"April 26. 1814.
"I have no guess at your author,--but it is a noble poem[27], and
worth a thousand odes of anybody's. I suppose I may keep this
copy;--after reading it, I really regret having written my own. I
say this very sincerely, albeit unused to think humbly of myself.
"I don't like the additional stanzas at _all_, and they had better
be left out. The fact is, I can't do any thing I am asked to do,
however gladly I _would_; and at the end of a week my interest in a
composition goes off. This will account to you for my doing no
better for your 'Stamp Duty' postscript.
"The S.R. is very civil--but what do they mean by Childe Harold
resembling Marmion? and the next two, Giaour and Bride, _not_
resembling Scott? I certainly never intended to copy him; but, if
there be any copyism, it must be in the two poems, where the same
versification is adopted. However, they exempt The Corsair from all
resemblance to any thing, though I rather wonder at his escape.
"If ever I did any thing original, it was in Childe Harold, which
_I_ prefer to the other things always, after the first week.
Yesterday I re-read English Bards;--bating the _malice_, it is the
_best_.
"Ever," &c.
[Footnote 27: A Poem by Mr. Stratford Canning, full of spirit and power,
entitled "Buonaparte." In a subsequent note to Mr. Murray, Lord Byron
says,--"I do not think less highly of 'Buonaparte' for knowing the
author. I was aware that he was a man of talent, but did not suspect him
of possessing _all_ the _family_ talents in such perfection."]
* * * * *
A resolution was, about this time, adopted by him, which, however
strange and precipitate it appeared, a knowledge of the previous state
of his mind may enable us to account for satisfactorily. He had now, for
two years, been drawing upon the admiration of the public with a
rapidity and success which seemed to defy exhaustion,--having crowded,
indeed, into that brief interval the materials of a long life of fame.
But admiration is a sort of impost from which most minds are but too
willing to relieve themselves. The eye grows weary of looking up to the
same object of wonder, and begins to exchange, at last, the delight of
observing its elevation for the less generous pleasure of watching and
speculating on its fall. The reputation of Lord Byron had already begun
to experience some of these consequences of its own prolonged and
constantly renewed splendour. Even among that host of admirers who would
have been the last to find fault, there were some not unwilling to
repose from praise; while they, who had been from the first reluctant
eulogists, took advantage of these apparent symptoms of satiety to
indulge in blame.[28]
The loud outcry raised, at the beginning of the present year, by his
verses to the Princess Charlotte, had afforded a vent for much of this
reserved venom; and the tone of disparagement in which some of his
assailants now affected to speak of his poetry was, however absurd and
contemptible in itself, precisely that sort of attack which was the most
calculated to wound his, at once, proud and diffident spirit. As long as
they confined themselves to blackening his moral and social character,
so far from offending, their libels rather fell in with his own shadowy
style of self-portraiture, and gratified the strange inverted ambition
that possessed him. But the slighting opinion which they ventured to
express of his genius,--seconded as it was by that inward
dissatisfaction with his own powers, which they whose standard of
excellence is highest are always the surest to feel,--mortified and
disturbed him; and, being the first sounds of ill augury that had come
across his triumphal career, startled him, as we have seen, into serious
doubts of its continuance.
Had he been occupying himself, at the time, with any new task, that
confidence in his own energies, which he never truly felt but while in
the actual exercise of them, would have enabled him to forget these
humiliations of the moment in the glow and excitement of anticipated
success. But he had just pledged himself to the world to take a long
farewell of poesy,--had sealed up that only fountain from which his
heart ever drew refreshment or strength,--and thus was left, idly and
helplessly, to brood over the daily taunts of his enemies, without the
power of avenging himself when they insulted his person, and but too
much disposed to agree with them when they made light of his genius. "I
am afraid, (he says, in noticing these attacks in one of his letters,)
what you call _trash_ is plaguily to the purpose, and very good sense
into the bargain; and, to tell the truth, for some little time past, I
have been myself much of the same opinion."
In this sensitive state of mind,--which he but ill disguised or relieved
by an exterior of gay defiance or philosophic contempt,--we can hardly
feel surprised that he should have, all at once, come to the resolution,
not only of persevering in his determination to write no more in future,
but of purchasing back the whole of his past copyrights, and suppressing
every page and line he had ever written. On his first mention of this
design, Mr. Murray naturally doubted as to its seriousness; but the
arrival of the following letter, enclosing a draft for the amount of the
copyrights, put his intentions beyond question.
[Footnote 28: It was the fear of this sort of back-water current to
which so rapid a flow of fame seemed liable, that led some even of his
warmest admirers, ignorant as they were yet of the boundlessness of his
resources, to tremble a little at the frequency of his appearances
before the public. In one of my own letters to him, I find this
apprehension thus expressed:--"If you did not write so well,--as the
Royal wit observed,--I should say you write too much; at least, too much
in the same strain. The Pythagoreans, you know, were of opinion that the
reason why we do not hear or heed the music of the heavenly bodies is
that they are always sounding in our ears; and I fear that even the
influence of _your_ song may be diminished by falling upon the world's
dull ear too constantly."
The opinion, however, which a great writer of our day (himself one of
the few to whom his remark replies) had the generosity, as well as
sagacity, to pronounce on this point, at a time when Lord Byron was
indulging in the fullest lavishment of his powers, must be regarded,
after all, as the most judicious and wise:--"But they cater ill for the
public," says Sir Walter Scott, "and give indifferent advice to the
poet, supposing him possessed of the highest qualities of his art, who
do not advise him to labour while the laurel around his brows yet
retains its freshness. Sketches from Lord Byron are more valuable than
finished pictures from others; nor are we at all sure that any labour
which he might bestow in revisal would not rather efface than refine
those outlines of striking and powerful originality which they exhibit
when flung rough from the hand of a master."--_Biographical Memoirs_, by
SIR W. SCOTT.]
* * * * *