My Recollections of Lord Byron
found a discussion on his merits and those of Moore. And, after some
modest amusing sentences, he goes on to say:--
"It was a great fame to be named with Moore; greater to be compared with
him; greatest _pleasure_, at least, to be _with_ him; and, surely, an
odd coincidence, that we should be dining together while they were
quarrelling about us beyond the equinoctial line. Well, the same
evening, I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of Lord Grey's
daughters (a fine, tall, spirited-looking girl, with much of the
patrician thorough-bred look of her father, which I dote upon) play on
the harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she looked music. Well, I
would rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked delightfully)
and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore and me put
together. The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the way to
pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, the better for the
pleasure and for us too."[86]
This modesty sometimes even carried him so far as to lead him into most
extraordinary appreciation of things. For instance, he almost thought it
blamable to have one's own bust done in marble, unless it were for the
sake of a friend. Apropos of a young American who came to see him at
Ravenna, and who told him he was commissioned by Thorwaldsen to have a
copy of his bust made and sent to America, Lord Byron wrote in his
journal:--
"_I_ would not pay the price of a Thorwaldsen bust for any human head
and shoulders, except Napoleon's, or my children's or some _absurd
womankind's_, as Monkbarns calls them, or my sister's. If asked why,
then, I sat for my own? Answer, that it was at the particular request of
J.C. Hobhouse, Esq., and for no one else. A picture is a different
matter; every body sits for their picture; but a bust looks like putting
up _pretensions to permanency_, and smacks something of a _hankering for
public fame rather than private remembrance_."
Let us add to all these proofs of Lord Byron's modesty, that his great
experience of men and things, the doubts inseparable from deep learning,
and his indulgence for human weakness, rendered his reason most tolerant
in its exigencies, and that he never endeavored to impose his opinions
on others. But while remaining essentially a modest genius, Lord Byron
did not, however, ignore his own value. If he had doubted himself, if he
had wanted a just measure of confidence in his genius, could he have
found in his soul the energy necessary for accomplishing in a few years
such a marvellous literary career? His modesty did not proceed from
conscious inferiority with regard to others.
Could the intellect that caused him to appreciate others so well fail to
make him feel his own great superiority? But that _relative superiority_
which he felt in himself left him _perfectly modest_, or he knew it was
subject to other relations that showed it to him in extreme littleness:
that is to say, the relation of the finite with the aspiration toward
the infinite. It was the appreciation of the immense distance existing
between what we know and what we ignore, between what we are and what we
would be; the consciousness, in fact, of the limits imposed by God on
man, and which neither study nor excellence of faculties can ever enable
us to pass beyond.
Those rare beings, whose greatness of soul equals their penetration of
mind, can not themselves feel the fascination they exercise over others;
and while performing miracles of genius, devotion, and heroism, remain
admirably simple, natural, and modest, believing that they do not
outstep the humblest limits.
Such was Lord Byron. We may then sum up by saying that he was not only a
modest genius, but also that, instead of being too proud of his genius,
he may rather be accused of having too little appreciated this great
gift, as well as many others bestowed by Heaven.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 82: The first two cantos of "Childe Harold."]
[Footnote 83: Moore, vol. i. p. 512.]
[Footnote 84: The present Dean of Westminster.]
[Footnote 85: Moore, Letter 265.]
[Footnote 86: Moore, vol. v. p. 76.]
CHAPTER XIV.
THE VIRTUES OF HIS SOUL.
HIS GENEROSITY A VIRTUE.
All that we have hitherto said, proves that Lord Byron's generosity has
never been disputed; but the generosity usually attributed to him was an
innate quality, the impulse of a good heart, naturally inclined to
bestow benefits.
Certainly, to distribute among the poor our superfluities, and very
often more than that, to borrow rather than suffer the unfortunate to
wait for assistance; to subtract from our pleasures, and even to bear
privations, the better to help all the afflicted, without distinction of
opinion, age, or sex; to measure the kindness done rather by their
wants, than our own resources, and to do all that, without ostentation,
habitually, in secret and unknown, with God and our conscience for sole
witnesses: certainly, all that is full of moral beauty; and we know on
what a large scale Lord Byron practiced it all his life. We have seen
him in childhood, of which we should vainly seek one more amiable and
more admirable, wish to take upon himself the punishments destined for
his comrades; rescue their hall from the senseless fury of his
school-fellows, by showing them the dear names of their parents written
on the walls; desire to expose himself to death, to save a comrade, who
had two parents to regret his loss, while he himself had only one; and
send his good nurse the first watch of which he became possessed,--and
we know what a treasure the first watch is to a child. We have followed
him later, a youth at college, at the university, and at Newstead, in
his devoted passionate affections; a young man on his travels, and in
the midst of the great world, and we have seen his compassion for every
kind of misfortune, and his mode of assuaging them.
When we perceive, despite the ardor and mobility of his heart, where so
many contrary elements combined, contradicted, jarred against, or
succeeded each other, that there never was a single instant in his life
when generosity did not reign supreme over every impulse and
consideration, not only are we compelled to pronounce him generous, but
we are likewise forced to acknowledge that generosity, with a passion
for truth, divided the empire of his soul, and formed the two principal
features of his character. But if his generosity had ended in only
satisfying the fine tendencies of his nature, would it have acquired the
right to be called virtuous? We do not think so. For generosity, to
merit that sacred epithet, must express sentiments rarer and more
elevated, arrive at the highest triumph of moral strength, at the
greatest self-abnegation; it must succeed in overcoming appetite, in
forgetting the most just resentments, in returning good for evil. Then,
alone, can generosity attain that sublime degree which entitles it to be
called a virtue.
Did Lord Byron's generosity reach this great moral height? Let us
examine facts; they alone can answer.
If a young man lends assistance to a young and beautiful girl, without
any interested motive, and with exquisite delicacy, he certainly gives
proof that he possesses delicacy of soul. His merit becomes much greater
if he acts thus solely to save her honor. But if the young girl, full of
gratitude, falls deeply in love with her benefactor; if, unable to hide
the impression produced on her heart by his presence and his generosity,
she makes him understand that her gratitude would have no limits; and if
he, at the age when passion is all awake, though touched by the
sentiments this charming person has conceived, nevertheless shuts his
senses against all temptations, does not the greatness of his soul then
become admirable? Well, this was fully realized in Lord Byron. And not
only in a single instance; but often during his life. For, if
temptations were numerous, so were victories also. We will only quote
one example, with sufficient details to make it justly appreciated.
Miss S----, who had been bred in ease, but who, with her family, had
been reduced, through a series of misfortunes, to absolute want, found
herself exposed to the greatest evil that can menace a portionless girl.
Her mother, whose temper had been soured by reverses which had likewise
quite overthrown her sense of morality, had become one of those women
who consider poverty the worst of all evils. Unscrupulous as to the
means of putting an end to it, she did not think it necessary to fortify
her daughter's mind by good counsels. Happily the young girl had lofty
sentiments and natural dignity. Secure from vulgar seduction, and guided
by wholesome steady principles, she desired to depend only on her
talents for gaining a livelihood, and for assisting her parents. Having
written a small volume of poetry, she had already got subscriptions from
persons of high position; but her great desire was to obtain Lord
Byron's name.
An impulse, often recurring, induced her to apply to the young nobleman,
who was then still unmarried. She only knew him through his works, and
by report, which already associated with admiration for his talents a
thousand calumnies concerning his moral character. The skeptical stanzas
of "Childe Harold" still troubled orthodox repose; the lines on the
tears of the Princess Royal irritated the Tories, and his last success
with the "Corsair," added to those he had already gained, further
embittered his jealous rivals. Thus calumnies made up from these
different elements besieged the poet's house, so as to prevent truth
concerning the man from being known. Even in her family, Miss S----
found hostility against him; for her mother, who called herself a Tory,
only discovered moral delicacy when she wished to show her repugnance
for the Whig party, to which Lord Byron belonged. Miss S----, in a
moment of extreme anguish and pressing embarrassment, resolved upon
applying to the young nobleman. He received her with respect and
consideration, and soon perceived how intimidated she was by the rather
bold step she had taken, and also by the cause that prompted it. Lord
Byron reassured her, by treating her with peculiar kindness, as he
questioned her respecting her circumstances. When she had related the
sad reasons that determined her to ask him for a subscription, Lord
Byron rang for his valet, and ordered a desk to be brought to him. Then,
with that delicacy of heart which formed such a remarkable trait in his
character, he wrote down, while still conversing, a few words, which he
wrapped up in an envelope, and gave to the young lady. She soon after
withdrew, thinking she had obtained the coveted subscription.
When fairly out, all she had seen and heard appeared to her like a
dream. The door which had just closed behind her seemed the gate of
Eden, opening on a land of exile. Nevertheless, she was to see him
again. He had consented to receive her volume. Lord Byron was not for
her the angel with the flaming sword, but rather an angel of gentleness,
mercy, and love. Never had she seen or imagined such a combination of
enchantments; never had she seen so much beauty, nor heard such a voice;
never had such a sweet expressive glance met hers. "No;" she repeated to
herself, "he is not a man, but some celestial being. _Oh, mamma, Lord
Byron is an angel!_" were the first words that escaped her on returning
home. The envelope was opened; and a new surprise awaited them. Together
with his subscription, she found, wrapped up, fifty pounds. That sum
was, indeed, a treasure for her. She fell on her knees with all her
family; even her mother forgot for the moment that it was Whig money to
which they owed their deliverance, and seemed almost to agree with her