My Recollections of Lord Byron
his dreams might occupy all the space.
He was perhaps the meekest, most generous, and the most modest of the
creatures of the true God, whom he yet persistently refused to recognize
as his Creator.
If, however, there was no impiety in his irreligion, no real pride, in
his pride, there existed that weakness, if I may use the word, peculiar
to a brain which can not grasp at reality, but adheres to a chimera as a
basis for its arguments.
"His works," says Galt, "are soiled by the false judgments proceeding
from a mind which made him look at every thing in a false light, and it
must be allowed that that mind was either troubled or defective by
nature."
If this opinion is too severe, it is, however, certain that Shelley had
so exalted an imagination that his judgment suffered by it. As he is in
his works, so was he in all the commonest actions of his life. A few
anecdotes will serve to make him still better known.
Once, at Pisa, he went to see Count Gamba, who expected him, for some
charitable purpose which they were to agree upon together. A violent
storm burst forth suddenly, and the wind tore a tile from a roof, and
caused it to fall on Shelley's head. The blow was very great, and his
forehead was covered with blood. This, however, did not in the least
prevent his proceeding on his way. When Count Gamba saw him in this
state he was much alarmed, and asked him how it had occurred. Shelley
replied quite calmly, passing his hand over his head, just as if he had
forgotten all about it, that it was true that the wind had blown down a
tile which had fallen on his head, but that he would be taken care of
later upon his return home. Shelley was not rich, but whenever he went
to his banker's it was necessary that no one should require his
assistance, in order that the money which he had gone to fetch should
come home untouched. As, on one occasion, he was returning from a visit
to his banker's, some one at the door of his house asked for assistance.
Shelley hastily got up the stairs, and throwing down his gold and notes
on the floor, rushed suddenly away, crying out to Mrs. Shelley, "There,
pick it all up." This the lady did as well as she could, for she was a
woman of order, and as much attached to the reality of things as her
husband was wanting in that particular.
I shall not multiply these characteristic instances of the man, but will
only add that such incidents were by no means uncommon, nay, that they
were matters of daily occurrence.
There was almost a kind of analogy in his life between him and Spinoza.
Notwithstanding their great qualities and merits, both were hated and
persecuted for sufficiently just motives,--society having the right of
repudiating doctrines which tend to its destruction; but both were
persecuted in undue and unfair proportions. Both had weak and sickly
constitutions. Both had great and generous souls. Both endeavored to
understand the laws which govern the destiny of the world, without ever
being subject to their moral consequences, and both devoted themselves
to be practically useful to their fellow-creatures--a contradiction
which was the effect of their too generous minds.
In Shelley's heart the dominant wish was to see society entirely
reorganized. The sight of human miseries and infirmities distressed him
to the greatest degree; but, too modest himself to believe that he was
called upon to take the initiative, and inaugurate a new era of good
government and fresh laws for the benefit of humanity, he would have
been pleased to see such a genius as Byron take the initiative in this
undertaking. "He can be the regenerator of his country," wrote Shelley,
speaking of Byron, in 1818, at Venice.
Shelley therefore did his best to influence Lord Byron. But the latter
hated discussions: he could not bear entering into philosophical
speculation at times when his soul craved the consolations of friendship
and his mind a little rest. He was quite insensible to reasonings, which
often appear sublime because they are clothed in words incomprehensible
to those who have not sought to understand their meaning. But he made an
exception in favor of Shelley. He knew that he could not shake his faith
in a doctrine founded upon illusions, by his incredulity: but he
listened to him with pleasure, not only on account of Shelley's good
faith and sincerity of meaning, but also because he argued upon false
data with such talent and originality that he was both interested and
amused. But with all his great and noble qualities was it to be
expected that Lord Byron would fall into the doctrines proffered by
pantheists? Doctrines rejected by reason, which wound the heart, are
opposed to the most imperative necessities of our nature, and only bring
desolation to our minds.
Lord Byron had examined every kind and species of philosophy by the
light of common sense, and by the instinct of his genius: the result had
been to make him compassionate toward the vain weaknesses of the human
understanding, and to convince him that all systems which have
hypothesis as groundwork are illusions, and consequently likely to
perish with their authors.
Pantheism in particular was odious to him, and he esteemed it to be the
greatest of absurdities. He made no difference between the Pantheism
"absolute," which mixes up that which is infinite with that which is
finite, and that which struggles in vain to keep clear of Atheism.
In an age like ours, when the common tendency is of a materialistic
character, such as almost to defy the power of man, mysticism has little
or no _locus standi_. Shelley's opinions, on account of their appearance
of spiritualism, were most likely of any to interest Byron; but, founded
as they are upon fancy, could they please him? Could he possibly consent
to lose his individuality, deny his own freedom of will, all
responsibility of action, and hence all his privileges, his future
existence, and all principles of morality? Could he possibly admit that
the doctrine which prescribed these sacrifices was better than any
other? Even with the best intentions, could any of the essential, moral,
and holy principles of nature be introduced into such a system? Byron
could not but condemn it, and he attributed all Shelley's views to the
aberrations of a mind which is happier when it dreams than when it
denies.
Here, then, was the cause of his being inaccessible to Shelley's
arguments. He used sometimes to exclaim, "Why Shelley appears to me to
be mad with his metaphysics." This he one day repeated to Count Gamba at
Pisa, as Shelley walked out and he came in. "We have been discussing
metaphysics," said he: "what trash in all these systems! Say what they
will, mystery for mystery, I still find that of the Creation the most
reasonable of any."
He made no disguise of the difficulties which he found in admitting the
doctrine of a God, Creator of the world, and entirely distinct from it;
but he added, "I prefer even that mystery to the contradictions by which
other systems endeavor to replace it." He certainly found that in the
mystery of Creation there existed the proof of the weakness of our
minds, but he declared that pantheism had to explain absurdities far too
evident for a logical mind to adopt its tenets. "They find," said he,
"that reason is more easily satisfied with a system of unity like
theirs, in which all is derived from one principle only: may be, but
what do we ask of truth? why all our never-ceasing efforts in its
pursuit? Is it merely that we may exercise the mind, and make truth the
toy of our imagination? Impossible. At any rate it would be a secret to
which, as yet, God has not given us any clue. But in doing this, in
constantly placing the phenomena of creation before us without their
causes or without ever explaining them, and at the same time instilling
into our souls an insatiable thirst for truth, the Almighty has placed
within us a voice which at times reminds us that He is preparing some
surprise for us; and we trust that that surprise may be a happy one."
Poor Shelley lost his time with Byron. But, however much Byron objected
to his doctrines, he had no similar objection to Shelley himself, for
whom he professed a great respect and admiration. He grieved to find so
noble an intellect the victim of hallucination which entirely blinded
him to the perception of truth. Shelley, however, did not despair of
succeeding in making Byron some day give up what he termed his
philosophical errors, and his persistency earned for him the appellation
of "serpent" which Byron gave him in jest. This persistency, which at
the same time indicates the merit of Byron's resistance, has often been
mentioned by Shelley himself. Writing from Pisa to a friend in England,
a very few days before his death, and alluding to a letter from Moore
which Byron had shown him, and wherein "Cain" was attributed to the
influence which he (Shelley) had evidently exercised over Byron, he
said, "Pray assure Moore that in a philosophical point of view I have
not the slightest influence over Byron; if I had, be sure I should use
it for the purpose of uprooting his delusions and his errors. He had
conceived 'Cain' many years ago, and he had already commenced writing it
when I saw him last year at Ravenna. How happy I should be could I
attribute to myself, even indirectly, a part in that immortal work!"
Moore wrote to Byron on the same subject a little later, and received
the following reply:--"As for poor Shelley, who also frightens you and
the world, he is, to my knowledge, the least egotistical and kindest of
men. I know no one who has so sacrificed both fortune and sentiments for
the good of others; as for his speculative opinions, we have none in
common, nor do I wish to have any."
All the poems which he wrote at this time, and which admitted of his
introducing the religious element either purposely or accidentally into
them, prove one and all that his mind, as regards religion, was as we
have shown it to be. This is particularly noticeable in his mystery
called "Heaven and Earth;" but the same remark is applicable to others,
such as the "Island," and even to some passages in "Don Juan." "Heaven
and Earth"--a poem which appeared about this time, and which he styled
"A Mystery"--is a biblical poem in which all the thoughts agree with the
Book of Genesis, and "which was inspired," says Galt, "by a mind both
serious and patriarchal, and is an echo of the oracles of Adam and of
Melchisedec." In this work he exhibits as much veneration for scriptural
theology as Milton himself. In the "Island," which he wrote at Genoa,
there are passages which penetrate the soul with so religious a feeling,
that Benjamin Constant, in reading it, and indignant at hearing Byron
called an unbeliever, exclaimed in his work on religion, "I am assured
that there are men who accuse Lord Byron of atheism and impiety. There
is more religion in the twelve lines which I have quoted than in the
past, present, and future writings of all his detractors put together."
Even in "Don Juan," in that admirable satire which, not being rightly
understood, has given rise to so many calumnies, he says, after having
spoken in the fifteenth canto of the moral greatness of various men, and
among others of Socrates:--
"And thou, Diviner still,
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken,
And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill?
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken,
How was thy toil rewarded?"
At the end of this stanza he wrote the following note:----
"As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I say that I mean
by 'Diviner still,' Christ. If ever God was man--or man God--he was
both. I never arraigned his creed, but the use or abuse made of it. Mr.