My Recollections of Lord Byron
Moore has sufficiently answered, since all he remarked and said oblige
us to rank _constancy_ among Lord Byron's most shining virtues.[117] And
as a human heart can not at the same time be governed by a virtue and
its opposite vice, what must we say to those who should persist (for
there are some, doubtless, who will), despite all axioms, in considering
Lord Byron as a changeable, capricious, fickle man? I reply, that Lord
Byron proved, once more, the truth of the observation made by that
moralist, who said: "The most beautiful souls are those possessing the
greatest variety and pliancy," and that he realized in himself, after a
splendid fashion, the moral phenomenon remarked in _Cato the Elder_,
who, according to Livy, possessed a mind at once so versatile and so
comprehensive, that whatever he did it might be thought he was born
solely for that.
I will acknowledge, then, the intellectual versatility and the mobility
of Lord Byron, but on condition of their being reduced to their real
proportions; of their being shown as they ever existed in him, that is
to say, under subjection to duty, honor, and feeling. Through his
extreme impressionability, and his power of combining, in the liveliest
manner, the greatest contrasts, through the pleasure he took in
exercising such extraordinary faculties, and in manifesting them to
others, Lord Byron sometimes assumed such an appearance of skeptical
indifference and caprice, that he might almost be said to show a certain
intermission of faculties, and even of ideas. But if his words and
writings are examined, it will be seen that this mobility was only
skin-deep. It might affect his nerves and muscles, but did not penetrate
into his system. It animated his writings occasionally, and oftener his
words, _but never his actions!_ for, if in some rare moments of life, he
abandoned his will to the sway of light breezes, that was only for very
evanescent fancies of youth, in which neither heart nor honor were at
stake. And even then it was rather by word than by deed, as occurred at
Newstead, when he was twenty years of age, and at Venice when he was
twenty-eight. His energetic soul did not, like feebler natures, require
inconstancy to awaken it. As to ideas, they were only changeable in
him, when they were by nature open to discussion or _accessory_; and
they remained floating, until having been elaborated by his great
reason, he could admit them into the small number of such as he
considered chosen and indisputable. Then they found a sort of sanctuary
in his mind, remaining there sacred and unmoved, just like his true
sentiments of heart.
His mobility, thus limited and circumscribed within due bounds by
unswerving principles and the dictates of an excellent heart, _was thus
shorn of all danger_, and had for its first result to contribute toward
producing that amiability and that wonderful fascination which he
exercised over all those who came near him. Moore quotes, on this head,
the words of Cooper, who, speaking of persons with a changeful
intellectual temperament, says, that their society "_ought to be
preferred in this world, for, all scenes in life having two sides, one
dark and the other brilliant, the mind possessing an equal admixture of
melancholy and vivacity, is the one best organised for contemplating
both._" Moore adds:--"It would not be difficult to show that to this
readiness in reflecting all hues, whether of the shadows or the lights
of our variegated existence, Lord Byron owed not only the great range of
his influence as a poet, but those powers of _fascination_ which he
possessed as a man. This susceptibility, indeed, of immediate
impressions, which in him were so active, lent a charm, of all others
the most attractive, to his social intercourse, and brought whatever was
most agreeable in his nature into play."
All those who knew him have said the same thing. This charm was the
immediate consequence of his qualities; but they produced another
result, that justice requires to be mentioned. Mobility being united in
him with constancy and the most heroic firmness, added lustre to his
soul through that great difficulty overcome which amounts to virtue.
Moralists of all ages have generally found the virtue of constancy so
rare, that they have said,--
"Wait for death to judge a man."
"In all antiquity," says Montaigne, "it would be difficult to find a
dozen men who shaped their lives in a certain steady course which is the
chief end of wisdom."
This is true as regards the generality of minds; but to overcome this
difficulty, when one has a mind eager for emotion, variable, with width
and depth capable of discerning simultaneously the for and against of
every thing, and thus being necessarily exposed to perplexity of choice,
it is surely marvellous if a mind so constituted be also constant. Now,
Lord Byron personified this marvel. In him was seen the realization of
that rare thing in nature, intellectual versatility combined with
unswerving principle; mobility of mind united to a constant heart. In
short, to sum up:--He possessed the amount of versatility requisite to
manifest his genius under all its aspects; a degree of mobility most
charming in social intercourse; and such constancy as is always
estimable, always a virtue, and which, united to a temperament like
his,[118] becomes positively wonderful.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 117: See the chapter on "Constancy."]
[Footnote 118: See the chapter on "Constancy."]
CHAPTER XIX.
LORD BYRON'S MISANTHROPY AND SOCIABILITY.
Lord Byron has also been accused of misanthropy. But what is a
misanthrope? Since Lucian, this name has been bestowed on the man who
owns no friend but himself; who looks upon all others as so many rogues,
for whom relatives, friends, country, are but empty names; who despises
fame, and aims at no distinction except that conferred by his strange
manners, savage anger, and inhumanity.
When those who have known Lord Byron, and studied his life, compare him
to this type, it may well be asked whether such persons be in their
right understanding. The famous tower of Babel, and all the confusion
ensuing, rise up to view.
The excess of absurdity may give way, however, to some little moderation
in judgment. It will be said, for instance, that there are different
kinds of misanthropy. Lucian's "Timon" does not at all resemble
Moliere's "Alceste:" Lord Byron's misanthropy was not like either of
theirs; his was only of the kind that mars sociability, good temper, and
other amiable qualities. In short, we shall be given to understand that
Lord Byron is only accused of _having liked solitude too much, of having
shunned his fellow-creatures too much, and thought too ill of humanity_.
But these modifications can not satisfy our conscience. Still too many
reasons of astonishment may be offered to allow us to resist the desire
of adding other facts and indisputable proofs to those already adduced
in the chapter where we examined the nature and limits of his melancholy
at all periods of life, and throughout all its phases.[119] This chapter
might even suffice as a response to the above strange accusation.
A better answer still would be found in all the proofs we have given of
his goodness, generosity, and humanity. Nevertheless, we think it right
rather to appeal to the patience of our readers; so that they may
consider with us, more especially, one of the peculiar aspects of Lord
Byron's character; namely, his sociability.
That Lord Byron loved solitude, and that it was a want of his nature who
can doubt? As a child, we know, his delight was to wander alone on the
sea-shore, on the Scottish strand. At school, he was wont to withdraw
from his beloved companions, and the games he liked so well, in order to
pass whole hours seated on the solitary stone in the church-yard at
Harrow, which has been fitly called _Byron's Tomb_. He himself describes
these inclinations of his childhood in the "Lament of Tasso:"--
"Of objects all inanimate I made
Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers,
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise,
Where I did lay me down within the shade
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours,
Though I was chid for wandering; and the wise
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said,
Of such materials wretched men were made."
Arrived at adolescence, he showed so little inclination to mix in
society that his friends reproached him with his over-weening love for
solitude. Amid the gay dissipation of university life, he was often a
prey to vague disquietude. Like the majority of great spirits that had
preceded him at Cambridge,--Milton, Gray, Locke, etc.,--he did not enjoy
his stay there. He even made a satire upon it in his early poems. At a
later period, when he had acquired fame, at the very height of his
triumphs, when he was _the observed of all observers_, he often caught
himself dreaming on the happiness of escaping from fashionable society,
and getting home; for, like Pope, he greatly preferred quiet reading to
the most agreeable conversation.
All his life there were hours and days wherein his mind absolutely
required this repose.
It may, then, truly be said that he loved solitude, and felt a real
attraction for it. But would it be equally just to attribute this taste
to melancholy, and then to call his melancholy _misanthropy_? Those who
have deeply studied the nature of a certain order of genius, and the
phases of its development, will discover something very different in the
impulse that attracted the child Byron to the sea-shore in Scotland, and
to the sepulchral stone shaded over by the tall trees of Harrow? They
will see therein, not the melancholy apparent to vulgar eyes, but the
forecast of genius, to be revealed sooner or later, and with a further
promise, in the antipathy shown for the routine of schools, and
especially of the University of Cambridge,--a suffocating atmosphere for
genius, equally uncongenial to Milton, Dryden, Gray, and Locke, who all,
like Lord Byron, and more bitterly than he, exercised their satiric vein
on it. As for the slight attraction he sometimes showed for the world in
his youth--in his seventeenth year--and which the excellent Mr. Beecher
reproached him with, his feelings are too well defined by the noble boy
himself for us to dare to substitute any words of ours in lieu of those
used by him, in justification to his friend.
Dear Beecher, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I can not deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind;
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth;
And, when infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire in the cavern of Etna concealed
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess:
At length in a volume terrific revealed,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh! thus the desire in my bosom for fame
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath;
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd,
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?
I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;