My Recollections of Lord Byron
they created within him, he only asked in return some amusement, an
occupation for long hours of solitude.
Having begun "Childe Harold" as a memorial of his travelling
impressions, he communicated it, on his return to England, to the friend
who had been his companion throughout. But, instead of meeting with
indulgence and encouragement, this friend only blamed the poem, and
called it an extravagant conception.
He was, nevertheless, a competent judge and a poet himself. Why, then,
such severity? Did he wish to sacrifice the poet to the man, fearing for
his friend lest the allusions therein made should lend further weapons
to the malice of his enemies? Did he dread for himself, and for those
among their comrades who, two years before, had donned the preacher's
garb at Newstead Abbey, lest the voice of public opinion should mix them
up in the pretended disorders of which the Abbey had been the theatre,
and which the poem either exaggerated or invented? Whatsoever his
motive, this friend was not certainly then a John of Bologna for Lord
Byron; but the modesty of the poet surpassed the severity of his judge;
for, accepting the blame as if it were merited, he restored the poem to
its portfolio with such humility that when Mr. Dallas afterward heard of
it almost by chance, and, fired with enthusiasm on reading it,
pronounced this extravagant thing to be a sublime _chef-d'oeuvre_, he
had the greatest difficulty in persuading Lord Byron to make it public.
Gifford's criticisms were always received by Lord Byron not only with
docility and modesty but even with gratitude.
He never lost an occasion of blaming himself as a poet and of
depreciating his genius. Living only for affection, more than once when
he feared that the war going on against him might warp feeling, he was
on the point of consigning all he had written to the flames; of
destroying forever every vestige of it; and only the fear of harming his
publisher made him at last withdraw the given order.
He knew only how to praise his rivals, and to assist those requiring
help or encouragement.
Notwithstanding the favor shown him by the public, it always appeared to
him that he would weary it with any new production.
When about to publish the "Bride of Abydos," he said, "I know what I
risk, and with good reason,--losing the small reputation I have gained
by putting the public to this new test; but really I have ceased to
attach any importance to that. I write and publish solely for the sake
of occupation, to draw my thoughts away from reality, and take refuge in
imagination, however dreadful."
In 1814, when Murray (who was thinking of establishing a periodical for
bringing out the works of living authors) consulted Lord Byron on the
subject, he, whose splendid fame had already thrown all his
contemporaries into the shade, answered simply, that supported by such
poets as Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and many others, the undertaking
would of course succeed; and that for his part, he would unite with
Hobhouse and Moore so as to furnish occasionally--a failure! and at the
same time he made use of the opportunity to praise Campbell and
Canning.
His memorandum-book is one perpetual record of his humility, even at a
time when the public, of all classes and sexes, had made him their idol.
After having expressed in his memoranda for 1813 his sublime aspirations
after glory--that is to say, the happiness he should experience in being
_not a ruler, but a guide and benefactor of humanity, a Washington, a
Franklin, a Penn_; "but no," added he; "no, I shall never be any thing:
or rather, I shall always be nothing. The most I can hope is that some
one may say of me, '_He might_, _perhaps_, if he would.'"
The low estimation in which he held his poetical genius, to which he
preferred action, amounted almost to a fault; for he forgot that grand
and beautiful truths, couched in burning words and lighted up by genius,
are also actions. He really seemed to have difficulty in forgiving
himself for writing at all. Even at the outset of his literary career he
was indignant with his publisher for having taken steps with Gifford
which looked like asking for praise.
"It is bad enough to be a scribbler," said he, "without having recourse
to such subterfuges for extorting praise or warding off criticism."
"I have never contemplated the prospect," wrote he, in 1819, "of
occupying a permanent place in the literature of my country. Those who
know me best are aware of that; and they also know that I have been
considerably astonished at even the transient success of my works, never
having flattered any one person or party, and having expressed opinions
which are not those of readers in general. If I could have guessed the
high degree of attention that has been awarded to them, I should
certainly have made all possible efforts to merit it. But I have lived
abroad, in distant countries, or else in the midst of worldly
dissipation in England: circumstances by no means favorable to study and
reflection. So that almost all I have written is but passion; for in me
(if it is not Irishism to say so) indifference itself was a _sort of
passion_, the result of experience and not the philosophy of nature."
The same contempt, manifested in a thousand ways throughout his life,
was again expressed by Lord Byron, a few days before his death, to Lord
Harrington, on being told by the latter that, notwithstanding the war
he had waged against English prejudices and national susceptibility, he
had nevertheless been the pride and even the idol of his country.
"Oh!" exclaimed he, "it would be a stupid race that should adore such an
idol. It is true, they laid aside their superstition, as to my divinity,
after 'Cain.'"
We find in his memoranda, with regard to a comparison made between
himself and Napoleon, these significant words: "I, an _insect_, compared
to that creature!"[83]
Sometimes he ascribes his poetical success to accidental causes, or else
to some merit not personal to himself but transmitted by inheritance;
that is, to his rank.
The generality of authors, especially poets, love to read their
productions over and over again, just as a fine woman likes to admire
herself in the glass. He, on the contrary, avoided this reflection of
his genius, which seemed to displease him.
"Here are two wretched proof-sheets from the printer. I have looked over
one; but, on my soul, I can not read that 'Giaour' again--at least not
now and at this hour (midnight); yet there is no moonlight."
He never read his compositions to any one. On inviting Moore to Newstead
Abbey, soon after having made his acquaintance, he said, "I can promise
you Balnea Vina, and, if you like shooting, a manor of four thousand
acres, fire, books, full liberty. H----, I fear, will pester you with
verses, but, for my part, I can conclude with Martial, '_nil recitabo
tibi_;' and certainly this last promise ought not to be the least
tempting for you."
Nevertheless, this was a great moment for a young author, as "Childe
Harold" was then going through the press. He never would speak of his
works; and when any translation of them was mentioned to him, they were
sure to cause annoyance to him. Several times in Italy he paid large
sums to prevent his works from being translated, at the same time not to
injure the translator; but while refusing these homages for himself he
desired them for others, and with that view praised and assisted them.
We have already seen all he did to magnify Moore, as well as others,
both friends and rivals. The Gospel says, "Do unto others as ye would
they should do unto you;" but for him the precept should rather have
been reversed thus, "Do for yourself what you would do for others."
In the midst of his matrimonial sufferings, at the most cruel moments of
his existence, he still found time to write and warmly recommend to his
publisher works written by Hunt and Coleridge, who afterward rewarded
all his kindness with the most dire ingratitude. And after praising them
greatly, he adds, speaking of one of his own works, "And now let us come
to the last, my own, of which I am ashamed to speak after the others.
Publish it or not, as you like; I don't care a straw about it. If it
seems to you that it merits a place in the fourth volume, put it there,
or anywhere else; and if not, throw it into the fire." This poem, so
despised, was the "Siege of Corinth!"
About the same time, on learning that Jeffrey had lauded "Hebrew
Melodies"--poems so much above all praise that one might believe them
(said a great mind lately)[84] thought by Isaiah and written by
Shakspeare--Lord Byron considered Jeffrey very kind to have been so
indulgent.
With what simplicity or contempt does he always introduce his
_chefs-d'oeuvre_, either by dedication to his friends, or to his
publisher.
"I have put in press a devil of a story or tale, called the 'Corsair.'
It is of a pirate island, peopled with my own creatures, and you may
easily imagine that they will do a host of wicked things, in the course
of three cantos."
And this _devil of a story or tale_ had numberless editions. Several
thousand copies were sold in one day. We have already seen the modest
terms in which he announced to his friend Moore the termination of his
poem "Manfred." This is how he mentioned it to his publisher:--
"I forgot to mention to you that a kind of poem in dialogue (in blank
verse), or drama, from which the translation is an extract, begun last
summer in Switzerland, is finished; it is in three acts, but of a very
wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable kind.
BYRON."
He describes to Murray the causes, and adds:--
"You may perceive by this outline that I have no great opinion of
this piece of fantasy; but I have at least rendered it _quite
impossible_ for the stage, for which my intercourse with Drury Lane
has given me the greatest contempt.
"I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy at present to
attempt the whole; but when I have, I will send it to you, and you
may either throw it into the fire or not.
"I have really and truly no notion whether it is good or bad, and
as this was not the case with the principal of my former
publications, I am, therefore, inclined to rank it very humbly. You
will submit it to Mr. Gifford, and to whomsoever you please
besides. With regard to the question of copyright (if it ever comes
to publication), I do not know whether you would think _three
hundred_ guineas an overestimate, if you do you may diminish it. I
do not think it worth more.
BYRON.[85]
"Venice, March 9, 1817."
Lord Byron never protested against or complained of any criticism as to
the talent displayed in his works. His protests (much too rare, alas!)
never had any other object than to repel some abominable calumny. When
they criticised without good faith and without measure his beautiful
dramas, saying they were not adapted for the stage, what did he reply?
"It appears that I do not possess dramatic genius."
His observations on that wicked and unmerited article in "Blackwood's
Magazine" for 1819, are quite a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of reasoning and
modesty. There again, if he defends the man a little, he condemns the
poet.
His modesty was such that he almost went so far as to see, in the enmity
stirred up against him during his latter years, a symptom of the decay
of his talent. He really seemed to attach value to his genius only when
it could be enlisted in the service of his heart.
In 1821, being at Ravenna, and writing his memoranda, he recalls that
one day in London (1814), just as he was stepping into a carriage with
Moore (whom he calls with all his heart the poet _par excellence_), he
received a Java Gazette, sent by Murray, and that on looking over it, he