other passions common to their age and country; but Lord Byron would

only give them what he found in history. Thence, no love and no

jealousy; but a proud, violent character, coming in collision with a

government proud and violent as itself; one of those men that are

exceptional but real, in whom extremes of good and evil meet; one of

those dramatic natures that fastened strongly on his imagination,

producing a shock which kindled the flame of genius:--

"It is now four years that I have meditated this work, and before I had

sufficiently examined the records, I was rather disposed to have made it

turn on a jealousy in Faliero. But perceiving no foundation for this in

historical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in the

drama, I have given it a more historical form."[199]

As to the motives for the conspiracy, the clearness of certainty only

came to him a year after his drama had been published. But there was

such an attraction between his mind and truth that his intuition had

supplied the want of material certainty. And when a year afterward, at

Ravenna, he received the document so long desired, he was happy in

sending Murray a copy of this document translated from an ancient

chronicle by Sir Francis Palgrave, the learned author of the "History of

the Anglo-Saxons," to be able to write:--

"Inclosed is the best account of the 'Doge Faliero,' which was only sent

to me from an old MS. the other day. Get it translated, and append it as

a note to the next edition. You will perhaps be pleased to see that my

conceptions of his character were correct, though I regret not having

met with this extract before. You will perceive that he himself said

exactly what he is made to say about the Bishop of Treviso. You will

also see that 'he spoke very little,' and these only words of rage and

disdain, after his arrest, which is the case in the play, except when he

breaks out at the close of Act V. But his speech to the conspirators is

better in the MS. than in the play. I wish that I had met with it in

time."

The historical inaccuracies of authors, their carelessness about truth,

whether the result of malice or inattention, revolted Lord Byron, and

especially if such untruths tended to asperse a great character. The

lies of Dr. Moore about the "Doge Faliero" almost made him angry:--

"Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged his life? I have

searched the chroniclers, and find nothing of the kind."

Lord Byron observes that this is not only historically, but also

logically false:--

"His having shown a want of firmness," said Byron, "indeed, would be as

contrary to his character as a soldier, to the age in which he lived,

and at which he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no

justification; at any distance of time, for calumniating a historical

character: surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate; and

they who have died upon a scaffold have generally had faults enough of

their own, without attributing to them those which the very incurring of

the perils which conducted them to their violent death render, of all

others, the most improbable."

We know his consideration and sympathy for Campbell, though Campbell had

not always behaved well toward him. He forgave him many things, but he

could not pardon the indifference this author often showed for

_historical truth_!

At Ravenna he wrote in his journal, on the 10th of January, 1821:--

"Read Campbell's 'Poets.' Marked errors of Tom (the author) for

correction.... Corrected Tom Campbell's 'slips of the pen;' a good work,

though."

In his appendix to the first canto of "Don Juan," he says, "Being in the

humor of criticism, I shall proceed, after having ventured upon the

slips of Bacon, to wind up on one or two as trifling in the edition of

the 'British Poets,' by the justly celebrated Campbell. But I do this in

good-will, and trust it will be so taken. If any thing could add to my

opinion of the talents and true feeling of that gentleman it would be

his classical, honest, and triumphant defense of Pope against the vulgar

cant of the day, as it exists in Grub Street.

"The inadvertencies to which I allude are...."

And after mentioning a few inadvertencies which are faults against

justice and truth, he says:--

"A great poet quoting another should be correct: he should also be

accurate when he accuses a Parnassian brother of that dangerous charge,

'borrowing:' a poet had better borrow any thing (excepting money) than

the thoughts of another--they are always sure to be reclaimed; but it is

very hard, having been the lender, to be denounced as the debtor, as is

the case of Anstey _versus_ Smollett. As 'there is honor among thieves,'

let there be some among poets, and give each his due--none can afford to

give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, with a high reputation for

originality, and a fame which can not be shaken, is the only poet of the

times (except Rogers) who can be reproached (and in him it is indeed a

reproach) with having written too little."

Hereupon he writes to Murray, half joking, half serious:--

"Murray, my dear, make my respects to Thomas Campbell, and tell him from

me, with faith and friendship, three things that he must right in his

'Poets.' First, he says Anstey's 'Bath Guide' characters are taken from

Smollett. 'Tis impossible: the 'Guide' was published in 1766, and

'Humphry Clinker' in 1771--_dunque_, 'tis Smollett who has taken from

Anstey. Secondly, he does not know to whom Cowper alludes when he says

there was one 'who built a church to God, and then blasphemed His name:'

it was 'Deo erexit Voltaire' to whom that mad Calvinist and coddled poet

alludes. Thirdly, he misquotes and spoils a passage from

Shakspeare,--'To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,' etc.; for lily

he puts rose, and bedevils in more words than one the whole quotation.

"Now, Tom is a fine fellow; but he should be correct: for the first is

an injustice (to Anstey), the second an _ignorance_, and the third a

_blunder_. Tell him all this, and let him take it in good part: for I

might have chastised him in a review and punished him; instead of which,

I act like a Christian.

BYRON."

With regard to a quotation, or any circumstance intended to prove a

truth, his love of _exactness_ amounted to a _scruple_. He would have

thought himself wanting in honor if he had made a false or an incomplete

quotation. In one of the notes to "Don Juan," speaking of Voltaire, he

had quoted those famous words:--" _Zaire, vous pleurez_;" but being

accustomed at that time to make great use of the familiar pronoun

_thou_, as in the case in Italy, his quotation ran: "_Zaire, tu

pleures_." But he hastened to write to Murray, "_Voltaire wrote: Zaire,

vous pleurez_; don't forget."

In his tragedy of "Faliero," Lord Byron had said that the Doges,

Faliero's predecessors, were buried in the church of St. John and St.

Paul; but he afterward ascertained that it was only on the death of

Andrea Dandolo, Faliero's predecessor, that the Council of Ten, by a

sort of presentiment perhaps, decreed that the Doges should in future be

buried with their families in their own church; previously they had all

been interred in the church of St. Mark:--

" ... All that I said of his _ancestral Doges_, as buried at St. John's

and Paul's, is a mistake, _they being interred in_ St. Mark's. Make a

note of this, by the _Editor_, to rectify the fact.

"In the notes to 'Marino Faliero,' it may be as well to say that

'_Benintende_' was not really of the _Ten_, but merely _Grand

Chancellor_, a separate office (although important); it was an arbitrary

alteration of mine.

"As I make such pretentious to accuracy, I should not like to be twitted

even with such trifles on that score. Of the play they may say what they

please, but not so of my costume and _dram. pers._,--they having been

real existences."[200]

"As to Sardanapalus," he writes to Murray, "I thought of nothing but

Asiatic history. The Venetian play, too, is rigidly historical. My

object has been to dramatize, like the Greeks (a _modest_ phrase),

striking passages of history.

"All I ask is a preference for accuracy as relating to Italy and other

places."

In books, monuments, and the fine arts, it was always _truth_ that

interested him. Except Sir Walter Scott's productions, he gave no place

in his library to novels; other works of imagination, especially poetry,

were excluded; two-thirds of his books were French works. His reading

lay chiefly in history, biography, and politics.

Among the books Murray sent him were some travels: "Send me no more of

them," he wrote, "I have travelled enough already; and, besides, _they

lie_."[201]

Books with effected sentiment of any kind, imaginary itineraries, made

him very impatient. High-sounding phrases jarred on his ears; and I

thoroughly believe that the _forty centuries' looking down from the

Pyramids upon the grand French army_ somewhat _spoilt_ his hero for him.

What he especially sought for in monuments and among ruins was their

authenticity. It was on this sole condition that he took interest in

them.

Campbell, in his "Lives of English Poets," had averred that readers

cared no more for the truth of the manners portrayed in Collins's

"Eclogues" than for the authenticity of the history of Troy:--

"'Tis false," says Lord Byron in his memoranda, after having read

Campbell; "we do care about 'the authenticity of the tale of Troy.' I

have stood upon that plain daily, for more than a month, in 1810; and if

any thing diminished my pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had

impugned its veracity. It is true that I read 'Homer Travestied' (the

first twelve books), because Hobhouse and others bored me with their

learned localities, and I love quizzing. But I still venerated the grand

original as the truth of history (in the material facts) and of place:

otherwise, it would have given me no delight. Who will persuade me, when

I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did not contain a hero? Its very

magnitude proved this. Men do not labor over the ignoble and petty

dead--and why should not the dead be Homer's dead? The secret of Tom

Campbell's defense of inaccuracy in costume and description is, that his

'Gertrude,' etc., has no more locality in common with Pennsylvania than

with Penmanmawr. It is notoriously full of grossly false scenery, as all

Americans declare, though they praise parts of the poem. It is thus that

self-love forever creeps out, like a snake, to sting any thing which

happens, even accidentally, to stumble upon it."

In order then, that Lord Byron might take an interest in either a place,

a monument, or a work of art, he must associate them in his mind with

some fact which had really taken place. By what was he most impressed on

reaching Venice?

"There is still in the Doge's Palace the black veil painted over

Faliero's picture, and the staircase whereon he was first crowned Doge

and subsequently decapitated. This was the thing that most struck my

imagination in Venice--more than the Rialto, which I visited for the

sake of Shylock: and more, too, than Schiller's 'Armenian,' a novel

which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is also called the 'Ghost

Seer,' and I never walked down St. Mark's by moonlight without thinking

of it. And 'at nine o'clock he died.' But I hate things all fiction, and

therefore the _Merchant_ and _Othello_ have no great attractions for me,

but _Pierre_ has. There should always be some foundation of fact for the

most airy fabric, and pure invention is but the talent of a liar."

The little taste which he entertained for painting came from the

impression that, of all the arts, it was the most artificial, and the

least truthful. In April, 1817, he wrote to Murray as follows, on the

subject:--

"Depend upon it, of all the arts it is the most artificial and

unnatural, and that by which the folly of mankind is most imposed upon.

I never yet saw the picture or the statue which came a league within my

conception or expectation: but I have seen many mountains, and seas, and

rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as far beyond it."

But, then, what enthusiasm, whenever he did meet with truth in art! When

visiting the Manfrini Gallery at Venice, which is so rich in

_chefs-d'oeuvre_, he admits the charm of painting, and exclaims:--

"Among them there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, surpassing all my

anticipation of the power of painting or human expression; it is the

poetry of portrait and the portrait of poetry. Here was also a portrait

of a lady of the olden times, celebrated for her talents, whose name I

forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw

greater beauty or sweetness, or wisdom; it is the kind of face to go mad

about, because it can not detach itself from its frame."

Our readers are aware with what obstinate determination the public voice

proclaimed Lord Byron a skeptic, and still does. Nor will we here

examine whether that epithet is merited, because a soul has been

sometimes visited by the malady always more or less afflicting great

minds; we will not ask if disquietude--which constitutes the dignity of

our nature; if the torture caused by doubts and universal uncertainty,

by the impossibility of explaining what is, or of comprehending what

will be, if all this deserve to be called skepticism. It is not

necessary to enter into the subject here, because we have already

examined in another chapter[202] with what foundation such a name was

applied to Lord Byron.

Now, we will content ourselves with adding that it was his love of truth

and his delicacy of conscience which caused, in a great measure, what

has been called his skepticism. For these sentiments would not allow him

to affirm things that many others perhaps affirm, without believing more

in them. Moreover, he appears sometimes to have been _persuaded that

doubt was the feeling least removed from truth_.

THIS QUALITY RISES TO A VIRTUE.

If Lord Byron's passion for truth had simply remained within the limits

already described, it would have given earnest of a noble soul, more

gifted than others, with instincts of a higher order; it would have

lighted up his social character, given the charm of that frankness so

delightful in his manners, conversation, style; so attractive in the

expression of his fine countenance; but still it would only have been a

natural quality, without any more right to the name of virtue than all

the other beautiful instincts he had received from Heaven; but, when

ceasing to be purely natural, it became a distinguishing characteristic

of the author, then it went far beyond these limits. In his writings it

raised him above all calculations of interest, made him despise all

considerations of ambition or of ease, exposed him to terrible party

warfare, to slander, and revenge; spurred him on to attack the great and

powerful whenever they turned aside from the path of virtue, justice, or

simplicity, and made him forget his nationality, that he might better

remember his humanity.

Meanwhile he never once yielded to any interest; and thus this innate

faculty, which might have been a virtue easily practiced, _became one of

heroic merit_.

We may safely assert that all his griefs through life owed their origin

to this rare quality; for perhaps he did not know sufficiently how to

reconcile it with a _certain amount_ of that social virtue called

prudence; whose office it is to keep silence when advisable, and not to

utter dangerous truths.

Certainly Lord Byron never showed that wisdom for himself which he knew

well how to practice for others; witness his conduct in Greece, where,

according to the account given by all who lived with him there at that

time, he displayed the utmost prudence, moderation, and ability.[203]

That social virtue of prudence, which, to our mind, is somewhat akin to

a defect, was wholly wanting in him in private life; yet it is a

necessary virtue in his country, and especially was so in his day.

England then was, in many respects, far from resembling the England of

our time. Liberty of opinion was certainly guaranteed by law; but then

there were the drawing-room tribunals; very unforgiving with regard to

certain truths, and little disposed to admire that inclination which

prompts superior minds not to conceal their real thoughts. The earth or

the universe might have been conceded as a field open to criticism, he

might express his true opinions on all points, provided only some few

books, and one island, called England, were excepted. Under show of

respect, absolute silence was required on these heads. They constituted

the ark of alliance; to speak ill of them was not permissible, and even

to praise was almost dangerous.

In the enchanted palace of "Blue beard" one single chamber was reserved;

and woe to him who penetrated therein.

Since then, a period of peace and prosperity, together with the effects

of time and travel, have greatly improved the noble character of the

English nation. In our day, pens, tongues, and consciences are less

strictly bound, and many truths may now be avowed without fear of

bringing the flush of anger or of indignant modesty to the cheek.

The present, and, still less, the past, are no more considered as sacred

ground. Even the Norman conquest is no longer a seditious subject. The

dictionary of society has gained many words; and Englishmen no longer

fear to see their children lose that patriotism which for them is almost

a religion, because they read books not deifying their own country and

full of libels on the rest of the globe.

Historians, novel-writers, poets--even theologians--have vied with each

other in tearing away the bandages concealing many old wounds, in order

to cure them by contact with the vivifying breezes of heaven; and twenty

years after Lord Byron, Macaulay has been able, without losing his

popularity, to show less filial piety than he, and to blame the past in

language so beautiful as to obtain forgiveness for the sacrifice even of

truth.

But, in Lord Byron's time, England was carrying on her great struggle

against the lion of the age. Separated from the Continent by war still

more than by the sea, the cannon's roar booming across the waters added

venom to her wounds, and pride made her prefer to conceal rather than to

heal them.

The echo of this detested cannon was still sounding when Lord Byron

returned to England, from his travels in the East, with the same thirst

for truth as heretofore, but having gained much from observation,

comparison, and reflection. He believed he had the right to make use of

faculties with equal independence, whether as regarded his own nation or

the rest of humanity. England then seemed to wish to arrogate to herself

the monopoly, of morality, wisdom, and greatness, together with the

right of despising the rest of the world. Lord Byron considered this

pretension as excessive, and he expressed his generous incredulity in

lines proudly independent. He refused to see heroism where he did not

believe it to exist, and would not accord glory to victories that seemed

to him the result of chance. He refused to see virtue and religion in

what he considered calculation or hypocrisy. He demanded _justice_ for

Catholic Ireland, and impartiality for enemies; he even went so far as

to show sympathy for Napoleon and deplore his fall. He could not allow

party spirit to depreciate the genius of Napoleon. Madame de Stael, who

had made Lord Byron's acquaintance in London when he was very young, and

had conceived a great liking for him, often wrote to him, and always

tried to prove that he was wrong in thinking so highly of Napoleon. But

on account of this Lord Byron broke off the correspondence suddenly,

which vexed Madame de Stael not a little. The invasion of France, the

humiliation of a great nation, was painful to him; and this generous

sentiment even caused him to commit a real _fault, which he expressed

regret for more than once_, says Madame G----, when conversing with her

at Pisa and Genoa. The fault was a certain feeling of hostility indulged

toward the illustrious Duke of Wellington, whom he yet confessed to be

the glory of his country.

"P.S.--If you hear any news of battle or retreat on the part of the

Allies (as they call them), pray send it. He has my best wishes to

manure the fields of France with an invading army. I hate invaders of

all countries, and have no patience with the cowardly cry of exultation

over him at whose name you all turned whiter than the snow to which you

are indebted for your triumph."

He was too generous an enemy to echo the Archbishop of Canterbury's

prayer.[204]

As a Whig, he was indignant at the Prince of Wales's conduct in

deserting his political banner and passing over to the Tories when he

became regent; so he wrote some hard verses against him,--"Lines to a

Lady weeping," addressed to the Princess Charlotte.

This poem was the olive-branch that Robert was about to snatch from the

tomb. All evil passions were now let loose against Lord Byron.

The Tory party--so influential then, and which saw with displeasure the

future promise of a great orator held out in the person of a young Whig

peer--gladly seized a pretext for displaying its hostility. The higher

clergy naturally clung to the interests of the aristocracy, as identical

with their own: moreover, they were vexed with the young lord for

attacking intolerancy, hypocrisy, and similar anti-Christian qualities,

and consequently espoused with ardor Tory grievances. Pretending even to

discover danger to religion in some philosophical verses,[205] they

denounced the young poet as an _atheist_ and a _rebel_. At the same time

his admiration for foreign beauties wounded feminine self-love at home.

In thus placing the interests of truth above every other consideration,

not only from the necessity he experienced of expressing it, but also

with the design of serving justice, Lord Byron by no means ignored the

formidable amount of burning coals he was piling upon his head. He knew

well that the secret war going on against him delighted all his rivals,

who, not having dared to show their spite at the time of his triumphs,

had bided patiently the day of vengeance.

He was aware of it all, but did not therefore draw back; and looking

fearlessly at the pile heaped with all these combustible materials

intended for his martyrdom, he did not any the more cease from his work.

He resisted, and accepted martyrdom like a _hero_.

"You can have no conception of the uproar the eight lines on the little

Royalty's weeping in 1812 (now republished) have occasioned.... The

'Morning Post,' 'Sun,' 'Herald,' 'Courier,' have all been in

hysterics.... I am an atheist, a rebel, and at last the devil

(_boiteux_, I presume). My demonism seems to be a female's

conjecture.... The abuse against me in all directions is vehement,

unceasing, loud."[206]

The editor, alarmed, proposed to have them disavowed.

"Take any course you please to vindicate yourself," Lord Byron answered

him; "but leave me to fight my own way, and, as I before said, do not

_compromise_ me by any thing which may look like _shrinking_ on my part;

as for your own, make the best of it.... I have already done all in my

power by the suppression" (of the satire). "If that is not enough, they

must act as they please; but I will not 'teach my tongue a most inherent

baseness,' come what may.... 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!

"Any thing remarkably injurious I have the same means of repaying as

other men, with such interest as circumstances may annex to it."

After this first great explosion, of which the verses addressed to the

Princess Charlotte had formed the occasion and the pretext, the

commotion appeared to subside. But the fire in the mine had not gone

out. It still circulated obscurely, gathering strength in the quiet

darkness. Another occasion was alone wanting for a second explosion, and

a hand to strike the spark. The circumstance of his unhappy marriage,

which had taken place in the interval, presented this occasion; and the

hand to strike the spark was the one which had received the nuptial

ring a year before. The explosion was brutal, abominable,

insensate--unworthy of the society that tolerated it.

Then came another interval; the good who had been drawn into this stormy

current were seized with regret and remorse. "_Why did we thus rise

against our spoilt and favorite child?_" The wicked knew well wherefore

they had done it, but the good did not. Macaulay told it them one day,

twenty years afterward, better than any one else has, in one of those

passages where the beauty of his style, far from injuring truth, lends

it a double charm, enhancing it just as nature's beauty is set off by a

profusion of light.

This good feeling stealing over the public conscience alarmed Lord

Byron's deadly enemies. They feared lest sentimental remorse should

compromise their victory; and they manoeuvred so well, that from that

hour persecution took up permanent abode in England, under pretext of

offense to religion or morals. It followed him on his heroic journey

into Greece, and ceased not with his death. Even after that, the

vengeance and rage of his enemies--the indiscretion and timidity of

friends--the material or moral speculations of all, together with the

assurance of impunity--continued to feed the fire which an end so

glorious as his ought to have quenched.[207]

But if the war against him did not cease, his perseverance and courage

in saying what he thought did not cease either. Who more than he

despised popularity and literary success, if they were to be purchased

at the cost of truth?

"Were I alone against the world," said he, "I would not exchange my

freedom of thought for a throne." And again: "He who wishes not to be a

despot, or a slave, may speak freely."

That such independence of mind, aided by such high genius, should have

alarmed certain coteries--not to speak of certain political and

religious sets, who were all powerful--may easily be conceived. We can

not feel surprise at the scandals they got up in defense of their

privileges, when attacked by a new power who made every species of

baseness and hypocrisy tremble; nor can we wonder that, unknowing where

it would stop, they should have sought to cast discredit on the oracle

by slandering the man. That the bark bearing him to exile should have

been pushed on by a wind of angry passions in coalition--by a breeze not

winged by conscience--may also be conceived; but to _conceive_ is not to

absolve, and in using the above expression we only mean to allow due

share to human nature in general--to the character, manners, and perhaps

to the special requirements of England. And if we ought not to condone

party spirit in politics, defending privileges to the death; nor the

anti-Christian ferocity displayed by that portion of the clergy who,

without reason or sincerity, attacked him from the pulpit; nor yet the

malice and revenge displayed in the vile slanders that pursued him to

his last hour; we can, on the other hand, comprehend, and even, up to a

certain point, excuse this prosperous and noble country of England for

not classing her great son among popular poets--for hiding her

admiration cautiously: since it must be acknowledged that Lord Byron

often acted and wrote rather _as belonging to humanity, than merely as

belonging to England_.

But if he were treated with the same injustice by foreigners, could the

same excuse be made for them? Would a man be excusable if laziness and

carelessness made him accept, without examination, some type set up for

Lord Byron by a country wounded in her self-love, as England had been,

or the reserves made by hostile biographers, under the weighty influence

of a society organized as English society then was? The vile system

which consists in seeking to give a good opinion of one's own morality

by being severe on the morality of others, is only too well known. Would

it be excusable to apply it ruthlessly to Lord Byron?--to pretend to

repeat that in attacking prejudice he wounded morals?--that he injured

virtue by warring against hypocrisy?--that by using a right inherent to

the human mind in some hypothetical lines of a poem, written at

twenty-one years of age, and which is beyond the comprehension of the

multitude, since the greater number of mankind neither read elevated

poetry nor works of high taste; is it not absurd to pretend that he

wished to upset them in their religious belief, and deprive them of

truths which are at once their consolation, support, and refuge in time

of sorrow and suffering?

Nevertheless, _Frenchmen_ have spoken thus; and in this way, through

these united causes, Lord Byron has remained _unappreciated_ as a man

and unfairly judged as a poet.

One calls him _the poet of evil_; another _the bard of sorrow_. But no!

Lord Byron was not exclusively either one or the other. He was _the poet

of the soul_, just as Shakspeare was before him.

Lord Byron, in writing, never had in view virtue rather than vice. To

take his stand as a teacher of humanity, at his age, would have seemed

ridiculous to him. After having chosen subjects in harmony with his

genius, and a point of view favorable to his poetic temperament, which

especially required to throw off the yoke of artificial passions and of

weak, frivolous sentiments, what he really endeavored was to be

powerfully and energetically true. He thought that truth _ought_ always

to have precedence over every thing else--that it was the source of the

_beautiful_ in art, as well as of all _good_ in souls. To him lies were

_evil_ and _vice_; truth was _good_ and _virtue_. As a poet, then, he

was the bard of the soul and of truth; and as a man, all those who knew

him, and all who read his works, must proclaim him the poet who has come

nearest to the ideal of truth and sincerity.

And now, after having studied this great soul under every aspect, if

there were in happy England men who should esteem themselves higher in

the scale of virtue than Lord Byron, because having never been troubled

in their belief, either through circumstances or the nature of their own

mind, they _never admitted or expressed any doubt_; because they are the

happy husbands of those charming, indulgent, admirable women to be found

in England, who _love and forgive so much_; because, being rich, they

have not refused _some trifle_ out of their superfluity to the poor;

because, proud and happy in privileges bestowed by their constitution,

they have never _blamed those in power_: if these prosperous ones deemed

themselves superior to their great fellow-citizen, would it be illiberal

in them to express now a different opinion? Might we not without

rashness affirm, that they should rather hold themselves honored in the

virtue and glory of their illustrious countryman, humbly acknowledging

that their own greater happiness is not the work of their own hands?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 195: See Introduction.]

[Footnote 196: See "Life in Italy."]

[Footnote 197: Preface to canto xi. of "Don Juan."]

[Footnote 198:

"Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,

* * * * * * *

Not as in northern climes."

" _Corsair_," canto iii.]

[Footnote 199: See Preface to Marino Faliero.]

[Footnote 200: Moore, Letter 391.]

[Footnote 201: Letter 391.]

[Footnote 202: See chapter on "Religion."]

[Footnote 203: M. Tricoupi, in his interesting "History of the Greek

Revolution," ends his fine article upon Lord Byron, and upon his death,

in the following words:--

"This man's great name, his noble struggle in the midst of misfortunes,

the troubles which he had borne for the sake of Greece, the bright hopes

which he was on the point of seeing realized, proved sufficiently what

the Greeks lost in losing him, and the misfortune which his death was to

them. Each one considered and mourned his loss as a private and as a

public calamity. In ordering the funeral, the governor of the town

exclaimed, 'This time the beautiful Easter rejoicings have turned for us

into hours of bitterness,' and he was right. All forgot Easter in

presence of the blow which was dealt them by the loss of such a man.

"Byron, as a poet, was enthusiastic, but his enthusiasm, like his

poetry, was deep; his policy in Greece was likewise intelligent and

profound. No dreams like those formed by most of the lovers of the

Greeks. No Utopian plans, democratic or anti-democratic. Even the press

appeared to him as yet uncalled-for. The independence of Greece, that

was the essential point at issue, and to obtain this end he counselled

the Greeks to be united among themselves, and to respect foreign courts.

His principal care was the organization of the army, and the procuring

of the funds necessary to maintain it. He loved glory, but only that

which is solid. He refused to take the title of Commander-general of

Continental Greece, which the Government and the nation offered him in

common accord. He hated politics as a rule, and avoided parliamentary

discussions even in his own country...."]

[Footnote 204: This strange prayer ran thus:--"O Lord Almighty, give us

strength to destroy the last man of that perfidious nation (the French),

which has sworn to devour alive thy faithful servants (the English)."]

[Footnote 205: Stanzas of second canto of "Childe Harold."]

[Footnote 206: Moore, Letter 162.]

[Footnote 207: The system of depreciating Byron's acts never once

ceased. It followed him to Greece and even to the tomb. Count Gamba, his

friend and companion, in speaking of the excellent health enjoyed by all

during the passage from Genoa to Greece, says:--

"We were in excellent health and spirits during our whole voyage from

Italy to Greece, and for this we were partly indebted to our medical

man, and partly to that temperance which was observed by every one on

board, except at the beginning of the voyage by the captain of our

vessel, who, however, ended by adopting our mode of life. I mention this

to contradict an idle story told in a magazine ('The London') 'that Lord

Byron on this voyage passed the principal part of the day drinking with

the captain of the ship.' Lord Byron, as we all did, passed his time

chiefly reading. He dined alone on deck; and sometimes in the evening he

sat down with us to a glass or two, not more, of light Asti wine. He

amused himself in jesting occasionally with the captain, whom he ended,

however, by inspiring with a love of reading, such as he thought he had

never felt before."

But his enemies were not discouraged. When they saw that Byron landed in

one of the Ionian Islands, which was a far wiser and more prudent course

to adopt, and one which might prove infinitely more beneficial to Greece

than going straight to the Morea, they spread the report that instead of

going to Greece, he spent his life in debauchery and in the continuation

of his poem of "Don Juan," at rest in a lovely villa situated on one of

the islands. Moore informed him rather abruptly of this report, which

distressed him greatly.]

REFLECTIONS UPON MR. DISRAELI'S NOVEL

"VENETIA:"

A SEMI-BIOGRAPHY OF LORD BYRON.

Is Mr. Disraeli to be classed among the biographers of Lord Byron

because in his preface to "Venetia" he declares that his object is to

portray Lord Byron? We do not think so. Truth and error, romance and

history, are too much intermixed, and the author himself confesses this

fact in calling his work a novel. But while denying to "Venetia" the

right of being styled a biography, we must admit that it is both a deep,

true, and at times admirable study of the fine and so ill-judged

character of Lord Byron. The extraordinary qualities with which he was

gifted, both in heart and in mind, his genius, his amiability, his

irresistible attractions, his almost supernatural beauty, are all set

forth with consummate ability, and the greatest penetration. He has made

all his other characters, which are for the most part imaginary,

subservient to this end; and he has created some (such as Lady Annabel)

which moralists will not easily admit to be possible, it being granted

that all the characters in the book are mentally sane. It is

questionable whether the virtues and qualities which adorn Lady Annabel

are compatible with the defects of her nature. Mr. Disraeli has acted in

the same way as regards the circumstances of Byron's life; he has heaped

them together without any regard to what may or may not be true in their

supposed occurrence, some of them being founded on reality and others

not so.

He has given Byron two individualities. Lord Cadurcis represents Byron

from his infancy to the time of his marriage, and Mr. Herbert equally

represents Lord Byron from that fatal epoch till his death. The

selection of two persons to represent one same character and to allow of

Byron's simple yet complex nature being better understood was a very

happy philosophical notion.

He portrays Lord Byron as he was, or as he would have been in the given

circumstances; and he pictures the others as they should or might have

been, not as they were. In reading "Venetia" it is impossible not to

like Lord Cadurcis, and to admire him, just as all those who knew Lord

Byron loved and esteemed him, or not to respect Mr. Herbert, whom he

styles "the best and greatest of men," as he would have been revered had

Byron reached a greater age. He depicts Byron at every epoch of his

life, and as circumstances develop his latent predispositions.

He first shows him to us as the innocent child, whose heart is full of

tenderness, meekness, sensibility, and docility, such as his tutor, Dr.

Drury, said he was: "rather easier to be led with a silken string than

with a cable;" who is gifted with a noble and proud nature, which is

easily moved; who possesses a great sense of justice and an undaunted

courage; who scorns excuse and cares not to lessen his fault. He then

shows him as the thoughtful boy, both when alone and with others; and as

the gayest and wildest of creatures when in the company of the beloved

companion of his childish sports; a boy full of kindness, and of the

desire to please; whose absence is ever a subject of regret, so great is

the love he inspires, both in his master and in his servants, and indeed

in all who come near him. At his early age can already be traced the

germs of those qualities which foretell that brilliant mind which is to

win some day the heart of a nation, and dazzle the fancy of a world of

admirers. The sight of the fair hair and of the angelic beauty of the

little Venetia is enough to dry his tears; and herein we not only

perceive already the extreme impressionable disposition of his nature,

but also the power and influence which beauty is destined to exercise

over him. The love of solitude and meditation is already traceable in

the child. He loves to wander at night among the dark and solitary

cloisters of his Abbey; he loves to listen to the whistling of the wind

re-echoed by the cloisters; he delights in the murmurs of the waters of

his lake when the winter storms disturb their serenity, and uproot the

strongest oaks of his park. Proud of his race, his whole nature

sympathizes with the glorious deeds of his ancestors, and one feels that

he would fain rather die than show himself unworthy of them.

One sees the germs of poetry sown in his mind--but one feels that the

heart alone can make them fructify, and give them an outward form.

Nothing is more touching than the tenderness which he feels and inspires

wherever he goes.

Mr. Disraeli then shows him in his youth, just at the time when he is to

leave college for the university, and presents him to the reader as a

remarkably well-educated young man, in whom the best principles have

been inculcated, and whose conduct and conversation bear evidence of a

pure, generous, and energetic soul "that has acquired at a very early

age much of the mature and fixed character of manhood without losing any

thing of that boyish sincerity and simplicity that are too often the

penalty of experience.

"He was indeed sincerely religious, and as he knelt in the old chapel

that had been the hallowed scene of his boyish devotions, he offered his

ardent thanksgiving to his Creator who had mercifully kept his soul pure

and true, and allowed him, after so long an estrangement from the sweet

spot of his childhood, once more to mingle his supplications with his

kind and virtuous friends."

"He is what I always hoped he would be," says Lady Annabel. "Remember

what a change his life had to endure; few, after such an interval, would

have returned with feelings so kind and so pure. I always fancied that I

observed in him the seeds of great virtues and great talents, but I was

not so sanguine that they would have flourished as they appear to have

done."

Young as he is, he is already accustomed to reflect; and the result of

his dreams is a desire to live away from the world with those he loves.

The world as seen by others has no attraction for him. What the world

covets appears to him paltry and faint. He sympathizes with great deeds,

but not with a boisterous existence. He cares not for that which is

ordinary. He loves what is rare and out of the common way. He dwells

upon the deeds of his ancestors in Palestine and in France, who have

left a memorable name in the annals of their country. Cadurcis

experiences inwardly a desire, and even the power to imitate their

example. He feels that to become the world's wonder no sacrifice is

great enough; but in this age of mechanism, what career is left to a

chivalrous spirit like his? He then longs for the happiness of private

life in the company of so perfect a creature as Venetia; but he is still

so young, and Venetia, who loves him like a brother and a friend, can

not as yet understand the nature of another kind of love. He then leaves

for the university, with grief implanted at the bottom of his heart.

Disraeli then shows how, after three years, during which time his genius

had been smouldering as it were, it at last appeared in a splendor quite

unrivalled and unexampled, like a star equally strange and brilliant,

which scarcely has it become visible in the horizon, than it already

reaches its zenith. Not only is he distinguished by his writings, but by

a thousand other ways, which fill the heart and dazzle the eyes. Where

every thing is remarkable he is most noticed; and the most conspicuous

where all is brilliant. He is envied by men, praised and sought after by

women, admired by all. His life has become a perpetual triumph, a

splendid act, which is enthusiastically applauded, and in which he ever

plays the best and most heroic part. In the midst of this infatuation of

a whole nation, among those handsome and noble women who forget

themselves too much since they forget themselves entirely for the honor

of a look from him, why is he not happy? What is he craving for? What is

his occupation? Why, when envied by all, is he yet to be pitied? It is

that his life is still, and will ever be, the life of the heart which

finds no satisfaction to its desire in the midst of the world wherein it

is doomed to live.

On one occasion he finds himself at the house of the most fashionable

woman in London, of the great and beautiful person whose love for him is

greater than he would wish. Many people are assembled there; dinner is

about to be announced. No one but himself attracts attention or calls

for enthusiastic eulogies; yet he is sad, absent, wearied. By his proud,

handsome looks, his reserve, and his melancholy attitude, he might be

taken for an unearthly being, condemned, as a punishment, to visit our

terrestrial orb. All of a sudden his melancholy gives way to the

liveliest animation; his cheeks glow, and happiness beams in his

beautiful eyes. What has happened? Among the guests arriving he has

heard the servant call out the name of his old tutor at Cherbury, the

friend of all the friends of his youth. Raised to the dignity of a

bishop, the late tutor has arrived in London to take his seat in the

House of Lords. Again to see this friend of his youth, who is likely to

speak to him of Cherbury, which he loved so dearly, and of Venetia, is a

pleasure which his triumphs have never afforded him; and from that

moment all is changed in his eyes, every thing is smiling, every thing

is bright.

He learns that Lady Annabel and Venetia have left their retreat of

Cherbury and have arrived in London. Cadurcis has but one thought, one

aspiration, that of seeing them again. He does see Venetia again, and he

feels that the world's praises are no longer any thing to him, except to

be placed at her feet, and that he would give up all the idolatry of

which he is the object for one year of happiness spent at Cherbury. When

Venetia sees her ideal realized, and that Lord Cadurcis unites in him

all the qualities of her dear Plantagenet with those brilliant and

imposing talents which command love and admiration; when she beholds in

him the genius of her father linked with the heart of her earliest

friend, to whom she is still so deeply attached; when she sees her dear

Plantagenet "courted, considered, crowned, incensed--in fact, a great

man" living in an atmosphere of glory and in the midst of the applause

of his contemporaries, Venetia exchanges her fraternal love, which was

so touching, for the most ardent passion which one perfect creature can

inspire in one as perfect as itself.

But the obstacle to their happiness now arises, and Lady Annabel it is

who becomes metamorphosed into a woman whose judgment is false, whose

prejudices are great, whose principles are inexorable; who knows nothing

of the world, nothing of her own heart nor of the human heart; who

judges all things by certain arbitrary rules, and acts sternly in

accordance with her inexplicable judgment. All the love which she would

have had for Plantagenet at Cherbury is turned into hatred on learning

that he has become a great poet, the admiration of his country, the

observed of all observers; that all the world is anxious to see him,

that the finest ladies sigh for one of his looks, that he is not

insensible to their admiration, that he is a Whig, and not only a Whig,

but very nearly a rebel. She reads his poems, and her astonishment is

only surpassed by the horror with which they inspire her. She sees

Herbert in Cadurcis, and unable as she was to understand the former, so

is she unequal to the task of comprehending Cadurcis. An imaginative

being makes her tremble; such a creature can only be a monster. The

praises bestowed upon Cadurcis do not shake her prejudices. His cousin,

a brave sailor--a Tory, whose nature is as noble as it is frank and

loyal--in vain tells her that Cadurcis is one of the most generous, most

amiable, and most praiseworthy of men. In vain does he assure her that

notwithstanding the difference of their political opinions, he can

scarcely give her an idea of the delicacy and unbounded goodness which

he has shown--that his heart is perfect, that his intellect is the

finest that ever existed, and that if his conduct has at times been a

little irregular, allowances must be made for the temptations which

assailed him at the age of twenty-one, the sole master of his acts, and

with all London at his feet. "It is too much for any one's head; but say

or think what the world may, I know there is not a finer creature in

existence. Venetia, who feels the truth of all this, inwardly exclaims,

'Dear, dear Cadurcis, can one be surprised at your being beloved when

you are so generous, so amiable, so noble, so affectionate!' But the

poor child in vain recalls to her mother the conduct of Plantagenet, who

displays constancy in his true affections. 'No,' exclaims Lady Annabel,

'minds like his have no heart, a different impulse directs their

existence--I mean imagination.'"

Lady Annabel tortures her daughter, to extort from her the promise that

she will never marry Lord Cadurcis. Her devotion for that daughter,

which seemed to be the essence of her life, is no longer in this

hard-hearted woman but a form of her egotism; and Venetia, vexed in all

her natural sentiments, instead of being the idol of her affections,

becomes in reality the martyr of her pride.

After dwelling upon the agony of mind experienced by these two beautiful

and loving souls, both victims of Lady Annabel's cruelty, Disraeli shows

us Cadurcis a prey to despair; enduring the consequences of the

fashionable life which he is compelled to lead, that is, of the

dissipated existence which he wades through against his will; the

victim, besides, of the jealous and fanatical love of the great lady

whose yoke he had not been able as yet to shake off. A duel between him

and the lady's husband is the result, and nothing is more admirable than

the picture of Lord Byron (or Lord Cadurcis) in all the scenes which

precede and follow this duel; his calmness, his courage, the mixture of

humor and wit with which he ever was wont to meet the greatest perils,

and which was one of the characteristics of his nature, and, above all,

that great and noble generosity of which he gave so many proofs in every

circumstance and at every period of his life. Then followed the

consequences of the duel, and the capital derived from it by the

accumulated stupidity and revenge of those inferior persons jealous of

his superiority and of his popular fame.

Nothing is so beautiful, however, as the scene which takes place first

at the club and then at the House of Lords, where Mr. Disraeli shows

this noble and calumniated creature the object of the base and

hypocritical jealousy of most of his colleagues, who, notwithstanding

their hatred for him, were wont to call themselves his friends; when,

exhausted and almost the victim of a ferocious hatred of an excited

populace, he stands calm in the midst of these truly English elements in

the attitude of an archangel or of a demi-god, opposing them and

maintaining his ground until with the aid of a few brave and faithful

friends, of the constable's truncheon, and the arrival of the mounted

guard, he succeeds in getting rid of them altogether. All this, although

not quite true, either as a historical fact or in its details, is,

however, so admirably told, that it may be taken as a document well

worthy of consideration by the biographer, and of which extracts can not

be given without spoiling the whole.

In the midst of the turmoil occasioned by this duel, in which his

adversary had been seriously wounded, Cadurcis suddenly finds himself

abandoned by those who called themselves his friends, calumniated by the

press, who spare no falsehoods to disparage his character, but whose

contradictions have no effect in his great successes. Cadurcis, gifted

as he is with an extreme sensibility, and accustomed to live in an

atmosphere of praise, finds himself suddenly nailed to the pillory of

public indignation, sees his writings, his habits, his character, and

his person, equally censured, ridiculed, and blemished; in fact, he

finds himself the victim of reaction, and yet all this does not affect

his mind; his true agony is caused not by the regret at losing his

prestige and his popularity, nor by the conduct of those who style

themselves his friends, and who now joined his enemies in spreading and

believing in the false reports respecting him. His greatness of soul and

the purity of his conscience alike help him to endure these misfortunes;

but what really does give him pain, is the thought that all these absurd

rumors will reach the ears of Venetia. He has lost all hope of obtaining

her hand, but he feels the want of her esteem. He wishes her to judge

him as he deserves to be judged; and the thought that she likewise may

put faith in the infamous and stupid reports which are spread about him,

throws him into despair. When his cousin announces to him that he has

succeeded in making the truth known to Venetia, how consoled he feels,

and how grateful is he to his cousin! To his credit, the cousin did

actually, in presence of Lady Annabel, who remained incredulous,

endeavor to re-establish facts in their true light; and despite her

sullen mood, did he courageously undertake the defense of Cadurcis,

accuse the Mounteagles and the world in general, and conclude by

declaring that "Cadurcis was the best creature that ever existed, the

most unfortunate, the most ill-treated; and that if one should be liable

to be pursued for such an affair, over which Cadurcis could have no

control, there was not a man in London who could be sheltered from it

for ten minutes." When Lord Cadurcis receives Venetia's message, which

is to tell him that he remains for her what he has ever been, the

announcement acts upon him as a charm, brings calm back to his mind, and

renders him indifferent for the future to the opinion of the world. The

experience of that day has entirely cured him of his former deference

for the opinion of society. The world has outraged him. He no longer

owes any thing to the world. His reception in the House of Lords, and

the riot outside the house, have severed his ties with all classes, from

the highest to the lowest; his grateful heart will ever preserve the

remembrance of those who have shown him true affection by displaying

moral courage in his defense. But they are few,--some relations, or

nearly such by their association with them, and for these his gratitude

and his respect are unlimited; but as for the others, he will pay them

back by showing them his contempt, by publishing the truth respecting

them, their country, their habits, their laws, their customs, their

opinions, in order that they may be known and judged by the whole

world,--a tribunal far more enlightened than the limited one of his

native isle. Henceforth he resolves never again to meet the advances of

those civilized "ruffians" who affect to be sociable. He prepares to

leave England, with the intention never again to return to it. He shuts

himself up in his room for a week, and allowing free scope to his

passionate and wounded soul, he writes his adieu to England, and in the

task his mind finds relief. In this poem, wherein a few well-merited

sarcasms find a place, and wherein there are many allusions to Venetia,

there are passages so delicate, so tender, so irresistibly pathetic,

that it exercised an extraordinary influence upon public opinion. Again

the tide of public sympathy runs high in his favor; it is found that

Cadurcis is the most calumniated of mortals, that he is more interesting

than ever; and Lady Mounteagle is spoken of as she deserves. Cadurcis

is, however, too proud to accept new sympathies likely to make him

suffer all that he has already suffered. He quits his native land,

surrounded by a halo of glory, but with contempt on his part for that

popular favor of which he has too cruelly experienced the worth. He

sails for Greece, and here Disraeli shows how he led a life of study,

and finally depicts him, under the name of Herbert, as a philosopher and

a virtuous man, who, after behaving as a hero, and after abandoning some

of the illusions of youth, and principally that of making men wiser and

better, aspires only at leading a mild, regular, virtuous, and

philosophical existence.

Notwithstanding the great charm of Mr. Disraeli's book, to give extracts

from which would only be to spoil it, it must, however, be allowed that

the real and the imaginary are too much intermingled. All the fictions

of time and place, which only leave the sentiments of the real man

untouched, all the double and treble characters which at times quit, and

at others resume, their individuality almost as in a dream, tend to

create a confusion which is prejudicial to truth. Thus, Lady Annabel has

charms and qualities wholly incompatible with her supposed stern

severity. Miss Venetia, a perfect emanation of love and beauty, is at

times transformed into an imaginary Miss Chaworth, and at others into a

beloved sister, and at others again into an adorable Ada----; Lady

Mounteagle is sometimes too like, and often too unlike, the real Lady C.

L----; the whole is confused, fatiguing to the mind, and too fictitious

not to be regretted, since the express intention of the author is to

paint a historical character, acting in the midst of circumstances

generally founded on reality.

In following out the intention of the author, and his want of respect

for truth, it is impossible not to ask ourselves why, while respecting

circumstances of such slight import as the preservation of the Christian

names of the mother and wife, he has not done the same for more

important accidents in the hero's life? Why, for instance, have

described his childhood as a painful time? Was not Lord Byron surrounded

with the tenderest cares while in Scotland? Had he been unhappy there,

would he have transmitted to us in such happy lines his remembrance of

the time which he spent in the North? Is it not in Scotland that his

heart was nursed with every affection, that his mind drank in the

essence of poetry? Why make his mother die when he was only twelve years

of age, since she died only on his return from Spain and from Greece,

that is, when he was twenty-two? Why make her die of grief at being

abandoned by him, in consequence of an imaginary scene which obliges her

to take refuge in the midst of a band of Bohemian travellers, when it is

known that she died rather by the excess of joy which she experienced at

the thought of seeing him again after an absence of nearly two years?

Why change the ages, and give Miss Chaworth fifteen when she was

eighteen, or himself eighteen when he was fifteen? Why give him such an

affectionate guardian instead of Lord Carlisle? It may be argued that in

these changes in the actual life of Lord Byron, we must only perceive

the genius of the writer, who by making the hero's infancy a sad one,

and causing the first glimpse of happiness to dawn upon him at Cherbury,

in depriving him of his mother at an early age in order that he may live

entirely in the Herbert family, where he finds so much happiness, and

repays it so well, Mr. Disraeli believed that he could bring out in

better relief all the tenderness, kindness, docility, gratitude,

constancy, and those other rare and splendid qualities of his hero's

young soul. In reducing Miss Herbert's years, and in increasing those of

his hero, the author no doubt wished to render forcible the sentiments

which a child of fifteen could not otherwise have inspired in a young

girl of eighteen. The imaginary duel was probably conceived to afford

the author an opportunity of showing his hero under other admirable

aspects, and especially to furnish him with the means of casting blame

upon English society, of absolving him, and of showing how he was the

victim of inherent national prejudices, which time has not yet succeeded

in eradicating.

The exuberance and variety of the gifts which nature had bestowed upon

Byron, together with the universality of his genius, which created in

him such apparently singular contrasts, no doubt inspired Mr. Disraeli

with the idea that to make him better known it was necessary to make two

persons of one, each of a different age, so as to be able to divide his

qualities according to their suitableness to those ages, and to make him

act and speak in accordance with each given character: to show us the

man in his moral, social, and intellectual capacity during his

transition from early youth to a maturer age, after the experience of

those hardships of life which have purified and strengthened his soul.

The first period is represented by the ardent and passionate Lord

Cadurcis, the other by the wise and philosophical Herbert. In making

Herbert live to a mature age, and in centring in him every grace, every

quality, every perfection with which a mortal can be gifted, he wished

to show to what degree of moral perfection Lord Byron might have

attained, and how happy he might have been in the peace and quiet of

domestic life had he been joined to another wife in matrimony, since

notwithstanding Lady Annabel's faults, happiness was not out of

Herbert's reach. The conclusion to which Disraeli no doubt points is

the inward avowal by Lady Annabel herself that she, not Herbert, was the

cause of their separation, and of their useless misfortunes. Again, when

young Lord Cadurcis returns from Greece, and when Disraeli recounts his

conversation with Herbert, his intention, no doubt, was to show us the

intellectual and moral progress which time has caused him to make,--the

transition from the "Childe Harold" of twenty-one to the "Childe Harold"

of "Manfred" of twenty-nine; and from the "Childe Harold" of thirty to

the "Don Juan" and "Sardanapalus" of thirty-three; he thus was able to

put in relief that mobility of character which existed in him as regards

a certain order of ideas, and which blended itself so well with the

depth and the constancy of other of his views, enabling us to penetrate

into the recesses of that beautiful soul, and displaying to our admiring

gaze its numberless springs of action,--at times his constant aspiration

to come to the aid of humanity, and his little hope of succeeding in

modifying our corrupt nature; his love of glory, and how little he cared

for the appreciation of the public of which he had experienced the

fickle favors; his knowledge of life, his simple tastes, his love of

nature, and the greatness of his mind, of which no ambition or worldly

feeling could tarnish the simplicity and even sublimity. In giving him

two individualities the novelist was better able to combine the

passionate sarcasms of Cadurcis with the smiles of goodness and

tolerance of Herbert, and to show him to us as he was wont to converse,

mixing the wittiest remarks with the most serious reflections. He had

made him express a number of opinions apparently contradictory, but

which belonged to his peculiar character, which was equally simple and

complex, alike sensible and passionate, subject to a thousand influences

of weather and seasons; and though inflexible in his principles of honor

as in the whole course of his existence, yet changeable in things of

minor importance. He loves to mystify, and writes, without reflecting as

to the possible consequences, a number of things which cross his mind,

and in which he does not believe, but of which his love of humor forces

the expression to his lips. Again, Disraeli tells us of a number of his

real ideas, initiates us into his literary tastes, his philosophical

views, his preferences, his admiration for the great men of antiquity

and of modern times; tells us why his favorite philosophers are Plato

and Epicurus, his favorite characters in antiquity Alexander and

Alcibiades, both young and handsome conquerors; in modern times, Milton

and Sir Philip Sydney, Bayle and Montaigne; what his opinions respecting

Shakspeare and Pope, what Cadurcis, and what Herbert thinks of these;

and finally he gives us his views upon the love which we should have for

truth, upon the influence which political situations bear upon the

grandeur of country, not only in literature and in arts, but likewise in

philosophy, and in a number of other ways.

All these means employed by the great novelist certainly succeed in

making of "Venetia" a most delightful book; but notwithstanding its

charms, as we read, it is impossible not to ask one's self at times

whether a historical novel is thus entitled to encroach upon the

biography of great men. Without pretending to settle the question, I own

that I rather appreciate the truth of a historical work than all the

pleasure which the talent of an author can afford me, and it appears to

me that if Mr. Disraeli, with his admirable talent, had chosen to write

the life of Lord Byron, he would have done better. We should not, it is

true, have had in the biography either the pleasant life at Cherbury, or

the scene at Newstead, neither the duel nor its consequences; but we

should have had almost a similar Lady Mounteagle, and we should have

seen the rise of that same base spirit in his colleague which greeted

him at one period of his life, the same wickedness which assailed him,

the same jealousy with which he was looked upon, the same cruel

persecution to which he was subjected, the same hatred which assailed

him on the part of the people who had a little before so idolized him,

and, in short, the same reaction in the public mind which actually took

place. We should, on the other hand, have equally seen the same noble

mind, too proud again to submit to the curb under the yoke of popular

public feeling. He would not have shown us a charming Lady Annabel

styled a virtuous woman, though she abandons her husband simply because

she believes he no longer entertains for her all the ardent love which

he had evinced during the honey-moon!--a Lady Annabel, indeed, who

constitutes in herself a being morally impossible, who though she does

abandon her husband, spends her night in bewailing his loss at the foot

of his portrait; who, though she adores her daughter, nearly causes her

death with grief from the fear which she has that the child will not

marry a man of genius like her father. Instead of such a woman we should

have had, if not one more logical in her acts, at least more real and

historical, and exemplifying the painful and murderous effects of

silence in the condemnation of a man against whom the venom of calumny

has been directed--that man being no less a person than her own husband.

Instead of a Lady Annabel repentant at last, and self-accusing, truth

and reality would have presented us with an insensible, hard-hearted,

and inexorable woman, who remains inflexible to the last, and who

deserves that the effects should be applied to her of the words which

Cadurcis, in a moment of despair, pronounces against Venetia's mother,

when the former declares that she is the victim of her mother, but that

nevertheless she will do her duty:

"Then my curse upon your mother's head! May Heaven rain all its plagues

upon her! The Hecate!"

We should not have had a Venetia who is truly a delicious emanation from

a poet's mind, and the only woman worthy of becoming the wife of Lord

Byron, who sums up in herself all the tenderness which he must have

inspired in or felt for a woman, a sister, or a daughter. But we should

have had, instead of her, three persons who really existed, and who

exercised a great influence over Lord Byron's life. The one a young lady

of eighteen, whom Lord Byron styled light and coquettish, but who really

possessed his heart at fifteen years of age; the other his dear Augusta,

who was truly a Venetia toward him; and finally, his beloved little Ada,

for whom he had such a paternal tenderness. Instead of an elderly

Herbert returning to domestic happiness, which would simply have been

impossible with the wife whom Fate had chosen for Lord Byron, we should

have had a handsome young man who has not waited until he had reached

the mature age of Herbert to be adorned with every virtue, in whom

reason is not the effect of growing years, whose wisdom is not that of

the old; and instead of the pathetic catastrophe which is attributed to

Herbert and Cadurcis together, and which really occurred to Shelley, we

should have had Lord Byron's real death, which was infinitely more

pathetic, and could have been described in equally beautiful and

heartrending language. How sublime would have been the history of the

death of that young man who at the age of thirty-four heroically

sacrifices his life for the independence of a country which is not his

own, and whose patriotism is greater than that of his countrymen, since

he prefers the cause of humanity to the interests of the little spot on

the globe where he was born!

If, then, instead of a novel, Mr. Disraeli had given us a true history,

the work would have been an everlasting monument erected to the memory

of two noble beings, and would have been transmitted to posterity as a

valuable testimony of the virtues of Lord Byron.

As the book stands, and written by such a man as Mr. Disraeli, it will

ever remain a study worthy of being quoted among those whose object it

is to proclaim the truth respecting Lord Byron.

PARIS, _November, 1868_.

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End of Project Gutenberg's My Recollections of Lord Byron, by Teresa Guiccioli