Several days passed after the requiem service held in the Church of S.
Spiridion. Meanwhile the necessary preparations were made for transporting
the body to Zante. On May 2 the coffin was carried down to the seaside on
the shoulders of four military chiefs, and attended in the same order as
before. The guns of the fortress saluted until the moment of embarkation.
The vessel which bore the body reached the island of Zante on the third
day after leaving Missolonghi, having, as Gamba says, taken the same
course exactly as on the voyage out. The vessel, owing to head-winds, was
brought to anchor close to the same rocks where Byron had sought shelter
from the Turkish frigate.
'On the evening of the 4th May,' says Gamba, 'we made the port of
Zante, and heard that Lord Sidney Osborne had arrived, but, not
finding us in that island, had sailed for Missolonghi.'
Blaquière, who was at Zante at the time, says:
'The vessel was recognized at a considerable distance, owing to her
flag being at half-mast. She entered the mole towards sunset. The body
was accompanied by the whole of his lordship's attendants, who
conveyed it to the lazaretto on the following morning.'
During the time that the body of Lord Byron was detained at the lazaretto,
a discussion arose as to the final disposal of the remains, Colonel
Stanhope and others being of opinion that they should be interred in the
Parthenon at Athens. It would seem that such a course would have met with
Byron's approval; but, in deference to what were then supposed to have
been the wishes of the poet's family, it was finally arranged to charter
the brig _Florida_, which had lately arrived at Zante with the first
instalment of the Greek loan. In this connection, the last entry in
Gamba's journal may be quoted in full:
'A few days after our arrival at Zante, Colonel Stanhope came from the
Morea. He had already written to inform us that the Greek chieftains
of Athens had expressed their desire that Lord Byron should be buried
in the Temple of Theseus. The citizens of Missolonghi had made a
similar request for their town; and we thought it advisable to accede
to their wishes so far as to leave with them, for interment, one of
the vessels containing a portion of the honoured remains. As he had
not expressed any wishes on the subject,[26] we thought the most
becoming course was to convey him to his native country. Accordingly,
the ship that had brought us the specie was engaged for that purpose.
Colonel Stanhope kindly took charge; and on the 25th May the
_Florida_, having on board the remains of Lord Byron, set sail for
England from the port of Zante.'
The following tribute to Byron from the pen of Blaquière, written on May
24, 1824, must here be given:
'Every letter of Byron's, in which any allusion was made to the Greek
cause, proved how judiciously he viewed that great question, while it
displayed a thorough knowledge of the people he had come to assist.
This latter circumstance, which made him more cautious in avoiding
every interference calculated to wound the self-love of the Greeks,
who, though fallen, are still remarkable for their pride, accounts for
the great popularity he had acquired.
'It may be truly said that no foreigner who has hitherto espoused the
cause made greater allowance for the errors inseparable from it than
did Lord Byron.
'With respect to his opinion as to the best mode of bringing the
contest to a triumphant close, and healing those differences which
have been created by party spirit or faction, there is reason to
believe that the subject occupied his particular attention, and he was
even more than once heard to say that "no person had as yet hit upon
the right plan for securing the independence of Greece."
'While sedulously employed in reconciling jarring interests and
promoting a spirit of union, the grand maxim which he laboured to
instil into the Greeks was that of making every other object secondary
and subservient to the paramount one of driving out the Turks.'
At six o'clock on the evening of that day, Blaquière added the following
words:
'I have this instant returned on shore, after having performed the
melancholy duty of towing the remains of Lord Byron alongside the
_Florida_.
'I should add that, in consequence of there being no means of
procuring lead for the coffin at Zante, it was arranged that the tin
case prepared at Missolonghi should be enclosed in wood; so that there
is now no fear that the body will not reach England in perfect
preservation. The only mark of respect shown to-day was displayed by
the merchant vessels in the bay and mole. The whole of these, whether
English or foreign, had their flags at half-mast, and many of them
fired guns. The _Florida_ fired minute-guns from the time of our
leaving the lazaretto until we got alongside, when the body was taken
on board, and placed in a space prepared for that purpose. The whole
is painted black, and, thanks to the foresight of my friend Robinson,
an escutcheon very well executed designates the mournful receptacle.
Although no honours have been paid to the remains of our immortal
poet here, we look forward with melancholy satisfaction to those which
await him in the land of his birth.
'However bitterly his pen may have lashed the vices and follies of his
day, it is not the least honourable trait in our national character
that neither personal dislike nor those prejudices which arise from
literary jealousy and political animosity prevent us from duly
appreciating departed worth, and even forgetting those aberrations to
which all are more or less liable in this state of imperfection and
fallibility.'
The following extracts are taken from Lord Broughton's 'Recollections of a
Long Life,' a work that was printed, but not published, in 1865. As the
opinions of Byron's life-long friend, John Cam Hobhouse, they cannot fail
to interest the reader:[27]
'How much soever the Greeks of that day may have differed on other
topics, there was no difference of opinion in regard to the loss they
had sustained by the death of Byron. Those who have read Colonel
Leicester Stanhope's interesting volume, "Greece in 1823 and 1824,"
and more particularly Colonel Stanhope's "Sketch" and Mr. Finlay's
"Reminiscences" of Byron, will have seen him just as he appeared to me
during our long intimacy. I liked him a great deal too well to be an
impartial judge of his character; but I can confidently appeal to the
impressions he made upon the two above-mentioned witnesses of his
conduct, under very trying circumstances, for a justification of my
strong affection for him--an affection not weakened by the forty years
of a busy and chequered life that have passed over me since I saw him
laid in his grave.
'The influence he had acquired in Greece was unbounded, and he had
exerted it in a manner most useful to her cause. Lord Sidney Osborne,
writing to Mrs. Leigh, said that, if Byron had never written a line in
his life, he had done enough, during the last six months in Greece, to
immortalize his name. He added that no one unacquainted with the
circumstances of the case could have any idea of the difficulties he
had overcome. He had reconciled the contending parties, and had given
a character of humanity and civilization to the warfare in which they
were engaged, besides contriving to prevent them from offending their
powerful neighbours in the Ionian Islands.
'I heard that Sir F. Adam,[28] in a despatch to Lord Bathurst, bore
testimony to his great qualities, and lamented his death as depriving
the Ionian Government of the only man with whom they could act with
safety. Mavrocordato, in his letter to Dr. Bowring, called him "a
great man," and confessed that he was almost ignorant how to act when
deprived of such a coadjutor.... On Thursday, July 1, I heard that the
_Florida_, with the remains of Byron, had arrived in the Downs, and I
went the same evening to Rochester. The next morning I went to
Standgate Creek, and, taking a boat, went on board the vessel. There I
found Colonel Leicester Stanhope, Dr. Bruno, Fletcher, Byron's valet,
with three others of his servants. Three dogs that had belonged to my
friend were playing about the deck. I could hardly bring myself to
look at them. The vessel had got under-weigh, and we beat up the river
to Gravesend. I cannot describe what I felt during the five or six
hours of our passage. I was the last person who shook hands with Byron
when he left England in 1816. I recollected his waving his cap to me
as the packet bounded off on a curling wave from the pier-head at
Dover, and here I was now coming back to England with his corpse.
'Poor Fletcher burst into tears when he first saw me, and wept
bitterly when he told me the particulars of my friend's last illness.
These have been frequently made public, and need not be repeated here.
I heard, however, on undoubted authority, that until he became
delirious he was perfectly calm; and I called to mind how often I had
heard him say that he was not apprehensive as to death itself, but as
to how, from physical infirmity, he might behave at that inevitable
hour. On one occasion he said to me, "Let no one come near me when I
am dying, if you can help it, and we happen to be together at the
time."
'The _Florida_ anchored at Gravesend, and I returned to London;
Colonel Stanhope accompanied me. This was on Friday, July 2. On the
following Monday I went to Doctors' Commons and proved Byron's will.
Mr. Hanson did so likewise. Thence I went to London Bridge, got into a
boat, and went to London Docks Buoy, where the _Florida_ was anchored.
I found Mr. Woodeson, the undertaker, on board, employed in emptying
the spirit from the large barrel containing the box that held the
corpse. This box was removed, and placed on deck by the side of a
leaden coffin. I stayed whilst the iron hoops were knocked off the
box; but I could not bear to see the remainder of the operation, and
went into the cabin. Whilst there I looked over the sealed packet of
papers belonging to Byron, which he had deposited at Cephalonia, and
which had not been opened since he left them there. Captain Hodgson of
the _Florida_, the captain's father, and Fletcher, were with me; we
examined every paper, and did not find any will. Those present signed
a document to that effect.
'After the removal of the corpse into the coffin, and the arrival of
the order from the Custom-house, I accompanied the undertaker in the
barge with the coffin. There were many boats round the ship at the
time, and the shore was crowded with spectators. We passed quietly up
the river, and landed at Palace Yard stairs. Thence the coffin and the
small chest containing the heart were carried to the house in George
Street, and deposited in the room prepared for their reception. The
room was decently hung with black, but there was no other decoration
than an escutcheon of the Byron arms, roughly daubed on a deal board.
'On reaching my rooms at the Albany, I found a note from Mr. Murray,
telling me that he had received a letter from Dr. Ireland, politely
declining to allow the burial of Byron in Westminster Abbey; but it
was not until the next day that, to my great surprise, I learnt, on
reading the doctor's note, that Mr. Murray had made the request to the
Dean in my name. I thought that it had been settled that Mr. Gifford
should sound the Dean of Westminster previously to any formal request
being made. I wrote to Mr. Murray, asking him to inform the Dean that
I had not made the request. Whether he did so, I never inquired.
'I ascertained from Mrs. Leigh that it was wished the interment should
take place at the family vault at Hucknall in Nottinghamshire. The
utmost eagerness was shown, both publicly and privately, to get sight
of anything connected with Byron. Lafayette was at that time on his
way to America, and a young Frenchman came over from the General at
Havre, and wrote me a note requesting a sight of the deceased poet.
The coffin had been closed, and his wishes could not be complied with.
A young man came on board the _Florida_, and in very moving terms
besought me to allow him to take one look at him. I was sorry to be
obliged to refuse, as I did not know the young man, and there were
many round the vessel who would have made the same request. He was
bitterly disappointed; and when I gave him a piece of the cotton in
which the corpse had been wrapped, he took it with much devotion, and
placed it in his pocket-book. Mr. Phillips, the Academician, applied
for permission to take a likeness, but I heard from Mrs. Leigh that
the features of her brother had been so disfigured by the means used
to preserve his remains, that she scarcely recognized them. This was
the fact; for I had summoned courage enough to look at my dead friend;
so completely was he altered, that the sight did not affect me so much
as looking at his handwriting, or anything that I knew had belonged to
him.'
The following account by Colonel Leicester Stanhope, probably outlined
during his voyage home with Byron's body, is well worth reading. It
unveils the personality of Byron as he appeared during those trying times
at Missolonghi, when, tortured by illness and worried by dissensions among
his coadjutors, he gave his life to Greece. Stanhope's sketch conveys the
honest opinion of a man whose political views, differing fundamentally
from those of Byron, brought them often in collision. But for this reason,
perhaps, this record is the more valuable. It is written without
prejudice, with considerable perspicuity, and with unquestionable
sincerity. Its peculiar value lies in the approval which, as we have seen,
it received from Mr. Hobhouse, who undoubtedly was better acquainted with
the character of Byron than any of his contemporaries.
'In much of what certain authors have lately said in praise of Lord
Byron I concur. The public are indebted to them for useful information
concerning that extraordinary man's biography. I do not, however,
think that any of them have given of him a full and masterly
description. It would require a person of his own wonderful capacity
to draw his character, and even he could not perform this task
otherwise than by continuing the history of what passed in his mind;
for his character was as versatile as his genius. From his writings,
therefore, he must be judged, and from them can he alone be
understood. His character was, indeed, poetic, like his works, and he
partook of the virtues and vices of the heroes of his imagination.
Lord Byron was original and eccentric in all things, and his conduct
and his writings were unlike those of other men. He might have said
with Rousseau: "Moi seul. Je sens mon coeur et je connois les hommes.
Je ne suis fait comme aucun de ceux qui existent. Si je ne vaux pas
mieux, au moins, je suis autre. Si la nature a bien ou mal fait de
briser le moule dans lequel elle m'a jetté, c'est dont on ne peut
juger qu'après m'avoir lu." All that can be hoped is, that, after a
number of the ephemeral sketches of Lord Byron have been published,
and ample information concerning him obtained, some master-hand will
undertake the task of drawing his portrait. If anything like justice
be done to Lord Byron, his character will appear far more
extraordinary than any his imagination has produced, and not less
wonderful than those sublime and inimitable sketches created and
painted by the fanciful pen of Shakespeare.
'There were two circumstances which appear to me to have had a
powerful influence on Byron's conduct. I allude to his lameness and
his marriage. The deformity of his foot constantly preyed on his
spirits and soured his temper. It is extraordinary, however, and
contrary, I believe, to the conduct of the generality of lame persons,
that he pitied, sympathized, and befriended, those who laboured under
similar defects.
'With respect to Lady Byron, her image appeared to be rooted in his
mind. She had wounded Lord Byron's pride by having refused his first
offer of marriage; by having separated herself from him whom others
assiduously courted; and by having resisted all the efforts of his
genius to compel her again to yield to his dominion. Had Lady Byron
been submissive, could she have stooped to become a caressing slave,
like other ingenious slaves, she might have governed her lord and
master. But no, she had a mind too great, and was too much of an
Englishwoman to bow so low. These contrarieties set Lord Byron's heart
on fire, roused all his passions, gave birth, no doubt, to many of his
sublimest thoughts, and impelled him impetuously forward in his zigzag
career. When angry or humorous, she became the subject of his wild
sport; at other times she seemed, though he loved her not, to be the
mistress of his feelings, and one whom he in vain attempted to cast
from his thoughts. Thus, in a frolicsome tone, I have heard him sketch
characters, and, speaking of a certain acquaintance, say, "With the
exception of Southey and Lady Byron, there is no one I hate so much."
This was a noisy shot--a sort of a _feu de joie_, that inflicted no
wound, and left no scar behind. Lord Byron was in reality a
good-natured man, and it was a violence to his nature, which he seldom
practised, either to conceal what he thought or to harbour revenge. In
one conversation which I had with Lord Byron, he dwelt much upon the
acquirements and virtues of Lady Byron, and even said she had
committed no fault but that of having married him. The truth is, that
he was not formed for marriage. His riotous genius could not bear
restraint. No woman could have lived with him but one devoid of, or of
subdued, feelings--an Asiatic slave. Lord Byron, it is well known, was
passionately fond of his child; of this he gave me the following
proof. He showed me a miniature of Ada, as also a clever description
of her character, drawn by her mother, and forwarded to him by the
person he most esteemed, his amiable sister. After I had examined the
letter, while reflecting on its contents, I gazed intently on the
picture; Lord Byron, observing me in deep meditation, impatiently
said, "Well, well, what do you think of Ada?" I replied, "If these are
true representations of Ada, and are not drawn to flatter your vanity,
you have engrafted on her your virtues and your failings. She is in
mind and feature the very image of her father." Never did I see man
feel more pleasure than Lord Byron felt at this remark; his eyes
lightened with ecstasy.
'Lord Byron's mental and personal courage was unlike that of other
men. To the superficial observer his conduct seemed to be quite
unsettled; this was really the case to a certain extent. His genius
was boundless and excursive, and in conversation his tongue went
rioting on
'"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."
'Still, upon the whole, no man was more constant, and, I may almost
say, more obstinate in the pursuit of some great objects. For example,
in religion and politics he seemed firm as a rock, though like a rock
he was subjected to occasional rude shocks, the convulsions of
agitated nature.
'The assertions I have ventured to make of Lord Byron having fixed
opinions on certain material questions are not according to his own
judgment. From what fell from his own lips, I could draw no such
conclusions, for, in conversing with me on government and religion,
and after going wildly over these subjects, sometimes in a grave and
philosophical, and sometimes in a laughing and humorous strain, he
would say: "The more I think, the more I doubt; I am a perfect
sceptic." In contradiction to this assertion, I set Lord Byron's
recorded sentiments, and his actions from the period of his boyhood to
that of his death; and I contend that although he occasionally veered
about, yet he always returned to certain fixed opinions; and that he
felt a constant attachment to liberty, according to our notions of
liberty, and that, although no Christian, he was a firm believer in
the existence of a God. It is, therefore, equally remote from truth to
represent him as either an atheist or a Christian: he was, as he has
often told me, a confirmed deist.
'Lord Byron was no party politician. Lord Clare was the person whom he
liked best, because he was his old school acquaintance. Mr. John Cam
Hobhouse was his long-tried, his esteemed, and valued literary and
personal friend. Death has severed these, but there is a soul in
friendship that can never die. No man ever chose a nobler friend. Mr.
Hobhouse has given many proofs of this, and among others, I saw him,
from motives of high honour, destroy a beautiful poem of Lord Byron's,
and, perhaps, the last he ever composed. The same reason that induced
Mr. H. to tear this fine manuscript will, of course, prevent him or me
from ever divulging its contents. Mr. Douglas Kinnaird was another for
whom Lord Byron entertained the sincerest esteem: no less on account
of his high social qualities, than as a clear-sighted man of business,
on whose discretion he could implicitly rely. Sir Francis Burdett was
the politician whom he most admired. He used to say, "Burdett is an
Englishman of the old school." He compared the Baronet to the
statesmen of Charles I.'s time, whom he considered the sternest and
loftiest spirits that Britain had produced. Lord Byron entertained
high aristocratic notions, and had much family pride. He admired,
notwithstanding, the American institutions, but did not consider them
of so democratic a nature as is generally imagined. He found, he said,
many Englishmen and English writers more imbued with liberal notions
than those Americans and American authors with whom he was acquainted.
'Lord Byron was chivalrous even to Quixotism. This might have lowered
him in the estimation of the wise, had he not given some extraordinary
proofs of the noblest courage. For example, the moment he recovered
from that alarming fit which took place in my room, he inquired again
and again, with the utmost composure, whether he was in danger. If in
danger, he desired the physician honestly to apprise him of it, for he
feared not death. Soon after this dreadful paroxysm, when Lord Byron,
faint with overbleeding, was lying on his sick-bed, with his whole
nervous system completely shaken, the mutinous Suliotes, covered with
dirt and splendid attires, broke into his apartment, brandishing their
costly arms, and loudly demanding their wild rights. Lord Byron,
electrified by this unexpected act, seemed to recover from his
sickness; and the more the Suliotes raged, the more his calm courage
triumphed. The scene was truly sublime.
'At times Lord Byron would become disgusted with the Greeks, on
account of their horrid cruelties, their delays, their importuning him
for money, and their not fulfilling their promises. That he should
feel thus was very natural, although all this is just what might be
anticipated from a people breaking loose from ages of bondage. We are
too apt to expect the same conduct from men educated as slaves (and
here be it remembered that the Greeks were the Helots of slaves) that
we find in those who have, from their infancy, breathed the wholesome
atmosphere of liberty.
'Most persons assume a virtuous character. Lord Byron's ambition, on
the contrary, was to make the world imagine that he was a sort of
"Satan," though occasionally influenced by lofty sentiments to the
performance of great actions. Fortunately for his fame, he possessed
another quality, by which he stood completely unmasked. He was the
most ingenuous of men, and his nature, in the main good, always
triumphed over his acting.
'There was nothing that he detested more than to be thought merely a
great poet, though he did not wish to be esteemed inferior as a
dramatist to Shakspeare. Like Voltaire, he was unconsciously jealous
of, and for that reason abused, our immortal bard. His mind was
absorbed in detecting Shakspeare's glaring defects, instead of being
overpowered by his wonderful creative and redeeming genius. He assured
me that he was so far from being a "heaven-born poet" that he was not
conscious of possessing any talent in that way when a boy. This gift
had burst upon his mind unexpectedly, as if by inspiration, and had
excited his wonder. He also declared that he had no love or enthusiasm
for poetry. I shook my head doubtingly, and said to him that, although
he had displayed a piercing sagacity in reading and developing the
characters of others, he knew but little of his own. He replied:
"Often have I told you that I am a perfect sceptic. I have no fixed
opinions; that is my character. Like others, I am not in love with
what I possess, but with that which I do not possess, and which is
difficult to obtain." Lord Byron was for shining as a hero of the
first order. He wished to take an active part in the civil and
military government of Greece.[29] On this subject he consulted me; I
condemned the direct assumption of command by a foreigner, fearing
that it would expose him to envy and danger without promoting the
cause. I wished him, by a career of perfect disinterestedness, to
preserve a commanding influence over the Greeks, and to act as their
great mediator. Lord Byron listened to me with unusual and courteous
politeness, for he suspected my motives--he thought me
envious--jealous of his increasing power; and though he did not
disregard, did not altogether follow my advice. I was not, however, to
be disarmed either by politeness or suspicions; they touched me not,
for my mind was occupied with loftier thoughts. The attack was renewed
the next day in a mild tone. The collision, however, of Lord Byron's
arguments, sparkling with jests, and mine, regardless of his
brilliancy and satire, all earnestness, ended as usual in a storm.
Though most anxious to assume high power, Lord Byron was still modest.
He said to me, laughing, that if Napier came, he would _supersede
himself_, as Governor and Commander of Western Greece, in favour of
that distinguished officer. I laughed at this whimsical expression
till I made Lord Byron laugh, too, and repeat over again that he would
"supersede himself."
'The mind of Lord Byron was like a volcano, full of fire and wealth,
sometimes calm, often dazzling and playful, but ever threatening. It
ran swift as the lightning from one subject to another, and
occasionally burst forth in passionate throes of intellect, nearly
allied to madness. A striking instance of this sort of eruption I
shall mention. Lord Byron's apartments were immediately over mine at
Missolonghi. In the dead of the night I was frequently startled from
my sleep by the thunders of his lordship's voice, either raging with
anger or roaring with laughter, and rousing friends, servants, and,
indeed, all the inmates of the dwelling, from their repose. Even when
in the utmost danger, Lord Byron contemplated death with calm
philosophy. He was, however, superstitious, and dreadfully alarmed at
the idea of going mad, which he predicted would be his sad destiny.
'As a companion, no one could be more amusing; he had neither pedantry
nor affectation about him, but was natural and playful as a boy. His
conversation resembled a stream, sometimes smooth, sometimes rapid,
and sometimes rushing down in cataracts; it was a mixture of
philosophy and slang--of everything--like his "Don Juan." He was a
patient and, in general, a very attentive listener. When, however, he
did engage with earnestness in conversation, his ideas succeeded each
other with such uncommon rapidity that he could not control them. They
burst from him impetuously; and although he both attended to and
noticed the remarks of others, yet he did not allow these to check his
discourse for an instant.
'Lord Byron professed a deep-rooted antipathy to the English, though
he was always surrounded by Englishmen, and, in reality, preferred
them (as he did Italian women) to all others. I one day accused him of
ingratitude to his countrymen. For many years, I observed, he had
been, in spite of his faults, and although he had shocked all her
prejudices, the pride, and I might almost say the idol, of Britain. He
said they must be a stupid race to worship such an idol, but he had at
last cured their superstition, as far as his divinity was concerned,
by the publication of his "Cain." It was true, I replied, that he had
now lost their favour. This remark stung him to the soul, for he
wished not only to occupy the public mind, but to command, by his
genius, public esteem.
'This extraordinary person, whom everybody was as anxious to see, and
to know, as if he had been a Napoleon, the conqueror of the world, had
a notion that he was hated, and avoided like one who had broken
quarantine. He used often to mention to me the kindness of this or
that insignificant individual, for having given him a good and
friendly reception. In this particular Lord Byron was capricious, for
at Genoa he would scarcely see anyone but those who lived in his own
family; whereas at Cephalonia he was to everyone and at all times
accessible. At Genoa he acted the misanthropist; at Cephalonia he
appeared in his genuine character, doing good, and rather courting
than shunning society.
'Lord Byron conceived that he possessed a profound knowledge of
mankind, and of the working of their passions. In this he judged
right. He could fathom every mind and heart but his own, the extreme
depths of which none ever reached. On my arrival from England at
Cephalonia, his lordship asked me what new publications I had brought
out. Among others I mentioned "The Springs of Action." "Springs of
Action!" said Lord Byron, stamping with rage with his lame foot, and
then turning sharply on his heel, "I don't require to be taught on
this head. I know well what are the springs of action." Some time
afterwards, while speaking on another subject, he desired me to lend
him "The Springs of Action." He then suddenly changed the conversation
to some humorous remarks for the purpose of diverting my attention. I
could not, however, forbear reminding him of his former observations
and his furious stamp.
'Avarice and great generosity were among Lord Byron's qualities; these
contrarieties are said not unfrequently to be united in the same
person. As an instance of Lord Byron's parsimony, he was constantly
attacking Count Gamba, sometimes, indeed, playfully, but more often
with the bitterest satire, for having purchased for the use of his
family, while in Greece, 500 dollars' worth of cloth. This he used to
mention as an instance of the Count's imprudence and extravagance.
Lord Byron told me one day, with a tone of great gravity, that this
500 dollars would have been most serviceable in promoting the siege of
Lepanto; and that he never would, to the last moment of his existence,
forgive Gamba for having squandered away his money in the purchase of
cloth. No one will suppose that Lord Byron could be serious in such a
denunciation; he entertained, in reality, the highest opinion of Count
Gamba, who both on account of his talents and devotedness to his
friend merited his lordship's esteem.
'Lord Byron's generosity is before the world; he promised to devote
his large income to the cause of Greece, and he honestly acted up to
his pledge. It was impossible for Lord Byron to have made a more
useful, and therefore a more noble, sacrifice of his wealth, than by
devoting it, _with discretion_, to the Greek cause. He set a bright
example to the millionaires of his own country, who certainly show but
little public spirit. Most of them expend their fortunes in acts of
ostentation or selfishness. Few there are of this class who will
devote, perchance, the hundredth part of their large incomes to acts
of benevolence or bettering the condition of their fellow-men. None of
our millionaires, with all their pride and their boasting have had the
public virtue, like Lord Byron, to sacrifice their incomes or their
lives in aid of a people struggling for liberty.
'Lord Byron's reading was desultory, but extensive; his memory was
retentive to an extraordinary extent. He was partial to the Italian
poets, and is said to have borrowed from them. Their fine thoughts he
certainly associated with his own, but with such skill that he could
not be accused of plagiarism. Lord Byron possessed, indeed, a genius
absolutely boundless, and could create with such facility that it
would have been irksome to him to have become a servile imitator. He
was original in all things, but especially as a poet.
'The study of voyages and travels was that in which he most delighted;
their details he seemed actually to devour. He would sit up all night
reading them. His whole soul was absorbed in these adventures, and he
appeared to personify the traveller. Lord Byron had a particular
aversion to business; his familiar letters were scrawled out at a
great rate, and resembled his conversations. Rapid as were his tongue
and his pen, neither could keep pace with the quick succession of
ideas that flashed across his mind. He hated nothing more than writing
formal official letters; this drudgery he would generally put off from
day to day, and finish by desiring Count Gamba, or some other friend,
to perform the task. No wonder that Lord Byron should dislike this
dry antipoetic work, and which he, in reality, performed with so much
difficulty. Lord Byron's arduous yet unsuccessful labours in this
barren field put me in mind of the difficulty which one of the
biographers of Addison describes this politician to have experienced,
when attempting to compose an official paragraph for the _Gazette_
announcing the death of the Queen. This duty, after a long and
ineffectual attempt, the Minister, in despair, handed over to a clerk,
who (not being a genius, but a man of business) performed it in an
instant.
'Not less was Lord Byron's aversion to reading than to writing
official documents; these he used to hand over to me, pretending,
spite of all my protestations to the contrary, that I had a passion
for documents. When once Lord Byron had taken any whim into his head,
he listened not to contradiction, but went on laughing and satirizing
till his joke had triumphed over argument and fact. Thus I, for the
sake of peace, was sometimes silent, and suffered him to
good-naturedly bully me into reading over, or, rather, yawning over, a
mass of documents dull and uninteresting.
'Lord Byron once told me, in a humorous tone, but apparently quite in
earnest, that he never could acquire a competent knowledge of
arithmetic. Addition and subtraction he said he could, though with
some difficulty, accomplish. The mechanism of the rule of three
pleased him, but then division was a puzzle he could not muster up
sufficient courage to unravel. I mention this to show of how low a
cast Lord Byron's capacity was in some commonplace matters, where he
could not command attention. The reverse was the case on subjects of a
higher order, and in those trifling ones, too, that pleased his fancy.
Moved by such themes, the impulses of his genius shot forth, by day
and night, from his troubled brain, electric sparks or streams of
light, like blazing meteors.
'Lord Byron loved Greece. Her climate and her scenery, her history,
her struggles, her great men and her antiquities, he admired. He
declared that he had no mastery over his own thoughts. In early youth
he was no poet, nor was he now, except when the fit was upon him, and
he felt his mind agitated and feverish. These attacks, he continued,
scarcely ever visited him anywhere but in Greece; there he felt
himself exhilarated--metamorphosed into another person, and with
another soul--in short, never had he, but in Greece, written one good
line of poetry. This is a fact exaggerated, as facts often are, by the
impulses of strong feelings. It is not on that account less calculated
to convey to others the character of Lord Byron's mind, or to impress
it the less upon their recollections.
'Once established at Missolonghi, it required some great impetus to
move Lord Byron from that unhealthy swamp. On one occasion, when
irritated by the Suliotes and the constant applications for money, he
intimated his intention to depart. The citizens of Missolonghi and the
soldiers grumbled, and communicated to me, through Dr. Meyer, their
discontent. I repeated what I had heard to Lord Byron. He replied,
calmly, that he would rather be cut to pieces than imprisoned, for he
came to aid the Greeks in their struggle for liberty, and not to be
their slave. No wonder that the "Hellenists" endeavoured to impede
Lord Byron's departure, for even I, a mere soldier, could not escape
from Missolonghi, Athens, Corinth, or Salona, without considerable
difficulty. Some time previous to Lord Byron's death, he began to feel
a restlessness and a wish to remove to Athens or to Zante.'
On Monday, July 12, at eleven o'clock in the morning, the funeral
procession, attended by a great number of carriages and by crowds of
people, left No. 20, Great George Street, Westminster, and, passing the
Abbey, moved slowly to St. Pancras Gate. Here a halt was made; the
carriages returned, and the hearse proceeded by slow stages to Nottingham.
The Mayor and Corporation of Nottingham now joined the funeral procession.
Mr. Hobhouse, who attended, tells us that the cortège extended about a
quarter of a mile, and, moving very slowly, was five hours on the road to
Hucknall-Torkard.
'The view of it as it wound through the villages of Papplewick and
Lindlay excited sensations in me which will never be forgotten. As we
passed under the Hill of Annesley, "crowned with the peculiar diadem
of trees" immortalized by Byron, I called to mind a thousand
particulars of my first visit to Newstead. It was dining at Annesley
Park that I saw the first interview of Byron, after a long interval,
with his early love, Mary Anne Chaworth.
'The churchyard and the little church of Hucknall were so crowded that
it was with difficulty we could follow the coffin up the aisle. The
contrast between the gorgeous decorations of the coffin and the urn,
and the humble village church, was very striking. I was told
afterwards that the place was crowded until a late hour in the
evening, and that the vault was not closed until the next morning.
'I should mention that I thought Lady Byron ought to be consulted
respecting the funeral of her husband; and I advised Mrs. Leigh to
write to her, and ask what her wishes might be. Her answer was, if the
deceased had left no instructions, she thought the matter might be
left to the judgment of Mr. Hobhouse. There was a postscript, saying,
"If you like you may show this."'
Hobhouse concludes his account with these words:
'I was present at the marriage of this lady with my friend, and handed
her into the carriage which took the bride and bridegroom away.
Shaking hands with Lady Byron, I wished her all happiness. Her answer
was: "If I am _not_ happy, it will be my own fault."'
PART II
WHAT THE POEMS REVEAL
'Intesi, che a cosi fatto tormento
Enno dannati i peccator carnali
Che la ragion sommettono al talento.'
_Inferno_, Canto V., 37-39.
WHAT THE POEMS REVEAL
'Every author in some degree portrays himself in his works, even be it
against his will.'--GOETHE.
Lady Byron has expressed her opinion that almost every incident in Byron's
poems was drawn from his personal experience. In a letter to Lady Anne
Barnard, written two years after the separation, she says:
'In regard to [Byron's] poetry, egotism is the vital principle of his
imagination, which it is difficult for him to kindle on any subject
with which his own character and interests are not identified; but by
the introduction of fictitious incidents, by change of scene or time,
he has enveloped his poetical disclosures in a system impenetrable
except to a very few.'
Byron himself has told us in 'Don Juan' that his music 'has some mystic
diapasons, with much which could not be appreciated in any manner by the
_uninitiated_.' In a letter to John Murray (August 23, 1821), he says:
'Almost all "Don Juan" is _real_ life, either my own or from people I
knew.'
It is no exaggeration to say that in Byron's poems some of the mysterious
incidents in his life are plainly revealed. For example, 'Childe Harold,'
'The Giaour,' 'The Bride of Abydos,' 'The Corsair,' 'Lara,' 'The Dream,'
'Manfred,' 'Don Juan,' and several of the smaller pieces, all disclose
episodes connected with his own personal experience. In the so-called
'Fugitive Pieces' we get a glimpse of his school life and friendships;
his pursuits during the time that he resided with his mother at Southwell;
and his introduction to Cambridge. In the 'Hours of Idleness' we are
introduced to Mary Chaworth, after her marriage and the ruin of his hopes.
In the verse 'Remembrance' we realize that the dawn of his life is
overcast. We see, from some verses written in 1808, how, three years after
that marriage, he was still the victim of a fatal infatuation:
'I deem'd that Time, I deem'd that Pride,
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all--save hope--the same.'
After lingering for three months in the neighbourhood of the woman whom he
so unwisely loved, he finally resolved to break the chain:
'In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare;
I cannot view my Paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there.'
When about to leave England, in vain pursuit of the happiness he had lost,
he addresses passionate verses to Mary Chaworth:
'And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.'
He tells her that he has had love passages with another woman, in the vain
hope of destroying the love of his life:
'But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.'
He wished to say farewell, but dared not trust himself. In the cantos of
'Childe Harold,' written during his absence, he recurs to the subject
nearest to his heart. He says that before leaving Newstead--
'Oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some _deadly feud_
Or _disappointed passion_ lurked below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know.'
He mentions his mother, from whom he dreaded to part, and his sister
Augusta, whom he loved, but had not seen for some time. After his return
to England in 1811, he wrote the 'Thyrza' poems, and added some stanzas to
'Childe Harold,' wherein he expresses a hope that the separation between
himself and Mary Chaworth may not be eternal. He then pours out the
sorrows of his heart to Francis Hodgson. We cannot doubt that the 'Lines
written beneath a Picture,' composed at Athens in January, 1811,
'Dear object of defeated care!
Though now of Love and thee bereft,'
referred to Mary Chaworth, for he mentions the deathblow of his hope. In
the 'Epistle to a Friend,' Byron mentions the effect which a chance
meeting with Mary had upon him, causing him to realize that 'Time had not
made him love the less.'
The poems that have puzzled the commentator most were those which Byron
addressed to 'Thyrza'--a mysterious personage, whose identity has not
hitherto been discovered. The present writer proposes to enter fully, and,
he hopes, impartially, into the subject, trusting that the conclusions at
which he has arrived may ultimately be endorsed by others who have given
their serious attention to the question at issue.
In any attempt to unravel the mystery of the 'Thyrza' poems, it will be
necessary to consider, not only the circumstances in which they were
written, but also those associations of Byron's youth which inspired a
love that endured throughout his life.
Byron's attachment to his distant cousin, Mary Anne Chaworth, is well
known. We know that his boyish love was not returned, and that the young
heiress of Annesley married, in 1805, Mr. John Musters, of Colwick, in the
neighbourhood of Nottingham. In order to account for these love-poems, it
has been suggested that, subsequent to this marriage, Byron fell in love
with some incognita, whose identity has never been established, and who
died soon after his return to England in 1811.
We are unable to concur with so simple a solution of the mystery, for the
following reasons: It will be remembered that shortly after Mary
Chaworth's marriage Byron entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he
formed a romantic attachment to a young chorister, named Edleston, whose
life he had saved from drowning. Writing to Miss Elizabeth Pigot on June
30, 1807, Byron says:
'I quit Cambridge with very little regret, because our _set_ are
vanished, and my musical _protégé_ (Edleston), before mentioned, has
left the choir, and is stationed in a mercantile house of considerable
eminence in the Metropolis. You may have heard me observe he is,
exactly to an hour, two years younger than myself. I found him grown
considerably, and, as you may suppose, very glad to see his former
_Patron_.[30] He is nearly my height, very _thin_, very fair
complexion, dark eyes, and light locks.
'My opinion of his mind you already know; I hope I shall never have
occasion to change it.'
On July 5, 1807, Byron again wrote to Miss Pigot:
'At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in my _head_ and
_tears_ in my _eyes_; for I have just parted with my "Cornelian,"[31]
who spent the evening with me. As it was our last interview, I
postponed my engagement to devote the hours of the _Sabbath_ to
friendship: Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my mind
is a chaos of hope and sorrow.... I rejoice to hear you are interested
in my _protégé_; he has been my _almost constant_ associate since
October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. His _voice_ first
attracted my attention, his _countenance_ fixed it, and his _manner_
attached me to him for ever. He departs for a mercantile house in Town
in October, and we shall probably not meet till the expiration of my
minority, when I shall leave to his decision, either entering as a
_partner_ through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of
course he would, in his present frame of mind, prefer the latter, but
he may alter his opinion previous to that period; however, he shall
have his choice. I certainly love him more than any human being, and
neither time nor distance have had the least effect on my (in general)
changeable disposition. In short, we shall put Lady E. Butler and Miss
Ponsonby (the "Ladies of Llangollen," as they were called) to the
blush, Pylades and Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a
catastrophe like Nisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and David the
"go by." He certainly is perhaps more attached to me than even I am in
return. During the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every
day, summer and winter, without passing one tiresome moment, and
separated each time with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one
day see us together. He is the only being I esteem, though I _like_
many.'
This letter shows the depth of the boyish affection that had sprung up
between two lads with little experience of life. The attachment on both
sides was sincere, but not more so than many similar boy friendships,
which, alas! fade away under the chilling influences of time and
circumstance. In this case the 'Cornelian Heart' that had sparkled with
the tears of Edleston, and which, in the fervour of his feelings, Byron
had suspended round his neck, was, not long afterwards, transferred to
Miss Elizabeth Pigot.
A vague notion seems to prevail that the inspiration of these 'Thyrza'
poems is in some way connected with Edleston. This idea seems to have
arisen from Byron's allusion to a pledge of affection given in better
days:
'Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!'
We cannot accept this theory, being of opinion, not lightly formed, that
the 'bitter pledge' referred to had a far deeper and a more lasting
significance than ever could have belonged to 'the Cornelian heart that
was broken.'
In later years, it will be remembered, Byron told Medwin that, shortly
after his arrival at Cambridge, he fell into habits of dissipation, in
order to drown the remembrance of a hopeless passion for Mary Chaworth.
That Mary Chaworth held his affections at that time is beyond question.
She also had given Byron 'a token,' which was still in his possession when
the 'Thyrza' poems were written; whereas Edleston's gift had passed to
other hands. The following anecdote, related by the Countess Guiccioli,
may be accepted on Byron's authority:
'One day (while Byron and Musters were bathing in the Trent--a river
that runs through the grounds of Colwick) Mr. Musters perceived a ring
among Lord Byron's clothes, left on the bank. To see and take
possession of it was the affair of a moment. Musters had recognized it
as having belonged to Miss Chaworth. Lord Byron claimed it, but
Musters would not restore the ring. High words were exchanged. On
returning to the house, Musters jumped on a horse, and galloped off
to ask an explanation from Miss Chaworth, who, being forced to confess
that Lord Byron wore the ring with her consent, felt obliged to make
amends to Musters, by promising to declare immediately her engagement
with him.'
It is therefore probable that the 'dear simple gift,' of the first draft,
was the ring which Mary Chaworth had given to her boy lover in 1804, and
that the words we have quoted had no connection whatever with young
Edleston.
Assuming that the 'Thyrza' poems were addressed to a woman--and there is
abundant proof of this--it is remarkable that, neither in the whole course
of his correspondence with his friends, nor from any source whatever, can
any traces be found of any other serious attachment which would account
for the poems in question. Between the date of the marriage, in 1805, and
the autumn of 1808, Byron and Mary Chaworth had not met. It will be
remembered that in the autumn--only eight months before he left England
with Hobhouse--Byron met Mary Chaworth at dinner in her own home. The
effect of that meeting, which he has himself described, shows the depth of
his feelings, and precludes the idea that he could at that time have been
deeply interested in anyone else. After that meeting Byron remained three
months in the neighbourhood of Annesley; and it may be inferred that an
intimacy sprang up between them, which was broken off somewhat abruptly by
Mary's husband. There are traces of this in 'Lara.'
At the end of November, 1808, Byron writes from Newstead to his sister:
'I am living here alone, which suits my inclination better than
society of any kind.... I am a very unlucky fellow, for I think I had
naturally not a bad heart; but it has been so bent, twisted, and
trampled on, that it has now become as hard as a Highlander's
heelpiece.'
A fortnight later he writes to Hanson, his agent, and talks of either
marrying for money or blowing his brains out. It was then that he wrote
those verses addressed to Mary Chaworth:
'When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
'In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare;
I cannot view my Paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there.'
On January 25, 1809, Byron returned to London. It is hard to believe that
during those three months Byron did not often meet the lady of his love.
It is more than probable that the old friendship between them had been
renewed, since there is evidence to prove that, after Byron had taken his
seat in the House of Lords on March 13, 1809, he confided his
Parliamentary robes to Mary Chaworth's safe-keeping, a circumstance which
suggests a certain amount of neighbourly friendship.
In May, Byron again visited Newstead, where he entertained Matthews and
some of his college friends. That _sérénade indiscrète_,
''Tis done--and shivering in the gale,'
which was addressed to Mary Chaworth from Falmouth on, or about, June 22,
shows the state of his feelings towards her; but she does not seem to have
given him any encouragement, and there was no correspondence between them
during Byron's absence from England. Between July 2, 1809, and July 15,
1811, Byron's thoughts were fully occupied in other directions. His
distractions, which may be traced in his writings, were, however, not
sufficient to crush out the remembrance of that fatal infatuation. When,
in 1811, he returned to England, it was without pleasure, and without the
faintest hope of any renewal of an intimacy which Mary Chaworth had broken
off for both their sakes. He was in no hurry to visit Newstead, where his
mother anxiously awaited him, and dawdled about town, under various
pretexts, until the first week in August, when he heard of his mother's
serious illness. Before Byron reached Newstead his mother had died. He
seems to have heard of her illness one day, and of her death on the day
following. Although there had long been a certain estrangement between
them, all was now forgotten, and Byron felt his mother's death acutely.
It was at this time that he wrote to his friend Scrope Davies:
'Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother lies a corpse in this
house; one of my best friends (Charles Skinner Matthews) is drowned in
a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do? I received a letter from him
the day before yesterday.... Come to me, Scrope; I am almost
desolate--left almost alone in the world.'
In that gloomy frame of mind, in the solitude of a ruin--for Newstead at
that time was but little better than a ruin--Byron, on August 12, drew up
some directions for his will, in which he desired to be buried in the
garden at Newstead, by the side of his favourite dog Boatswain.
On the same day he wrote to Dallas, who was superintending the printing
of the first and second cantos of 'Childe Harold':
'Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake them. With a sigh to the
departed, let us resume the dull business of life, in the certainty
that we also shall have our repose. Besides her who gave me being, I
have lost more than one who made that being tolerable. Matthews, a man
of the first talents, and also not the worst of my narrow circle, has
perished miserably in the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal to
genius; my poor schoolfellow, Wingfield, at Coimbra--within a month;
and whilst I had heard from _all three_, but not seen _one_.... But
let this pass; we shall all one day pass along with the rest. The
world is too full of such things, and our very sorrow is selfish.... I
am already too familiar with the dead. It is strange that I look on
the skulls which stand beside me (I have always had _four_ in my
study) without emotion, but I cannot strip the features of those I
have known of their fleshy covering, even in idea, without a hideous
sensation; but the worms are less ceremonious. Surely, the Romans did
well when they burned the dead.'
The writer of this letter was in his twenty-fourth year!
Ten days later Byron writes to Hodgson:
'Indeed the blows followed each other so rapidly that I am yet stupid
from the shock; and though I do eat, and drink, and talk, and even
laugh at times, yet I can hardly persuade myself that I am awake, did
not every morning convince me mournfully to the contrary. I shall now
waive the subject, the dead are at rest, and none but the dead can be
so.... I am solitary, and I never felt solitude irksome before.'
At about the same date, in a letter to Dallas, Byron writes:
'At three-and-twenty I am left alone, and what more can we be at
seventy? It is true I am young enough to begin again, but with whom
can I retrace the laughing part of my life? It is odd how few of my
friends have died a quiet death--I mean, in their beds!
'I cannot settle to anything, and my days pass, with the exception of
bodily exercise to some extent, with uniform indolence and idle
insipidity.'
The verses, 'Oh! banish care,' etc., were written at this time.
In the following lines we see that his grief at the losses he had
sustained was deepened by the haunting memory of Mary Chaworth:
'I've seen my bride another's bride--
Have seen her seated by his side--
Have seen the infant which she bore
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain.
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Returned the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while _that_ woman's slave;
Have kissed, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And showed, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.'
Moore, who knew more of the inner workings of Byron's mind in later years
than anyone else, has told us that the poems addressed to 'Thyrza' were
merely 'the abstract spirit of many griefs,' and that the pseudonym was
given to an 'object of affection' to whom he poured out the sorrows of his
heart.
'All these recollections,' says Moore, 'of the young and dead now came
to mingle themselves in his mind with the image of her who, _though
living_, was for him as much lost as they, and diffused that general
feeling of sadness and fondness through his soul, which found a vent
in these poems. No friendship, however warm, could have inspired
sorrow so passionate; as no love, however pure, could have kept
passion so chastened.
'It was the blending of the two affections in his memory and
imagination that thus gave birth to an ideal object combining the best
features of both, and drew from him these saddest and tenderest of
love-poems, in which we find all the depth and intensity of real
feeling, touched over with such a light as no reality ever wore.'
Moore here expresses himself guardedly. He was one of the very few who
knew the whole story of Mary Chaworth's associations with Byron. He could
not, of course, betray his full knowledge; but he has made it sufficiently
clear that Byron, in writing the 'Thyrza' group of poems, was merely
strewing the flowers of poetry on the grave of his love for Mary Chaworth.
The first of these poems was written on the day on which he heard of the
death of Edleston. In a letter to Dallas he says:
'I have been again shocked by a _death_, and have lost one very dear
to me in happier times. I have become callous, nor have I a tear left
for an event which, five years ago, would have bowed down my head to
the earth. It seems as though I were to experience in my youth the
greatest misery of age. My friends fall around me, and I shall be left
a lonely tree before I am withered. Other men can always take refuge
in their families; I have no resource but my own reflections, and they
present no prospect here or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction
of surviving my betters. I am indeed very wretched, and you will
excuse my saying so, as you know I am not apt to cant of
sensibility.'[32]
Shortly after this letter was written Byron visited Cambridge, where,
among the many memories which that place awakened, a remembrance of the
young chorister and their ardent friendship was most vivid. Byron
recollected the Cornelian that Edleston gave him as a token of friendship,
and, now that the giver had passed away for ever, he regretted that he had
parted with it. The following letter to Mrs. Pigot explains itself:
'CAMBRIDGE,
'_October 28, 1811_.
'DEAR MADAM,
'I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well
do otherwise. You may remember a _cornelian_ which some years ago I
consigned to Miss Pigot--indeed I _gave_ to her--and now I am going to
make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it to
me, when I was very young, is _dead_, and though a long time has
elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that
person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value
by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my eyes.
If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under
these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be
transmitted to me at No. 8, St. James' Street, London, and I will
replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she
was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him that
formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the
giver of that cornelian died in May last of a consumption at the age
of twenty-one, making the sixth, within four months, of friends and
relatives that I have lost between May and the end of August.
'Believe me, dear madam,
'Yours very sincerely,
'BYRON.'
The cornelian when found, was returned to Byron, but apparently in a
broken condition.
'Ill-fated Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?'
It was through the depressing influence of solitude that the idea entered
Byron's mind to depict his (possibly eternal) separation from Mary
Chaworth in terms synonymous with death. With a deep feeling of desolation
he recalled every incident of his boyish love. We have seen how the image
of his lost Mary, now the wife of his rival, deepened the gloom caused by
the sudden death of his mother, and of some of his college friends. It was
to Mary, whom he dared not name, that he cried in his agony:
'By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The Past, the Future fled to thee,
To bid us meet--no, ne'er again!'
Her absence from Annesley, where he had hoped to find her on his return
home, was a great disappointment to him.
'Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!
Whom Youth and Youth's affections bound to me;
Who did for me what none beside have done,
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.
What is my Being! thou hast ceased to be!
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home,
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see--
Would they had never been, or were to come!
Would he had ne'er returned to find fresh cause to roam!
'Oh I ever loving, lovely, and beloved!
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far removed!
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast;
The Parent, Friend, and now the more than Friend:
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,
Hath snatch'd the little joy that Life hath yet to lend.
* * * * *
'What is the worst of woes that wait on Age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from Life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er Hearts divided and o'er Hopes destroyed:
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed,
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloyed.'
These stanzas were attached to the second canto of 'Childe Harold,' after
that poem was in the press. Mr. Ernest Hartley Coleridge, who so ably
edited the latest edition of the poetry of Byron, states that they were
sent to Dallas on the same day that Byron composed the poem 'To Thyrza.'
This is significant, as also his attempt to mystify Dallas by telling him
that he had again (October 11, 1811) been shocked by a death. This was
true enough, for he had on that day heard of the death of Edleston; but it
was _not_ true that the stanzas we have quoted had any connection with
that event. Mr. Coleridge in a note says:
'In connection with this subject, it may be noted that the lines 6 and
7 of Stanza XCV.,
'"Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home,
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see,"
do not bear out Byron's contention to Dallas (Letters, October 14 and
31, 1811) that in these three _in memoriam_ stanzas (IX., XCV., XCVI.)
he is bewailing an event which took place _after_ he returned to
Newstead.[33] The "more than friend" had "ceased to be" before the
"wanderer" returned. It is evident that Byron did not take Dallas into
his confidence.'
Assuredly he did not. The 'more than friend' was not _dead_; she had
merely absented herself, and did not stay to welcome the 'wanderer' on
his return from his travels. She was, however, _dead to him_ in a sense
far deeper than mere absence at such a time.
'The absent are the dead--for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold.'[34]
Mary Chaworth's presence would have consoled him at a time when he felt
alone in the world. He feared that she was lost to him for ever. He knew
her too well to suppose that she could ever be more to him than a friend;
and yet it was just that female sympathy and friendship for which he so
ardently yearned. In his unreasonableness, he was both hurt and
disappointed that this companion of his earlier days should have kept away
from her home at that particular time, and of course misconstrued the
cause. With the feeling that this parting must be eternal, he wished that
they could have met once more.
'Could this have been--a word, a look,
That softly said, "We part in peace,"
Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.'
In the bitterness of his desolation he recalled the days when they were at
Newstead together--probably stolen interviews, which find no place in
history--when
'many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere called but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours, too, the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whispered thought: the walks aside;
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss so guiltless and relined,
That Love each warmer wish forbore;
Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind,
Ev'n Passion blushed to plead for more.
The tone that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
_The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine_;
The pledge we wore--_I_ wear it still,
But where is thine? Ah! where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now!'
Six days after these lines were written Byron left Newstead. Writing to
Hodgson from his lodgings in St. James's Street, he enclosed some stanzas
which he had written a day or two before, 'on hearing a song of former
days.' The lady, whose singing now so deeply impressed Byron, was the Hon.
Mrs. George Lamb, whom he had met at Melbourne House.
In this, the second of the 'Thyrza' poems, the allusions to Mary Chaworth
are even more marked. Byron says the songs of Mrs. George Lamb 'speak to
him of brighter days,' and that he hopes to hear those strains no more:
'For now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I _am_--on what I _was_.
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled.
* * * * *
'On my ear
The well-remembered echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still.
* * * * *
'Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
_A Star_ that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turned from earth its tender beam.
But he who through Life's dreary way
Must pass, when Heaven is veiled in wrath,
Will long lament the vanished ray
That scattered gladness o'er his path.'
In Byron's imagination Mary Chaworth was always hovering over him like a
star. She was the 'starlight of his boyhood,' the 'star of his destiny,'
and three years later the poet, in his unpublished fragment 'Harmodia,'
speaks of Mary as his
'melancholy star
Whose tearful beam shoots trembling from afar.'
The third and last of the 'Thyrza' poems must have been written at about
the same time as the other two. It appeared with 'Childe Harold' in 1812.
Byron, weary of the gloom of solitude, and tortured by 'pangs that rent
his heart in twain,' now determined to break away and seek inspiration for
that mental energy which formed part of his nature. Man, he says, was not
made to live alone.
'I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, _but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here_.'
Byron's thoughts went back to the days when he was sailing over the bright
waters of the blue Ægean, in the _Salsette_ frigate, commanded by 'good
old Bathurst'[35]--those halcyon days when he was weaving his visions into
stanzas for 'Childe Harold.'
'On many a lone and lovely night
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deemed the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave,
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"--
Alas! it gleamed upon her grave!
'When stretched on Fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,
"'Tis comfort still," I faintly said,
"That Thyrza cannot know my pains."
Like freedom to the timeworn slave--
A boon 'tis idle then to give--
Relenting Nature vainly gave
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
'My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
_When Love and Life alike were new_!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with Sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent--ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.'
Byron here suggests that the pledge in question was given with the giver's
heart. Lovers are apt to interpret such gifts as 'love-tokens,' without
suspicion that they may possibly have been due to a feeling far less
flattering to their hopes.
'Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,
Or break the heart to which thou'rt pressed.
Time tempers Love, but not removes,
More hallowed when its Hope is fled.'
These three pieces comprise the so-called 'Thyrza' poems, and, in the
absence of proof to the contrary, we may reasonably suppose that their
subject was Mary Chaworth. This is the more likely because the original
manuscripts were the property of Byron's sister, to whom they were
probably given by Mary Chaworth, when, in later years, she destroyed or
parted with all the letters and documents which she had received from
Byron since the days of their childhood.
Byron did not give up the hope of winning Mary Chaworth's love until her
marriage in 1805. Two months later he entered Trinity College, Cambridge,
and from that time, until his departure with Hobhouse on his first foreign
tour, those who were in constant intercourse with him never mentioned any
other object of adoration who might fit in with the Thyrza of the poems.
If such a person had really existed, Byron would certainly, either in
conversation or in writing, have disclosed her identity. Moore makes it
clear that the one passion of Byron's life was Mary Chaworth. He tells us
that there were many fleeting love-episodes, but only one passion strong
enough to have inspired the poems in question. If Byron's heart, during
the two years that he passed abroad, had been overflowing with love for
some incognita, it was not in his nature to have kept silence. From his
well-known effusiveness, reticence under such circumstances is
inconceivable.
Finally, as there were no poems, no letters, and no allusion to any such
person in the _first_ draft of 'Childe Harold,' we may confidently assume
that the poet, in the loneliness of his heart, appealed to the only woman
whom he ever really loved, and that the legendary Thyrza was a myth.
It will be remembered that the ninth stanza in the second canto of 'Childe
Harold' was interpolated long after the manuscript had been given to
Dallas. It was forwarded for that purpose, three days after the date of
the poem 'To Thyrza,' and essentially belongs to that period of desolation
which inspired those poems:
'There, Thou! _whose Love and Life, together fled,
Have left me here to love and live in vain_--
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead,
When busy Memory flashes on my brain?
Well--_I will dream that we may meet again_,
And woo the vision to my vacant breast:
If aught of young Remembrance then remain,
Be as it may Futurity's behest,
_Or seeing thee no more, to sink to sullen rest_.'[36]
It is difficult to believe that this stanza was inspired by a memory of
the dead. Are we not told that 'Love and Life _together_ fled'--in other
words, when Mary withdrew her love, she was dead to him?
He tells her that in abandoning him she has left him to love and live in
vain. And yet he will not give up the hope of meeting her again some day;
this is now his sole consolation. Memory of the past (possibly those
meetings which took place by stealth, shortly before his departure from
England in 1809) feeds the hope that now sustains him. But he will leave
everything to chance, and if fate decides that they shall be parted for
ever, then will he sink to sullen apathy.
We may remind the reader that at this period (1811) Byron had no belief in
any existence after death.
'I will have nothing to do with your immortality,' he writes to
Hodgson in September; 'we are miserable enough in this life, without
the absurdity of speculating upon another. If men are to live, why die
at all? and if they die, why disturb the sweet and sound sleep that
"knows no waking"?
'"Post mortem nihil est, ipsaque Mors nihil ... quæris quo jaceas post
obitum loco? Quo _non_ Nata jacent."'
Even when, in later years, Byron somewhat modified the views of his youth,
he expressed an opinion that
'A material resurrection seems strange, and even absurd, except for
purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to _revenge_
rather than _correct_ must be _morally wrong_.'
It is therefore tolerably certain that, on the day when he expressed a
hope that he might meet his lady-love again, the meeting was to have been
in _this_ world, and not in that 'land of souls beyond the sable shore.'
It must also be remembered that the eighth stanza in the second canto of
'Childe Harold' was substituted for one in which Byron deliberately stated
that he did not look for Life, where life may never be. The revise was
written to please Dallas, and does not pretend to be a confession of
belief in immortality, but merely an admission that, on a subject where
'nothing can be known,' no final decision is possible.
In the summer of 1813 Byron underwent grave vicissitudes, mental, moral,
and financial. His letters and journals teem with allusions to some
catastrophe. It seemed as though he were threatened with impending ruin.
In his depressed state of mind he found relief only, as he tells us, in
the composition of poetry. It was at this time that he wrote in swift
succession 'The Giaour,' 'The Bride of Abydos,' and 'The Corsair.' It is
clear that Byron's dejection was the result of a hopeless attachment. Mr.
Hartley Coleridge assumes that Byron's _innamorata_ was Lady Frances
Wedderburn Webster. But that bright star did not long shine in Byron's
orbit--certainly not after October, 1813--and it is doubtful whether they
were ever on terms of close intimacy. Her husband had long been Byron's
friend. Byron had lent him money, and had given him advice, which he
seems to have sorely needed. It is difficult to understand why Lady
Frances Webster should have been especially regarded as Byron's Calypso.
There is nothing to show that she ever seriously occupied his thoughts.
Writing to Moore on September 27, 1813, Byron says:
'I stayed a week with the Websters, and behaved very well, though the
lady of the house is young, religious, and pretty, and the master is
my particular friend. I felt no wish for anything but a poodle dog,
which they kindly gave me.'
So little does Byron seem to have been attracted by Lady Frances, that he
only once more visited the Websters, and then only for a few days, on his
way to Newstead, between October 3 and 10, 1813.
On June 3 of that year Byron wrote to Mr. John Hanson, his solicitor, a
letter which shows the state of his mind at that time. He tells Hanson
that he is about to visit Salt Hill, near Maidenhead, and that he will be
absent for one week. He is determined to go abroad. The prospective
lawsuit with Mr. Claughton (about the sale of Newstead) is to be dropped,
if it cannot be carried on in Byron's absence. At all hazards, at all
losses, he is determined that nothing shall prevent him from leaving the
country.
'If utter ruin _were_ or _is_ before me on the one hand, and wealth at
home on the other, I have made my choice, and go I will.'
The pictures, and every movable that could be converted into cash, were,
by Byron's orders, to be sold. 'All I want is a few thousand pounds, and
then, Adieu. You shan't be troubled with me these ten years, if ever.'
Clearly, there must have been something more than a passing fancy which
could have induced Byron to sacrifice his chances of selling Newstead,
for the sake of a few thousand pounds of ready-money. It _had been_ his
intention to accompany Lord and Lady Oxford on their travels, but this
project was abandoned. After three weeks--spent in running backwards and
forwards between Salt Hill and London--Byron confided his troubles to
Augusta. She was always his rock of refuge in all his deeper troubles.
Augusta Leigh thought that absence might mend matters, and tried hard to
keep her brother up to his resolve of going abroad; she even volunteered
to accompany him. But Lady Melbourne--who must have had a prurient
mind--persuaded Byron that the gossips about town would not consider it
'proper' for him and his sister to travel alone! As Byron was at that time
under the influence of an irresistible infatuation, Lady Melbourne's
warning turned the scale, and the project fell through. Meanwhile the plot
thickened. Something--he told Moore--had ruined all his prospects of
matrimony. His financial circumstances, he said, were mending; 'and were
not my other prospects blackening, I would take a wife.'
In July he still wishes to get out of England. 'They had better let me
go,' he says; 'one can die anywhere.'
On August 22, after another visit to Salt Hill, Byron writes to Moore:
'I have said nothing of the brilliant sex; but the fact is, I am at
this moment in a far more serious, and entirely new, scrape, than any
of the last twelve months, and that is saying a good deal. It is
unlucky we can neither live with nor without these women.'
A week later he wrote again to Moore:
'I would incorporate with any woman of decent demeanour
to-morrow--that is, I would a month ago, but at present....'
Moore suggested that Byron's case was similar to that of the youth
apostrophized by Horace in his twenty-seventh ode, and invited his
confidence:
'Come, whisper it--the tender truth--
To safe and friendly ears!
What! Her? O miserable youth!
Oh! doomed to grief and tears!
In what a whirlpool are you tost,
Your rudder broke, your pilot lost!'
Recent research has convinced the present writer that the incident which
affected Byron so profoundly at this time--about eighteen months before
his marriage--indirectly brought about the separation between Lord and
Lady Byron in 1816. A careful student of Byron's character could not fail
to notice, among all the contradictions and inconsistencies of his life,
one point upon which he was resolute--namely, a consistent reticence on
the subject of the intimacy which sprang up between himself and Mary
Chaworth in the summer of 1813. The strongest impulse of his life--even to
the last--was a steadfast, unwavering, hopeless attachment to that lady.
Throughout his turbulent youth, in his early as in his later days, the
same theme floats through the chords of his melodious verse, a deathless
love and a deep remorse. Even at the last, when the shadow of Death was
creeping slowly over the flats at Missolonghi, the same wild, despairing
note found involuntary expression, and the last words that Byron ever
wrote tell the sad story with a distinctness which might well open the
eyes even of the blind.
When he first met his fate, he was a schoolboy of sixteen--precocious,
pugnacious, probably a prig, and by no means handsome. He must have
appeared to Mary much as we see him in his portrait by Sanders. Mary was
two years older, and already in love with a fox-hunting squire of good
family. 'Love dwells not in our will,' and a nature like Byron's, once
under its spell, was sure to feel its force acutely. There was romance,
too, in the situation; and the poetic temperament--always
precocious--responded to an impulse on the gossamer chance of achieving
the impossible. Mary was probably half amused and half flattered by the
adoration of a boy of whose destiny she divined nothing.
There is no reason to suppose that there was any meeting between Byron and
Mary Chaworth after the spring of 1809, until the summer of 1813. Their
separation seemed destined to be final. Although Byron, in after-years,
wished it to be believed that they had not met since 1808, it is certain
that a meeting took place in the summer of 1813. Although Byron took, as
we shall see presently, great pains to conceal that fact from the public,
he did not attempt to deceive either Moore, Hobhouse, or Hodgson. In his
letter to Monsieur Coulmann, written in July, 1823, we have the version
which Byron wished the public to believe.
'I had not seen her [Mary Chaworth] for many years. When an occasion
offered, I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a
visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than
anyone else, persuaded me not to do it. "For," said she, "if you go,
you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step
will lead to another, _et cela fera un éclat_," etc. I was guided by
these reasons, and shortly after I married.... Mrs. Chaworth some time
after, being separated from her husband, became insane; but she has
since recovered her reason, and is, I believe, reconciled to her
husband.'
At about the same time Byron told Medwin that, _after_ Mary's separation
from her husband, she proposed an interview with him--a suggestion which
Byron, by the advice of Mrs. Leigh, declined. He also said to Medwin:
'She [Mary Chaworth] was the _beau-idéal_ of all that my youthful
fancy could paint of beautiful; and I have taken all my fables about
the celestial nature of women from the perfection my imagination
created in her--I say _created_, for I found her, _like the rest of
her sex, anything but angelic_.'
It is difficult to see how Byron could have arrived at so unflattering an
estimate of a woman whom he had only _once_ seen since her marriage--at a
dinner-party, when, as he has told us, he was overcome by shyness and a
feeling of awkwardness! But let that pass. Byron wished the world to
believe (1) that Mary Chaworth, after the separation from her husband in
1813, proposed a meeting with Byron; (2) that he declined to meet her; (3)
that, after his unfortunate marriage, Mary became insane; and (4) that he
found her, 'like the rest of her sex, anything but angelic.'
It is quite possible, of course, that Byron may have _at first_ refused to
meet the only woman on earth whom he sincerely loved, and more than likely
that Mrs. Leigh did her utmost to dissuade him from so rash a proceeding.
But it is on record that Byron incautiously admitted to Medwin that he
_did_ meet Mary Chaworth _after his return from Greece_.[37] It will be
remembered that he returned from Greece in 1811. Their intimacy had long
before been broken off by Mr. John Musters; and, as we have seen, Mary,
faithful to a promise which she had made to her husband, kept away from
Annesley during the period (1811) when the 'Thyrza' poems were written. It
is doubtful whether they would ever again have met if her husband had
shown any consideration for her feelings. But he showed her none. When,
nearly forty years ago, the present writer visited Annesley, there were
several people living who remembered both Mary Chaworth and her husband.
These people stated that their married life, so full of grief and
bitterness, was a constant source of comment both at Annesley and
Newstead. The trouble was attributed to the harsh and capricious conduct,
and the well-known infidelities, of one to whose kindness and affection
Mary had a sacred claim. She seems to have been left for long periods at
Annesley with only one companion, Miss Anne Radford, who had been brought
up with her from childhood. This state of things eventually broke down,
and when, in the early part of 1813, Mary could stand the strain no
longer, a separation took place by mutual consent.
In the summer of that year Byron and this unhappy woman were thrown
together by the merest accident, and, unfortunately for both, renewed
their dangerous friendship.
Byron's friend and biographer, Thomas Moore, took great pains to suppress
every allusion to Mary Chaworth in Byron's memoranda and letters. He
faithfully kept the secret. There is nothing in Byron's letters or
journals, as revised by Moore, to show that they ever met after 1808, and
yet they undoubtedly did meet in 1813, _after_ Mary's estrangement from
her husband. That they were in constant correspondence in November of that
year may be gathered from Byron's journal, where Mary's name is veiled by
asterisks.
On November 24 he writes:
'I am tremendously in arrear with my letters, except to * * * *, and
to her my thoughts overpower me: my words never compass them.'
'I have been pondering,' he writes on the 26th, 'on the miseries of
separation, that--oh! how seldom we see those we love! Yet we live
ages in moments _when met_.'
Then follows, on the 27th, a clue:
'I believe, with Clym o' the Clow, or Robin Hood,
'"By our Mary (dear name!) thou art both Mother and May,
I think it never was a man's lot to die before his day."'
It is attested, by all those who were acquainted with Mary Chaworth, that
she always bore an exemplary character. It was well known that her
marriage was an unhappy one, and that she had been for some time deserted
by her husband. In June, 1813, when she fell under the fatal spell of
Byron, then the most fascinating man in society,[38] she was living in
deep dejection, parted from her lawful protector, with whom she had a
serious disagreement. He had neglected her, and she well knew that she had
a rival in his affections at that time.
It was in these distressing circumstances that Byron, with the world at
his feet, came to worship her in great humility. As he looked back upon
the past, he realized that this neglected woman had always been the light
of his life, the lodestar of his destiny. And now that he beheld his
'Morning Star of Annesley' shedding ineffectual rays upon the dead embers
of a lost love, the old feeling returned to him with resistless force.
'We met--we gazed--I saw, and sighed;
She did not speak, and yet replied;
There are ten thousand tones and signs
We hear and see, but none defines--
Involuntary sparks of thought,
Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought,
And form a strange intelligence,
Alike mysterious and intense,
Which link the burning chain that binds,
Without their will, young hearts and minds.
I saw, and sighed--in silence wept,
And still reluctant distance kept,
Until I was made known to her,
And we might then and there confer
Without suspicion--then, even then,
I longed, and was resolved to speak;
But on my lips they died again,
The accents tremulous and weak,
Until one hour...
* * * * *
'I would have given
My life but to have called her mine
In the full view of Earth and Heaven;
For I did oft and long repine
That we could only meet by stealth.'
In the remorseful words of Manfred,
'Her faults were mine--her virtues were her own--
I loved her, and destroyed her!...
Not with my hand, but heart--which broke _her_ heart--
It gazed on mine and withered.'
Without attempting to excuse Byron's conduct--indeed, that were
useless--it must be remembered that he was only twenty-five years of age,
and Mary was very unhappy. After all hope of meeting her again had been
abandoned, the force of destiny, so to speak, had unexpectedly restored
his lost Thyrza--the _Theresa_ of 'Mazeppa.'
'I loved her then, I love her still;
And such as I am, love indeed
In fierce extremes--in good and ill--
But still we love...
Haunted to our very age
With the vain shadow of the past.'
Byron's punishment was in this world. The remorse which followed endured
throughout the remaining portion of his life. It wrecked what might have
proved a happy marriage, and drove him, from stone to stone, along life's
causeway, to that 'Sea Sodom' where, for many months, he tried to destroy
the memory of his crime by reckless profligacy.
Mary Chaworth no sooner realized her awful danger--the madness of an
impulse which not even love could excuse--than she recoiled from the
precipice which yawned before her. She had been momentarily blinded by the
irresistible fascination of one who, after all, really and truly loved
her. But she was a good woman in spite of this one episode, and to the
last hour of her existence she never swerved from that narrow path which
led to an honoured grave.
Although it was too late for happiness, too late to evade the consequences
of her weakness, there was still time for repentance. The secret was kept
inviolate by the very few to whom it was confided, and the present writer
deeply regrets that circumstances have compelled him to break the seal.
If 'Astarte' had not been written, there would have been no need to lift
the veil. Lord Lovelace has besmirched the good name of Mrs. Leigh, and it
is but an act of simple justice to defend her.
When Mary Chaworth escaped from Byron's fatal influence, he reproached her
for leaving him, and tried to shake her resolution with heart-rending
appeals. Happily for both, they fell upon deaf ears.
'Astarte! my beloved! speak to me;
Say that thou loath'st me not--that I do bear
This punishment for both.'
The depth and sincerity of Byron's love for Mary Chaworth cannot be
questioned. Moore, who knew him well, says:
'The all-absorbing and unsuccessful (unsatisfied) love for Mary
Chaworth was the agony, without being the death, of an unsated desire
which lived on through life, filled his poetry with the very soul of
tenderness, lent the colouring of its light to even those unworthy
ties which vanity or passion led him afterwards to form, and was the
last aspiration of his fervid spirit, in those stanzas written but a
few months before his death.'
It was, in fact, a love of such unreasonableness and persistence as might
be termed, without exaggeration, a madness of the heart.
Although Mary escaped for ever from that baneful infatuation, which in an
unguarded moment had destroyed her peace of mind, her separation from
Byron was not complete until he married. Not only did they correspond
frequently, but they also met occasionally. In the following January
(1814) Byron introduced Mary to Augusta Leigh. From that eventful meeting,
_when probable contingencies were provided for_, until Mary's death in
1832, these two women, who had suffered so much through Byron, continued
in the closest intimacy; and in November, 1819, Augusta stood sponsor for
Mary's youngest daughter.
In a poem which must have been written in 1813, an apostrophe 'To Time,'
Byron refers to Mary's resolutions.
'In Joy I've sighed to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
_One star alone_ shot forth a spark
To prove thee--not Eternity.
_That beam hath sunk._'
It is of course true that matters were not, and could never again be, on
the same footing as in July of that year; but Mary Chaworth was constancy
itself, in a higher and a nobler sense than Byron attached to it, when he
reproached her for broken vows.
'Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.'
During the remainder of Byron's life, Mary took a deep interest in
everything that affected him. In 1814, believing that marriage would be
his salvation, she used her influence in that direction. We know that she
did not approve of the choice which Byron so recklessly made, and she
certainly had ample cause to deplore its results. Through her close
intimacy with Augusta Leigh--an intimacy which has not hitherto been
suspected--she became acquainted with every phase in Byron's subsequent
career. She could read 'between the lines,' and solve the mysteries to be
found in such poems as 'Lara,' 'Mazeppa,' 'Manfred,' and 'Don Juan.'
We believe that Byron's love for Mary was the main cause of the
indifference he felt towards his wife. In order to shield Mary from the
possible consequences of a public investigation into conduct prior to his
marriage, Byron, in 1816, consented to a separation from his wife.
After Byron had left England Mary broke down under the strain she had
borne so bravely, and her mind gave way. When at last, in April, 1817, a
reconciliation took place between Mary and her husband, it was apparent to
everyone that she had, during those four anxious years, become a changed
woman. She never entirely regained either health or spirits. Her mind
'had acquired a tinge of religious melancholy, which never afterwards left
it.' Sorrow and disappointment had subdued a naturally buoyant nature, and
'melancholy marked her for its own.' Shortly before her death, in 1832,
she destroyed every letter she had received from Byron since those distant
fateful years when, as boy and girl, they had wandered on the Hills of
Annesley. For eight sad years Mary Chaworth survived the lover of her
youth. Shortly before her death, in a letter to one of her daughters, she
drew her own character which might fitly form her epitaph: 'Soon led,
easily pleased, very hasty, and very relenting, with a heart moulded in a
warm and affectionate fashion.'
Such was the woman who, though parted by fate, maintained through sunshine
and storm an ascendancy over the heart of Byron which neither time nor
absence could impair, and which endured to the end of his earthly
existence. We may well believe that those inarticulate words which the
dying poet murmured to the bewildered Fletcher--those broken sentences
which ended with, 'Tell her everything; you are friends with her'--may
have referred, not to Lady Byron, as policy suggested, but to Mary
Chaworth, with whom Fletcher had been acquainted since his youth.
We have incontestable proof that, only two months before he died, Byron's
thoughts were occupied with one whom he had named 'the starlight of his
boyhood.' How deeply Byron thought about Mary Chaworth at the last is
proved by the poem which was found among his papers at Missolonghi. In six
stanzas the poet revealed the story that he would fain have hidden. A
note in his handwriting states that they were addressed 'to no one in
particular,' and that they were merely 'a poetical scherzo.' There is,
however, no room for doubt that the poem bears a deep significance.
I.
'I watched thee when the foe was at our side,
Ready to strike at him--or thee and me
Were safety hopeless--rather than divide
Aught with one loved, save love and liberty.'
We have here a glimpse of that turbulent scene when Mary's husband, in a
fit of jealousy, put an end to their dangerous intimacy.
II.
'I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock
Received our prow, and all was storm and fear,
And bade thee cling to me through every shock;
This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.'
This brings us to that period of suspense and fear, in 1814, which
preceded the birth of Medora. In a letter which Byron at that time wrote
to Miss Milbanke, we find these words:
'I am at present a little feverish--I mean mentally--and, as usual,
_on the brink of something or other, which will probably crush me at
last, and cut our correspondence short, with everything else_.'
Twelve days later (March 3, 1814), Byron tells Moore that he is
'uncomfortable,' and that he has 'no lack of argument to ponder upon of
the most gloomy description.'
'Some day or other,' he writes, 'when we are _veterans_, I may tell
you a tale of present and past times; and it is not from want of
confidence that I do not now.... _All this would be very well if I had
no heart_; but, unluckily, I have found that there is such a thing
still about me, though in no very good repair, and also that it has a
habit of attaching itself to _one_, whether I will or no. _Divide et
impera_, I begin to think, will only do for politics.'
When Moore, who was puzzled, asked Byron to explain himself more clearly,
he replied: 'Guess darkly, and you will seldom err.'
Thirty-four days later Medora was born, April 15, 1814.
III.
'I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,
Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground,
When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise
From thence if thou an early grave had found.'
Here we see Byron's agony of remorse. Like Herod, he lamented for
Mariamne:
'And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,
This bosom's desolation dooming;
And I have earned those tortures well
Which unconsumed are still consuming!'
In 'Manfred' we find a note of remembrance in the deprecating words:
'Oh! no, no, no!
My injuries came down on those who loved me--
On those whom I best loved: I never quelled
An enemy, save in my just defence--
But my embrace was fatal.'
IV.
'The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,
And men and Nature reeled as if with wine:
Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?
For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine.'
We now see Byron, at the supreme crisis of his life, standing in solitude
on his hearth, with all his household gods shivered around him. We
perceive that not least among his troubles at that time was the
ever-haunting fear lest the secret of Medora's birth should be disclosed.
His greatest anxiety was for Mary's safety, and this could only be secured
by keeping his matrimonial squabbles out of a court of law. It was, in
fact, by agreeing to sign the deed of separation that the whole situation
was saved. The loyalty of Augusta Leigh on this occasion was never
forgotten:
'There was soft Remembrance and sweet Trust
In one fond breast.'
'_That_ love was pure--and, far above disguise,
Had stood the test of mortal enmities
Still undivided, and cemented more
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes,
But this was firm.'
In the fifth stanza we see Byron, eight years later, at Missolonghi,
struck down by that attack of epilepsy which preceded his death by only
two months:
V.
'And when convulsive throes denied my breath
The faintest utterance to my fading thought,
To thee--to thee--e'en in the gasp of death
My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.'
In the sixth and final stanza, probably the last lines that Byron ever
wrote, we find him reiterating, with all a lover's persistency, a belief
that Mary could never have loved him, otherwise she would not have left
him.
VI.
'Thus much and more; and yet thou lov'st me not,
And never will! Love dwells not in our will.
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.'
The reproaches of lovers are often unjust. Byron either could not, or
perhaps _would not_, see that in abandoning him Mary had been actuated by
the highest, the purest motives, and that the renunciation must have
afforded her deep pain--a sacrifice, not lightly made, for Byron's sake
quite as much as for her own. That Byron for a time resented her conduct
in this respect is evident from a remark made in a letter to Miss
Milbanke, dated November 29, 1813. After saying that he once thought that
Mary Chaworth could have made him happy, he added, 'but _subsequent events
have proved_ that my expectations might not have been fulfilled had I ever
proposed to and received my idol.'[39]
What those 'subsequent events' were may be guessed from reproaches which
at this period appear among his poems:
'The wholly false the _heart_ despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet--
When _she_ can change, who loved so truly,
It _feels_ what mine has _felt_ so newly.'
In the letter written five years after their final separation, Byron again
reproaches Mary Chaworth, but this time without a tinge of bitterness:
'My own, we may have been very wrong, but I repent of nothing except
that cursed marriage, and your refusing to continue to love me as you
had loved me. I can neither forget nor _quite forgive_ you for that
precious piece of reformation. But I can never be other than I have
been, and whenever I love anything, it is because it reminds me in
some way or other of yourself.'
'The Giaour' was begun in May and finished in November, 1813. Those parts
which relate to Mary Chaworth were added to that poem in July and August:
'She was a form of Life and Light,
That, seen, became a part of sight;
And rose, where'er I turned mine eye,
The Morning-Star of Memory!'
Byron says that, like the bird that sings within the brake, like the swan
that swims upon the waters, he can only have one mate. He despises those
who sneer at constancy. He does not envy them their fickleness, and
regards such heartless men as lower in the scale of creation than the
solitary swan.
'Such shame at least was never mine--
Leila! each thought was only thine!
My good, _my guilt_, my weal, my woe,
My hope on high--my all below.
Earth holds no other like to thee,
Or, if it doth, in vain for me:
... Thou wert, thou art,
The cherished madness of my heart!'
'Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven;
A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Alla given,
To lift from earth our low desire.
I grant _my_ love imperfect, all
That mortals by the name miscall;
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;
But say, oh say, _hers_ was not Guilt!
And she was lost--and yet I breathed,
But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.'
Who can doubt that the friend 'of earlier days,' whose memory the Giaour
wishes to bless before he dies, but whom he dares not bless lest Heaven
should 'mark the vain attempt' of guilt praying for the guiltless, was
Mary Chaworth. He bids the friar tell that friend
'What thou didst behold:
The withered frame--the ruined mind,
The wreck that Passion leaves behind--
The shrivelled and discoloured leaf,
Seared by the Autumn blast of Grief.'
He wonders whether that friend is still his friend, as in those earlier
days, when hearts were blended in that sweet land where bloom his native
valley's bowers. To that friend he sends a ring, which was the memorial of
a youthful vow:
'Tell him--unheeding as I was,
Through many a busy bitter scene
Of all our golden youth hath been,
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried
To bless his memory--ere I died;
I do not ask him not to blame,
Too gentle he to wound my name;
I do not ask him not to mourn,
Such cold request might sound like scorn.
But bear this ring, his own of old,
And tell him what thou dost behold!'
The motto chosen by Byron for 'The Giaour' is in itself suggestive:
'One fatal remembrance--one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our Joys and our Woes--
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which Joy hath no balm--and affliction no sting.'
On October 10, 1813, Byron arrived at Newstead, where he stayed for a
month. Mary Chaworth was at Annesley during that time. On his return to
town he wrote (November 8) to his sister:
'MY DEAREST AUGUSTA,
'I have only time to say that my long silence has been occasioned by a
thousand things (with which _you_ are not concerned). It is not Lady
Caroline, nor Lady Oxford; _but perhaps you may guess_, and if you do,
do not tell. You do not know what mischief your being with me might
have prevented. You shall hear from me to-morrow; in the meantime
don't be alarmed. I am in _no immediate_ peril.
'Believe me, ever yours,
'B.'
On November 30 Byron wrote to Moore:
'We were once very near neighbours this autumn;[40] and a good and
bad neighbourhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say that your
French quotation (Si je récommençais ma carrière, je ferais tout ce
que j'ai fait) was confoundedly to the purpose,--though very
_unexpectedly_ pertinent, as you may imagine by what I _said_ before,
and my silence since. However, "Richard's himself again," and, except
all night and some part of the morning, I don't think very much about
the matter. All convulsions end with me in rhyme; and to solace my
midnights I have scribbled another Turkish story ['The Bride of
Abydos'] which you will receive soon after this.... I have written
this, and published it, for the sake of _employment_--to wring my
thoughts from reality, and take refuge in "imaginings," however
"horrible."... This is the work of a week....'
In order the more effectually to dispose of the theory that Lady Frances
Wedderburn Webster was the cause of Byron's disquietude, we insert an
extract from his journal, dated a fortnight earlier (November 14, 1813):
'Last night I finished "Zuleika" [the name was afterwards changed to
'The Bride of Abydos'], my second Turkish tale. I believe the
composition of it kept me alive--for it was written to drive my
thoughts from the recollection of * * * * "Dear sacred name, rest ever
unrevealed." At least, even here, my hand would tremble to write
it.... I have some idea of expectorating a romance, but what romance
could equal the events
'"... quæque ipse ... vidi,
Et quorum pars magna fui"?'