My Recollections of Lord Byron
losing the charm appertaining to ardor of passion. The sacrifice
entailed by this departure was in proportion to these sentiments.
"Often," says M----, "during the passage we saw his eyes filled with
tears." The sadness described by Mr. Barry of his last visit to Albano
has been seen.[74] These tears and this sadness betray the extent of his
sublime sacrifice! And then, when once arrived in Greece, although
determined to brave all the storms gathering above his head, he wrote
unceasingly to Madame G----, with that ease and simplicity which not
only forbade any exaggeration of sentiment, but even made him restrain
its expression; which was also rendered imperative by the circumstances
then surrounding her.
"I shall fulfill the object of my mission from the committee, and then
... return to Italy.... Pray be as cheerful and tranquil as you can, and
be assured that there is nothing here that can excite any thing but a
wish to be with you again, though we are very kindly treated by the
English here of all descriptions."
"September 11.
"You may be sure that the moment I can join you again will be as
welcome to me as at any period of our acquaintance. There is
nothing very attractive here to occupy my attention; but both honor
and inclination demand that I should serve the Greek cause. I wish
that this cause, as well as the affairs of Spain, were favorably
settled, that I might return to Italy and relate all my adventures
to you."
Thus much for his constancy when he truly loved. It would be worth
inquiry how many men and how many writers have carried their ideal of
constancy into their own life to a higher degree than Lord Byron? My
opinion is that if, the same circumstances given, the number went a
little beyond one, we might consider the result very satisfactory.
After having seen that Lord Byron was unchangeable in great principles
and ideas, as soon as his mind was convinced, and that he was constant
to all the true sentiments of his heart, it still remains to be shown
whether he was equally so in his tastes and habits.
It may be said of most men that they have no character, because they
often vary in taste, and without even perceiving it. That could not be
asserted of Lord Byron, although sometimes, according to his
self-accusing custom, he declared himself to be inconstant.
The truth is that he was, on the contrary, remarkably steadfast in his
tastes. The nature of his preferences, and the conclusions to be drawn
from them, will form the subject of another chapter. We shall only speak
of them here as relating to constancy.
"We shall often have occasion," says Moore, "to remark the fidelity to
early habits and tastes which distinguished Lord Byron." Moore then
observes the extraordinary constancy Lord Byron showed in clinging to
all the impressions of youth; and he adduces as a proof the care with
which he preserved the notes and letters written by his favorite
comrades at school, even when they were younger than himself. These
letters he enriched with dates and notes, after years of long interval,
while very few of his childish effusions have been kept by the opposite
parties. Moore also notes several other features of this constancy,
which he continued to practice throughout life. For instance, his
punctuality in answering letters immediately, despite his distaste for
epistolary effusions; and his love for simple music, such as that of the
ballads that used to attract him at sixteen to Miss Pigott's saloon. It
was partly this same taste that made him enjoy so much, at twenty-six,
the evenings he passed at his friend Kinnaird's house (some months
before his marriage, the last of his London life), when Moore would sing
his favorite songs, bringing tears to Byron's eyes. And it was this same
taste that subsequently drew him to the piano at which Madame G---- sat,
at Ravenna, Pisa, Genoa; and which, when she played or sung Mozart's and
Rossini's favorite motets, made him say that he no longer loved any
other music but hers.
What he had once loved never tired him. Memory was to him like an
enchanter's wand, throwing some charm into objects which in themselves
possessed none. He loved the land where he had loved, however naturally
unattractive it might be: witness Ravenna, and Italy in general.
"Possession of what I truly love," said he, in the very rare moments
when he did himself justice "does not cloy me." He loved the mountains
of Greece, because they recalled those of Scotland; he would have loved
other mountains, because they recalled those of Greece.
A few months before his death, he said in his charming poem "The
Island,"--
"Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine,
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine,
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep:
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all
_Their_ nature held me in their thrilling thrall;
The infant rapture still survived the boy,
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount,
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount.
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade!
Forgive me, Phoebus! that my fancy stray'd;
The north and nature taught me to adore
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before."[75]
He would love a place of abode because he had loved when in it. The same
with regard to a dwelling, a walk, a melody, a perfume, a form, and even
a dish; he who cared so little for any sort of food. His childish
impressions, his readings at that age, had a great deal to do with his
choice of poetic subjects afterward; and we find them again reproduced
even in his last dramatic work. "Werner," written in such a fine moral
sense, is the result of the "Canterbury Tale" read in childhood. Never
was man more constant in his habits and tastes than he; and, indeed, it
required that indefinable charm of soul he possessed, and which pervaded
his whole being, to prevent monotony from perverting this quality into a
fault.
Why, then, have his biographers talked so much of his mobility, if it
were not to make Lord Byron pass for a creature swayed by every fresh
impulse, and incapable of steady feeling? I have given the first reason
elsewhere.[76] But I will add another, namely, that they have
transferred the qualities of the _poet to the man_ in an erroneous
manner; that to the versatility of his genius (one of his great gifts,
and which ever belong to him) they have added mobility of character such
as often, too often, perhaps, influenced his conversation, and tinctured
his external fictitious nature. But they have done so without examining
his actions, without reflecting that this mobility vanished as it was
written, or in the light play of his witty conversation, or the trivial
acts of his life. Otherwise they would have been forced to confess, that
it never had any influence on his conduct in matters of moment, that he
was persevering and firm to an extremely rare degree in all things
_essential_ and which constitute _man in his moral and social capacity_.
We may then sum up by saying that Lord Byron generally established on an
impregnable rock, guarded by unbending principles, those great virtues
to which principles are essential; but that, after making these
treasures secure--for treasures they are to the man of honor and
worth--once having placed them beyond the reach of sensibility and
sentiment, he may sometimes have allowed the _lesser virtues_ (within
ordinary bonds) such indulgence as flowed from his kindly nature, and
such as his youth rendered natural to a feeling heart and ardent
imagination. Like all men, he was only truly firm under serious
circumstances, when he wished to show energy in fulfilling a duty. Thus
Lord Byron allowed his pen to jest, to mark the follies of men:
sometimes attacking them boldly in front, sometimes aiming light arrows
aslant, ridiculing, chastising, as humor or fancy prompted; and he gave
himself the same liberty of language in private conversation, according
to the character of those with whom he conversed. On all these occasions
his genius undoubtedly gave itself up to versatility. But let us not
forget that all that which changes and becomes effaced in hearts of
inconstant mood, and which ought not to change in men of honor and
worth, never did vary in him. Let us acknowledge, in short, that, if
mobility belonged to the _sensitive_ parts of his nature, constancy no
less characterized his _moral and intellectual_ being.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 64: See chapter on "Mobility."]
[Footnote 65: Stanhope, Parry, 235.]
[Footnote 66: See Sainte-Beuve, vol. i. p. 286.]
[Footnote 67: See chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 68: See this prayer in chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 69: See chapter on "Religion."]
[Footnote 70: See octaves 48, 49 and 50, canto xiv. "Don Juan;" and
several in "Childe Harold," cantos iii. and iv.]
[Footnote 71: See chapter on "Generosity."]
[Footnote 72: See chapter on "Marriage."]
[Footnote 73: See "Life at Venice, at Milan."]
[Footnote 74: See chapter on "Strength of Soul."]
[Footnote 75: "The Island," canto ii. stanza 12.]
[Footnote 76: See chapter on "Mobility."]
CHAPTER XII.
THE COURAGE AND FORTITUDE OF LORD BYRON.
All the moral qualities that flow from energy--courage, intrepidity,
fortitude; in a word, self-control--shone with too much lustre in Lord
Byron's soul for us to pass them over in silence, or even to call only
superficial attention to them.
But, it may be said, Why speak of his courage? No one ever called it in
question. Besides, is courage a virtue? It is hardly a quality; in
reality it is but a duty. Yes, undoubtedly, that is true, but there are
different kinds of courage, and Lord Byron's was of such a peculiar
nature, and showed itself under such uncommon circumstances as to
justify observation, for it evinces a quality necessary to be noticed by
all who seek to portray his great soul with the wish of arriving at a
close resemblance.
"Whatever virtue may be allowed to belong to personal courage, it is
most assuredly those who are endowed by nature with the liveliest
imaginations, and who have, therefore, most vividly and simultaneously
before their eyes all the remote and possible consequences of danger,
that are most deserving of whatever praise attends the exercise of that
virtue."
Certainly Lord Byron made part of the category, so that Moore adds:--
"The courage of Lord Byron, as all his companions in peril testify, was
of that noblest kind which rises with the greatness of the occasion, and
becomes the more self-collected and resisting the more imminent the
danger."
Thus, far from its being the natural impetuosity that causes rash
natures to rush into danger, Lord Byron's courage was quite as much the
result of reflection as of impulse. _His was courage of the noblest
kind_, a quality mixed up with other fine moral faculties, shining with
light of its own, yet all combining to lend mutual lustre. This is,
indeed, what ought to be called _fortitude_ and _self-control_, and
this is what we remark in Lord Byron. But, in order not to sin against
the scientific classification used by moralists, and which requires
subdivisions, we will isolate it for a moment, and examine it under the
name of courage, presence of mind, and coolness.
Unaffected in his bravery, as in all things else, Lord Byron did not
seek dangers, but when they presented themselves to him he met them with
lofty intrepidity.
To give some examples--and the difficulty is to choose--let us consider
him under different circumstances that occurred during his first travels
in the East.
While at Malta he was on the point of fighting a duel, through some