[For the following graphic sketch, acknowledgment is due to the
last No. (5) of the _Foreign Quarterly Review_, where it is
stated to be copied from Pouqueville's Travels in Greece. There is
too much romance in it for out sober belief, and for the credit of
Pouqueville--who by his statements has misled thousands--we ought
to state that he gives it as the production of another pen.
However, a marvellous story never loses by travelling; but--
Vires acquirit eundo.
Of course, it is easy enough for any enthusiast to put such words
as the following into the mouth of a man who has been reviled and
attacked by thousands; but we hope, for the credit of the reading
world, that such stories as the following, seldom find implicit
credence. There may, however, be some foundation for the following
_romaunt_, and probably the incident, however slight, was too
tempting to be sent forth to the world unadorned. If Lord Byron
ever uttered such words as are here attributed to him--"_I am
still an Atheist_"--it must have been in a fit of the most
malignant obstinacy that ever distorted and disgraced the human
mind--or perhaps in that spirit of malicious banter with which he
was accustomed to torment his best and nearest friends. That such
was his _genuine sentiment_, we can never bring ourselves to
believe; and whatever standing is possessed by us in the world,
should willingly be staked upon this point. As a romance of the
pen, and not as a pure narrative of facts, we trust the following
will be received; for, as such alone is it presented to our
readers.]
Lord Byron during his stay at Athens, lodged at the Capuchin Convent. The
Reverend Father Paul had found favour in the sight of this surprising
genius;--his age, his profession, his gentleness, had gained him the
affection of that nobleman in such a manner, that he devoted himself to
him with all the caprice of his character. Wearied with everything,
_oppressed by his familiar demon_, Byron came one day to find Father
Paul, and request his hospitality.
The monk on seeing him reminded him of the words of the last conversation
they had had together--"_You cannot convince me, I am still an
Atheist_." Instead of replying, Byron requested the Father to permit
him to inhabit a cell, and relieve him from the ennui which poisoned his
life. "While uttering these words," said Father Paul, "he pressed my
hands, and called me his father; the locks of his hair, dripping with
perspiration, covered his forehead; his face was pale, his lips trembled:
dared I to ask him the cause of his melancholy?"--"My father, all
_your_ days are like each other; as for _me_, I shall always be
a traveller."--"Have you no country? If the feeling of absence causes your
sorrow, depart; my prayers and good wishes will accompany you to
England."--"Speak not to me of England; I would rather be dragged in
chains on the sands of Libya, than revisit places imprinted with the curse
which I have given them. The injustice of men has made England odious to
me; it has separated us for ever; after the death of man, however, if it
be true that the soul survives, I should be delighted to inhabit it, as a
pure spirit. This mystery is only known to God."--"Well, if you have
renounced your country, take care to give your mind occupation, without
too great exertion of your fancy. Is it the fault of the Creator if men
are misled by false doctrines? God never predestined their perfect
knowledge. Think you that peace of mind, and health of body can be the lot
of him, whose life is perpetually in contradiction to that of other men?
His reason is perverted who doubts the infinite power of God, and the man
inscribed on the list of Atheists must be necessarily unhappy."--"Atheist!
Atheist! This is then the end of your consolation to me! It is thus that
you call your son! Minister of that God who reads the hearts of men,
learn, my reverend father, that it is beyond your power to discover an
Atheist, even if his own mouth made you the hypocritical confession. An
Atheist it is impossible to find--to admit his existence is to outrage the
Sovereign of the World, who, in perfecting his noblest work, did not
forget to engrave there the name of its immortal Author. Passions may
arouse doubts; but when the Atheist questions himself, the evidence of a
God confounds his incredulity, and the truth of the sentiment which fills
his thoughts absolves him of the crime of Atheism. It is easy for you, my
father, never to murmur against the Author of your being; you, who, in the
gentle quiet of a life exempt from storms; have acquired the conviction
that the sun of your old age will illumine the same scenes as did that of
your youth. As for me--thrown on the earth like a disinherited child, born
to feel happiness, and never finding it--I wander from climate to climate,
with the sentiment of my everlasting misery. Since reason has unfolded to
me the feeling of my wretchedness, nothing has yet tempered the bitterness
of my distress. Fed with the hate of men--betrayed by those whose kindness
I compared to that of angels--attacked by an incurable disease, which has
swept away my ancestors--tell me, man of truth, if murmurs excited by
despair can characterize an Atheist, and bring upon him the anger of
Heaven. Oh! unhappy Byron!! if after so many mortal trials thy last hope
of salvation is taken from thee--well!!"--Here the voice of my lord
faltered.
His gloomy silence lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. All on a sudden he
rose from his chair with eagerness, and walked round the room, stopping
before the holy pictures which adorned it. A moment after he came to me,
and said, "Do you remember that you promised a month ago to give me
certain things which you possess?"--"I possess very little, and that
little has nothing which can tempt you: however, speak!"--"I remember the
words of your answer, and you can no longer refuse me anything." Then he
advanced towards a corner of my room, and taking down a beautiful crucifix
which I had brought from Rome, he placed it in my hands. I offered it to
Byron, saying, "_This is the consoler of the unhappy_." He seized it
with transport, and kissing it several times, he added, with eyes bathed
in tears, "My hands shall not long profane it, and my mother will soon be
the guardian of your precious relic!"
* * * * *
To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.
_Goethe--Foreign Review_.
* * * * *