The Libel in "The Scourge"--The general Impression of his Character--
Improvement in his Manners, as his Merit was acknowledgement by the
Public--His Address in Management--His first Speech in Parliament--
The Publication of "Childe Harold"--Its Reception and Effect
During the first winter after Lord Byron had returned to England, I
was frequently with him. Childe Harold was not then published; and
although the impression of his satire, English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers, was still strong upon the public, he could not well be
said to have been then a celebrated character. At that time the
strongest feeling by which he appeared to be actuated was indignation
against a writer in a scurrilous publication, called The Scourge; in
which he was not only treated with unjustifiable malignity, but
charged with being, as he told me himself, the illegitimate son of a
murderer. I had not read the work; but the writer who could make
such an absurd accusation, must have been strangely ignorant of the
very circumstances from which he derived the materials of his own
libel. When Lord Byron mentioned the subject to me, and that he was
consulting Sir Vickery Gibbs, with the intention of prosecuting the
publisher and the author, I advised him, as well as I could, to
desist, simply because the allegation referred to well-known
occurrences. His grand-uncle's duel with Mr. Chaworth, and the order
of the House of Peers to produce evidence of his grandfather's
marriage with Miss Trevannion; the facts of which being matter of
history and public record, superseded the necessity of any
proceeding.
Knowing how deeply this affair agitated him at that time, I was not
surprised at the sequestration in which he held himself--and which
made those who were not acquainted with his shy and mystical nature,
apply to him the description of his own Lara:
The chief of Lara is return'd again,
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?--
Left by his sire too young such loss to know,
Lord of himself; that heritage of woe.
In him, inexplicably mix'd, appear'd
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd,
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot.
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate;
They guess'd, they gazed, they fain would know his fate,
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known?
A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amid the gay;
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near
Waned in its mirth and wither'd to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by;
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:
Yet there was softness, too, in his regard,
At times a heart is not by nature hard.
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to hide
Such weakness as unworthy of its pride,
And stretch'd itself as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem;
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest,
In vigilance of grief that would compel
The soul to hate for having loved too well.
There was in him a vital scorn of all,
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall.
He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurl'd;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped.
Such was Byron to common observance on his return. I recollect one
night meeting him at the Opera. Seeing me with a gentleman whom he
did not know, and to whom he was unknown, he addressed me in Italian,
and we continued to converse for some time in that language. My
friend, who in the meanwhile had been observing him with curiosity,
conceiving him to be a foreigner, inquired in the course of the
evening who he was, remarking that he had never seen a man with such
a Cain-like mark on the forehead before, alluding to that singular
scowl which struck me so forcibly when I first saw him, and which
appears to have made a stronger impression upon me than it did upon
many others. I never, in fact, could overcome entirely the prejudice
of the first impression, although I ought to have been gratified by
the friendship and confidence with which he always appeared disposed
to treat me. When Childe Harold was printed, he sent me a quarto
copy before the publication; a favour and distinction I have always
prized; and the copy which he gave me of The Bride of Abydos was one
he had prepared for a new edition, and which contains, in his own
writing, these six lines in no other copy:
Bless'd--as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call,
Soft--as the melody of youthful days
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise,
Sweet--as his native song to exile's ears
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears.
He had not, it is true, at the period of which I am speaking,
gathered much of his fame; but the gale was rising--and though the
vessel was evidently yielding to the breeze, she was neither crank
nor unsteady. On the contrary, the more he became an object of
public interest, the less did he indulge his capricious humour.
About the time when The Bride of Abydos was published, he appeared
disposed to settle into a consistent character--especially after the
first sale of Newstead. Before that particular event, he was often
so disturbed in his mind, that he could not conceal his unhappiness,
and frequently spoke of leaving England for ever.
Although few men were more under the impulses of passion than Lord
Byron, there was yet a curious kind of management about him which
showed that he was well aware how much of the world's favour was to
be won by it. Long before Childe Harold appeared, it was generally
known that he had a poem in the press, and various surmises to
stimulate curiosity were circulated concerning it: I do not say that
these were by his orders, or under his directions, but on one
occasion I did fancy that I could discern a touch of his own hand in
a paragraph in the Morning Post, in which he was mentioned as having
returned from an excursion into the interior of Africa; and when I
alluded to it, my suspicion was confirmed by his embarrassment.
I mention this incident not in the spirit of detraction; for in the
paragraph there was nothing of puff, though certainly something of
oddity--but as a tint of character, indicative of the appetite for
distinction by which, about this period, he became so powerfully
incited, that at last it grew into a diseased crave, and to such a
degree, that were the figure allowable, it might be said, the mouth
being incapable of supplying adequate means to appease it--every pore
became another mouth greedy of nourishment. I am, however, hastening
on too fast. Lord Byron was, at that time, far indeed from being
ruled by any such inordinate passion; the fears, the timidity, and
bashfulness of young desire still clung to him, and he was throbbing
with doubt if he should be found worthy of the high prize for which
he was about to offer himself a candidate. The course he adopted on
the occasion, whether dictated by management, or the effect of
accident, was, however, well calculated to attract attention to his
debut as a public man.
When Childe Harold was ready for publication, he determined to make
his first appearance as an orator in the House of Lords: the
occasion was judiciously chosen, being a debate on the Nottingham
frame-breaking bill; a subject on which it was natural to suppose he
possessed some local knowledge that might bear upon a question
directed so exclusively against transactions in his own county. He
prepared himself as the best orators do in their first essays, not
only by composing, but writing down, the whole of his speech
beforehand. The reception he met with was flattering; he was
complimented warmly by some of the speakers on his own side; but it
must be confessed that his debut was more showy than promising. It
lacked weight in metal, as was observed at the time, and the mode of
delivery was more like a schoolboy's recital than a masculine grapple
with an argument. It was, moreover, full of rhetorical
exaggerations, and disfigured with conceits. Still it scintillated
with talent, and justified the opinion that he was an extraordinary
young man, probably destined to distinction, though he might not be a
statesman.
Mr Dallas gives a lively account of his elation on the occasion.
"When he left the great chamber," says that gentleman, "I went and
met him in the passage; he was glowing with success, and much
agitated. I had an umbrella in my right hand, not expecting that he
would put out his hand to me; in my haste to take it when offered, I
had advanced my left hand: 'What!' said he, 'give your friend your
left hand upon such an occasion?' I showed the cause, and
immediately changing the umbrella to the other, I gave him my right
hand, which he shook and pressed warmly. He was greatly elated, and
repeated some of the compliments which had been paid him, and
mentioned one or two of the peers who had desired to be introduced to
him. He concluded by saying, that he had, by his speech, given me
the best advertisement for Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
It is upon this latter circumstance, that I have ventured to state my
suspicion, that there was a degree of worldly management in making
his first appearance in the House of Lords, so immediately preceding
the publication of his poem. The speech was, indeed, a splendid
advertisement, but the greater and brighter merits of the poem soon
proved that it was not requisite, for the speech made no impression,
but the poem was at once hailed with delight and admiration. It
filled a vacancy in the public mind, which the excitement and
inflation arising from the mighty events of the age, had created.
The world, in its condition and circumstances, was prepared to
receive a work, so original, vigorous, and beautiful; and the
reception was such that there was no undue extravagance in the noble
author saying in his memorandum, "I awoke one morning and found
myself famous."
But he was not to be allowed to revel in such triumphant success with
impunity. If the great spirits of the time were smitten with
astonishment at the splendour of the rising fire, the imps and elves
of malignity and malice fluttered their bat-wings in all directions.
Those whom the poet had afflicted in his satire, and who had remained
quietly crouching with lacerated shoulders in the hope that their
flagellation would be forgotten, and that the avenging demon who had
so punished their imbecility would pass away, were terrified from
their obscurity. They came like moths to the candle, and sarcasms in
the satire which had long been unheeded, in the belief that they
would soon be forgotten, were felt to have been barbed with
irremediable venom, when they beheld the avenger
Towering in his pride of place.