My Recollections of Lord Byron
original as the truth of history (in the material facts) and of place:
otherwise, it would have given me no delight. Who will persuade me, when
I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did not contain a hero? Its very
magnitude proved this. Men do not labor over the ignoble and petty
dead--and why should not the dead be Homer's dead? The secret of Tom
Campbell's defense of inaccuracy in costume and description is, that his
'Gertrude,' etc., has no more locality in common with Pennsylvania than
with Penmanmawr. It is notoriously full of grossly false scenery, as all
Americans declare, though they praise parts of the poem. It is thus that
self-love forever creeps out, like a snake, to sting any thing which
happens, even accidentally, to stumble upon it."
In order then, that Lord Byron might take an interest in either a place,
a monument, or a work of art, he must associate them in his mind with
some fact which had really taken place. By what was he most impressed on
reaching Venice?
"There is still in the Doge's Palace the black veil painted over
Faliero's picture, and the staircase whereon he was first crowned Doge
and subsequently decapitated. This was the thing that most struck my
imagination in Venice--more than the Rialto, which I visited for the
sake of Shylock: and more, too, than Schiller's 'Armenian,' a novel
which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is also called the 'Ghost
Seer,' and I never walked down St. Mark's by moonlight without thinking
of it. And 'at nine o'clock he died.' But I hate things all fiction, and
therefore the _Merchant_ and _Othello_ have no great attractions for me,
but _Pierre_ has. There should always be some foundation of fact for the
most airy fabric, and pure invention is but the talent of a liar."
The little taste which he entertained for painting came from the
impression that, of all the arts, it was the most artificial, and the
least truthful. In April, 1817, he wrote to Murray as follows, on the
subject:--
"Depend upon it, of all the arts it is the most artificial and
unnatural, and that by which the folly of mankind is most imposed upon.
I never yet saw the picture or the statue which came a league within my
conception or expectation: but I have seen many mountains, and seas, and
rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as far beyond it."
But, then, what enthusiasm, whenever he did meet with truth in art! When
visiting the Manfrini Gallery at Venice, which is so rich in
_chefs-d'oeuvre_, he admits the charm of painting, and exclaims:--
"Among them there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, surpassing all my
anticipation of the power of painting or human expression; it is the
poetry of portrait and the portrait of poetry. Here was also a portrait
of a lady of the olden times, celebrated for her talents, whose name I
forget, but whose features must always be remembered. I never saw
greater beauty or sweetness, or wisdom; it is the kind of face to go mad
about, because it can not detach itself from its frame."
Our readers are aware with what obstinate determination the public voice
proclaimed Lord Byron a skeptic, and still does. Nor will we here
examine whether that epithet is merited, because a soul has been
sometimes visited by the malady always more or less afflicting great
minds; we will not ask if disquietude--which constitutes the dignity of
our nature; if the torture caused by doubts and universal uncertainty,
by the impossibility of explaining what is, or of comprehending what
will be, if all this deserve to be called skepticism. It is not
necessary to enter into the subject here, because we have already
examined in another chapter[202] with what foundation such a name was
applied to Lord Byron.
Now, we will content ourselves with adding that it was his love of truth
and his delicacy of conscience which caused, in a great measure, what
has been called his skepticism. For these sentiments would not allow him
to affirm things that many others perhaps affirm, without believing more
in them. Moreover, he appears sometimes to have been _persuaded that
doubt was the feeling least removed from truth_.
THIS QUALITY RISES TO A VIRTUE.
If Lord Byron's passion for truth had simply remained within the limits
already described, it would have given earnest of a noble soul, more
gifted than others, with instincts of a higher order; it would have
lighted up his social character, given the charm of that frankness so
delightful in his manners, conversation, style; so attractive in the
expression of his fine countenance; but still it would only have been a
natural quality, without any more right to the name of virtue than all
the other beautiful instincts he had received from Heaven; but, when
ceasing to be purely natural, it became a distinguishing characteristic
of the author, then it went far beyond these limits. In his writings it
raised him above all calculations of interest, made him despise all
considerations of ambition or of ease, exposed him to terrible party
warfare, to slander, and revenge; spurred him on to attack the great and
powerful whenever they turned aside from the path of virtue, justice, or
simplicity, and made him forget his nationality, that he might better
remember his humanity.
Meanwhile he never once yielded to any interest; and thus this innate
faculty, which might have been a virtue easily practiced, _became one of
heroic merit_.
We may safely assert that all his griefs through life owed their origin
to this rare quality; for perhaps he did not know sufficiently how to
reconcile it with a _certain amount_ of that social virtue called
prudence; whose office it is to keep silence when advisable, and not to
utter dangerous truths.
Certainly Lord Byron never showed that wisdom for himself which he knew
well how to practice for others; witness his conduct in Greece, where,
according to the account given by all who lived with him there at that
time, he displayed the utmost prudence, moderation, and ability.[203]
That social virtue of prudence, which, to our mind, is somewhat akin to
a defect, was wholly wanting in him in private life; yet it is a
necessary virtue in his country, and especially was so in his day.
England then was, in many respects, far from resembling the England of
our time. Liberty of opinion was certainly guaranteed by law; but then
there were the drawing-room tribunals; very unforgiving with regard to
certain truths, and little disposed to admire that inclination which
prompts superior minds not to conceal their real thoughts. The earth or
the universe might have been conceded as a field open to criticism, he
might express his true opinions on all points, provided only some few
books, and one island, called England, were excepted. Under show of
respect, absolute silence was required on these heads. They constituted
the ark of alliance; to speak ill of them was not permissible, and even
to praise was almost dangerous.
In the enchanted palace of "Blue beard" one single chamber was reserved;
and woe to him who penetrated therein.
Since then, a period of peace and prosperity, together with the effects
of time and travel, have greatly improved the noble character of the
English nation. In our day, pens, tongues, and consciences are less
strictly bound, and many truths may now be avowed without fear of
bringing the flush of anger or of indignant modesty to the cheek.
The present, and, still less, the past, are no more considered as sacred
ground. Even the Norman conquest is no longer a seditious subject. The
dictionary of society has gained many words; and Englishmen no longer
fear to see their children lose that patriotism which for them is almost
a religion, because they read books not deifying their own country and
full of libels on the rest of the globe.
Historians, novel-writers, poets--even theologians--have vied with each
other in tearing away the bandages concealing many old wounds, in order
to cure them by contact with the vivifying breezes of heaven; and twenty
years after Lord Byron, Macaulay has been able, without losing his
popularity, to show less filial piety than he, and to blame the past in
language so beautiful as to obtain forgiveness for the sacrifice even of
truth.
But, in Lord Byron's time, England was carrying on her great struggle
against the lion of the age. Separated from the Continent by war still
more than by the sea, the cannon's roar booming across the waters added
venom to her wounds, and pride made her prefer to conceal rather than to
heal them.
The echo of this detested cannon was still sounding when Lord Byron
returned to England, from his travels in the East, with the same thirst
for truth as heretofore, but having gained much from observation,
comparison, and reflection. He believed he had the right to make use of
faculties with equal independence, whether as regarded his own nation or
the rest of humanity. England then seemed to wish to arrogate to herself
the monopoly, of morality, wisdom, and greatness, together with the
right of despising the rest of the world. Lord Byron considered this
pretension as excessive, and he expressed his generous incredulity in
lines proudly independent. He refused to see heroism where he did not
believe it to exist, and would not accord glory to victories that seemed
to him the result of chance. He refused to see virtue and religion in
what he considered calculation or hypocrisy. He demanded _justice_ for
Catholic Ireland, and impartiality for enemies; he even went so far as
to show sympathy for Napoleon and deplore his fall. He could not allow
party spirit to depreciate the genius of Napoleon. Madame de Stael, who
had made Lord Byron's acquaintance in London when he was very young, and
had conceived a great liking for him, often wrote to him, and always
tried to prove that he was wrong in thinking so highly of Napoleon. But
on account of this Lord Byron broke off the correspondence suddenly,
which vexed Madame de Stael not a little. The invasion of France, the
humiliation of a great nation, was painful to him; and this generous
sentiment even caused him to commit a real _fault, which he expressed
regret for more than once_, says Madame G----, when conversing with her
at Pisa and Genoa. The fault was a certain feeling of hostility indulged
toward the illustrious Duke of Wellington, whom he yet confessed to be
the glory of his country.
"P.S.--If you hear any news of battle or retreat on the part of the
Allies (as they call them), pray send it. He has my best wishes to
manure the fields of France with an invading army. I hate invaders of
all countries, and have no patience with the cowardly cry of exultation
over him at whose name you all turned whiter than the snow to which you
are indebted for your triumph."
He was too generous an enemy to echo the Archbishop of Canterbury's
prayer.[204]
As a Whig, he was indignant at the Prince of Wales's conduct in
deserting his political banner and passing over to the Tories when he
became regent; so he wrote some hard verses against him,--"Lines to a
Lady weeping," addressed to the Princess Charlotte.
This poem was the olive-branch that Robert was about to snatch from the
tomb. All evil passions were now let loose against Lord Byron.
The Tory party--so influential then, and which saw with displeasure the
future promise of a great orator held out in the person of a young Whig
peer--gladly seized a pretext for displaying its hostility. The higher
clergy naturally clung to the interests of the aristocracy, as identical
with their own: moreover, they were vexed with the young lord for
attacking intolerancy, hypocrisy, and similar anti-Christian qualities,
and consequently espoused with ardor Tory grievances. Pretending even to