My Recollections of Lord Byron
proof of his extreme sensitiveness in this respect.
This letter was addressed to Mr. Bankes, his friend and college
companion, on one occasion when Byron believed he had offended him
involuntarily:--
"MY DEAR BANKES,--My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I trust,
convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner might inadvertently be,
the change was as unintentional as (if intended) it would have been
ungrateful. I really was not aware that, while we were together, I had
evinced such caprice. That we were not so much in each other's company
as I could have wished, I well know; but I think so astute an observer
as yourself must have perceived enough to explain this, without
supposing any slight to one in whose society I have pride and pleasure.
Recollect that I do not allude here to 'extended' or 'extending'
acquaintances, but to circumstances you will understand, I think, on a
little reflection.
"And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by supposing that I can
think of you, or you of me, otherwise than I trust we have long thought.
You told me not long ago, that my temper was improved, and I should be
sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your friendship is of
more account to me than all those absurd vanities in which, I fear, you
conceive me to take too much interest. I have never disputed your
superiority, or doubted (seriously) your good-will, and no one shall
ever 'make mischief between us' without the sincere regret on the part
of your ever affectionate, etc.
"BYRON."
In the midst of the unexampled enthusiasm of a whole nation, Byron is
neither touched by the adoration which his genius inspires, nor the
endless praises which are bestowed upon him, nor the love declarations
which crowd his table, nor the flattering expressions of Lord Holland,
who ranks him next to Walter Scott as a poet, and to Burke as an orator;
nor indeed by those of Lord Fitzgerald, who, notwithstanding a flogging
at Harrow, can not bear malice against the author of "Childe Harold,"
but desires to forgive. To be the friend of those whom his satire
offended, so penetrates him with disgust for that poem, that his dearest
wish is to lose every trace of it; and, though the fifth edition is
nearly completed, he gives orders to his publisher, Cawthorn, to burn
the whole edition.
It is well known that on the occasion of the opening of the new Drury
Lane Theatre, the committee called upon all England's poetical talent
for an inaugural address. The committee received many, but found none
worthy of adoption. It was then that Lord Holland advised that Lord
Byron should be applied to, whose genius and popularity would enhance,
he said, the solemnity of the occasion. Lord Byron after a refusal, and
much hesitation arising partly from modesty and partly from the
knowledge that the rejected authors would make him pay a heavy price for
his triumph, at last, with much reluctance, accepted the invitation,
merely to oblige Lord Holland. He exchanged with the latter on this
topic a long correspondence, revealing so thoroughly his docility and
modesty, that Moore declares these letters valuable as an illustration
of his character; they show, in truth, the exceeding pliant good-nature
with which he listened to the counsel and criticism of his friends. "It
can not be questioned," says he, "that this docility, which he
invariably showed in matters upon which most authors are generally
tenacious and irritable, was a natural essence of his character, and
which might have been displayed on much more important occasions had he
been so fortunate as to become connected with people capable of
understanding and of guiding him."
Another time Moore wrote to him at Pisa:--"Knowing you as I do, Lady
Byron ought to have discovered, that you are the most docile and most
amiable man that ever existed, for those who live with you."
His hatred of contradiction and petty teasing, his repugnance to annoy
or mortify any one, arose from the same cause. Once, after having
replied with his usual frankness to an inquiry of Madame de Stael,
_that he thought a certain step ill-advised_, he wrote in his
memorandum-book:--"I have since reflected that it would be possible for
Mrs. B---- to be patroness; and I regret having given my opinion, as I
detest getting people into difficulties with themselves or their
favorites."
And again:--
"To-day C---- called, and, while sitting here, in came Merivale. During
our colloquy, C---- (ignorant that M----was the writer) abused the
mawkishness of the 'Quarterly Review,' on Grimm's correspondence. I
(knowing the secret) changed the conversation as soon as I could, and
C---- went away quite convinced of having made the most favorable
impression on his new acquaintance.... I did not look at him while this
was going on, but I felt like a coal; for I like Merivale, as well as
the article in question."
HIS INDULGENCE.
His indulgence, so great toward all, was excessive toward his inferiors.
"Lord Byron," says Medwin, "was the best of masters, and it may be
asserted that he was beloved by his servants; his goodness even extended
to their families. He liked them to have their children with them. I
remember, on one occasion, as we entered the hall, coming back from our
walk, we met the coachman's son, a boy of three or four years of age.
Byron took the child up in his arms and gave him ten pauls."
"His indulgence toward his servants," says Mr. Hoppner, "was almost
reprehensible, for even when they neglected their duty, he appeared
rather to laugh at than to scold them, and he never could make up his
mind to send them away, even after threatening to do so."
Mr. Hoppner quotes several instances of this indulgence, which he
frequently witnessed. I will relate one in which his kindness almost
amounts to virtue. On the point of leaving for Ravenna, whither his
heart passionately summoned him, Tita Falier, his gondolier, is taken
for the conscription. To release him it is not only necessary to pay
money, but also to take certain measures, and to delay his departure.
The money was given, and the much-desired journey postponed.
"The result was," says Hoppner, "that his servants were so attached to
him that they would have borne every thing for his sake. His death
plunged them into the deepest grief. I have in my possession a letter
written to his family by Byron's gondolier, Tita, who followed him from
Venice to Greece, and remained with him until his death. The poor fellow
speaks of his master in touching terms: he declares that in Byron he has
lost rather a father than a master, and he does not cease to dilate upon
the goodness with which Byron looked after the interests of all who
served him."
Fletcher also wrote to Murray after his master's death:--
"Pray forgive this scribbling, for I scarcely know what I do and say. I
have served Lord Byron for twenty years, and his lordship was always to
me rather a father than a master. I am too distressed to be able to give
you any particulars about his death."
Lord Byron's benevolence also shone forth in his tenderness toward
children, in the pleasure he experienced in mingling in their
amusements, and in making them presents. In general, to procure a
moment's enjoyment to any one was real happiness to him.
Quite as humane as he was benevolent, cruelty or ferocity he could not
brook, even in imagination. His genius, although so bold, could not bear
too harrowing a plot. "I wanted to write something upon that subject,"
he told Shelley at Pisa, "as it is extremely tragical, but it was too
heartrending for my nerves to cope with."
His works, moreover, from beginning to end, prove this. An analysis of
the character of all his heroes will prove that, however daring, they
are never ferocious, harsh, nor perverse. Even Conrad the Corsair, whose
type is sketched from a ferocious race, and who is placed in
circumstances that tempt to inhumanity,--Conrad is yet far removed from
cruelty. The drop of blood on Gulnare's fair brow makes him shudder, and
almost forget that it was to save him that she became guilty. The cruel
deeds of a man not only prevented Lord Byron from feeling the least
sympathy for him, but even made gratitude toward him a burden. However
much Ali Pasha, the fierce Viceroy of Janina, may overwhelm him with
kindness, wish to treat him as a son, address him in writing as
"Excellentissime and Carissime," the cruelties of such a friend are too
revolting for Byron to profit by his offer of services. He calls him the
man of war and calamity, and in immortal verse perpetuates the memory of
his crimes, and even _foretells the death he actually died a few years
later_. He can forgive him the weakness of the flesh, but not those
crimes which are deaf to pity's voice, and which, to be condemned in
every man, are still more so in an old man:--
"Blood follows blood, and through this mortal span
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began."
The recollection of human massacres spoilt in his eyes even a beautiful
spot. In exalting the Rhine, the beautiful river he so much admired, the
remembrance of all the blood spilt on its banks saddened his heart:--
"Then to see
The valley of sweet waters, were to know
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such to me
Even now what wants thy stream?--that it should Lethe be:
* * * * * * *
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem."
As to being himself a witness and spectator of scenes of violence, it
was an effort which exceeded the strength, however great, of his will.
Gifted with much psychological curiosity, and holding the theory that
every thing should be seen, he was present at Rome at the execution of
three murderers, who were to be put to death, on the eve of his
departure. This spectacle agitated him to such a degree that it brought
on a fever.
In Spain he attended a bull-fight. The painful impression produced by
the barbarous sight is immortalized in verse (_vide_ "Childe Harold,"
1st canto).
But his actions, above all, testify to his humane disposition. He never
heard of the misfortune or suffering of a fellow-creature without
endeavoring to relieve it, whether in London, Venice, Ravenna, Pisa, or
Greece; he spared neither gold, time, nor labor to achieve this object.
At Pisa, hearing that a wretched man, guilty of a sacrilegious theft,
was to be condemned to cruel torture, he became ill with dread and
anxiety. He wrote to the English ambassador, and to the consuls, begging
for their interposition; neglected no chance, and did not rest until he
acquired the certainty that the penalty inflicted on the culprit would
be more humane.
In Greece, where traits of generous compassion fill the rest of his
life, Count Gamba relates that Colonel Napier, then residing in the
Island of Cephalonia, one day rode in great haste to Lord Byron, to ask
for his assistance, a number of workmen, employed in making a road,
having been buried under the crumbling side of a mountain in consequence
of an imprudent operation. Lord Byron immediately dispatched his
physician, and, although just sitting down to table, had his horses
saddled, and galloped off to the scene of the disaster, accompanied by
Count Gamba and his suite. Women and children wept and moaned, the crowd
each moment increased, lamentations were heard on all sides, but,
whether from despair or laziness, none came forward. Generous anger
overcame Lord Byron at this scene of woe and shame; he leapt from his
horse, and, grasping the necessary implements, began with his own hands
the work of setting free the poor creatures, who were there buried
alive. His example aroused the courage of the others, and the