My Recollections of Lord Byron
satirical poems, wishing especially to stigmatize vice in high quarters,
he has painted wicked women and queens (Catherine and Elizabeth), did he
not likewise refresh our souls with the enchanting portraits of
Angiolina (the wife of Faliero), and of Josephine (the wife of Werner).
If he made merry at the expense of coquettish, weak, hypocritical women
(like Adeline, for instance), has he not consoled us by painting, in far
greater number, angels of loving devotedness, like Myrrha, Adah, Medora,
Haidee, and in general all his delightful female creations? Are not all
his heroes even, more or less, constant, devoted, ready to sacrifice
every thing to the sincerity of their feelings--devoted love, continued
even in the heart of Cain toward his Adah? In "Heaven and Earth" the
angels gave up celestial happiness, and exposed themselves to every
evil, in order not to abandon those who loved them. Don Juan himself
loved unselfishly. Bitter remembrances, reflections arising from the
conduct of friends, made him, _it is true_, doubt the existence of
friendship, generalize, blame sometimes, and write those fine stanzas in
the fourteenth canto of "Don Juan:"--
"Without a friend, what were humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
Consoling us with--'Would you had thought twice!
Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!'
XLVIII.
"O Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough,
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off.
As they will do like leaves at the first breeze:
When your affairs come round, one way or 'tother,
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.
XLIX.
"But this is not my maxim; had it been,
Some heart-aches had been spared me: yet I care not--
I would not be a tortoise in his screen
Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not;
'Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen
That which humanity may bear, or bear not;
'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive,
And not to pour their ocean in a sieve.
L.
"Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,'
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst '_bonos mores_,'
With a long memorandum of old stories."
On looking into his own heart, Lord Byron no longer doubted the
existence of sincere friendships, devoid of all ironical selfishness,
since he wrote that forty-ninth stanza, where he says that such is not
his maxim, or his heart would have had less to suffer.
Did he not make love of country incarnate in that admirable type (_the
young Venetian Foscari_); too fine a type, perhaps, though historical,
to be understood by every one. And did he not, through other types,
equally prove his belief in all the noblest, most virtuous sentiments of
our soul? In fine, if he recognized littleness in man, he recognized
greatness likewise. All his writings, as well as his conduct through
life, belied continuously and broadly a few poetical expressions and
mystifications which drew down upon him, in common with other calumnies,
that of having unjustly accused humanity. As to the misanthropy of his
early youth, it was of so slight a nature that it only passed through
his mind, and occasionally rested on his pen; but it always evaporated
in words, and especially in his verses. For his life and actions ever
showed that such a sentiment was foreign to his nature.
And since its attacks[129] always took place under the pressure of some
great injustice, some excess of suffering imposed by the strong on the
weak and inoffensive, we must also add that there was in this pretended
misanthropy more real goodness and humanity than in all the elegies,
songs, meditations, Messenian odes, etc., of all those who blamed him.
Having studied Lord Byron at all periods of his life, in his relations
with society, and in his love of solitude, we have seen him alternately
placed in contact with others, and then more directly with himself; now
correcting the inconveniences that flow from solitude, by seeking the
amusements of youth and society, and then making solitary meditation
follow on the useful field of observation sought in the world, and thus
he drew profit from both, without ever suffering himself to be
exclusively engrossed by one or the other. The enervating atmosphere of
drawing-rooms remained innocuous for him; he came out from them with a
mind as virile and independent as if he had never breathed it, keeping
all his ideas strong and bold, just and humane, as they were before. But
the consequences of this rare equilibrium, which he was enabled to
maintain between a worldly and a solitary life, were very great, as
regarded his fame, if not his happiness; for he gained thereby an
experience and a knowledge of the human heart quite wonderful, at an age
when the first pages of the Book of Life have in general scarcely been
read, so that, in perusing his writings, one might imagine that he had
already gone through a long career. Lastly, as afterward not the least
trace of this pretended misanthropy remained, he might have repeated
what Bernardin de Saint Pierre said of a certain melancholy that we are
scarcely ever free from in youth, and which was compared, in his
presence, to the small-pox:--"I also have had that malady, but it left
no traces behind it."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 119: See chapter on "Melancholy and Gayety."]
[Footnote 120: M. Nisard.]
[Footnote 121: See his "Life in Italy."]
[Footnote 122: See his "Life in Italy."]
[Footnote 123: See chapter on "Gayety and Melancholy."]
[Footnote 124: See his "Life in Italy."]
[Footnote 125: Medwin, vol. ii. p. 138.]
[Footnote 126: Appendix to Parry's work.]
[Footnote 127: Ibid. p. 210.]
[Footnote 128: See Kennedy.]
[Footnote 129: See chapter on "Melancholy."]
CHAPTER XX.
LORD BYRON'S PRIDE.
Among Lord Byron's biographers, we remark some who doubtless believed it
useless to count on success, if their work did not contain a large
tribute to human wickedness, and who, seeing it nevertheless impossible
to accuse Lord Byron of any vice emanating from heart or soul, gave
themselves the pleasure of imagining a host of defects. Besides the
faults produced by impetuosity and irritability of temper,--those we
have just explained,--they dwell on I know not what exaggerated esteem
of himself, and immoderate desire of esteem from others, so as to
insinuate that Lord Byron was a prey to pride, ambition, and even
vanity.
Though all we have remarked in a general way, with regard to his
modesty, might be considered a sufficient response to these accusations,
we are willing to take up the theme again and examine more particularly
all these forms of self-love.
To assert that Lord Byron was not at all proud, might cause surprise, so
much has been said of his pride confounding the man with the poet, and
the poet with the heroes of his creation. But assuredly those who would
feel surprise could not have known him or studied his character.
Pride is easily recognized by a thousand traits. It is one of those
serious maladies of soul, whose external symptoms can no more be hidden
from moral psychologists than the symptoms of serious physical
infirmities can be hidden from physiologists. Now, what says the
moralist of the proud man? That he never listens to the counsels of
friendship; that every reproach irritates him; that a proud man can not
be grateful, because the burden is too great for him; that he never
forgives, makes excuses, or acknowledges his faults, or that he is to
blame; that he is extremely reserved and proud in the habits of social
life; that he is envious of the goods enjoyed by others, deeming them so
much subtracted from his own merits; that hatred toward his rivals fills
his heart; finally, that, satisfied with himself almost to idolatry, he
is incapable of any moral improvement.
Now, let it be said in all sincerity, what analogy can there be between
the proud man and Lord Byron? By his words, his actions, and the
testimony of all those who approached him, was not Lord Byron the
reverse of all this? Was it he who would have refused the counsels of
friendship? turned aside from admonition? been indignant at blame? Let
those who think so, only read the accounts of his childhood, his youth,
his life of affection, and they will see whether he was not rather the
slave of his loving heart; if he did not always give doubly what he had
received.
Without even speaking of his childhood, when he was really so charming,
of his docility toward his nurses and preceptors, toward good Dr.
Glennie at Dulwich, and afterward at Harrow, toward the excellent Dr.
Drury; let us consider him at that solemn moment for a boy of eighteen,
when he was about to publish his poetic compositions. Did he not burn
the whole edition, because a friend whom he respected, disapproved some
parts?[130] See him again accepting the blame of another friend about
"Childe Harold," and when, before publishing it, yielding to the advice
of Dallas and Gifford, he suppressed the stanzas that most pleased him.
See him also ceasing to write "Don Juan," because the person he loved
had expressed disapprobation of it, not even substantiated by reasons.
Was it Lord Byron who would have been incapable of forgiving? Why, the
pardon of injuries was, on the contrary, a habit with him, a necessity,
his sole vengeance, even when such conduct might appear almost
superhuman. It was thus, that when cruelly wounded in his self-love,
even more than in his heart, by Lady Byron's behavior, he wrote that
touching "Farewell," which might have disarmed the fiercest resentment:
and that afterward, yielding to Madame de Stael's entreaties, he
consented to propose a reconciliation, which was refused: and not even
that aggravation prevented him from often speaking well of Lady Byron.
Gratitude, that proves such an insupportable load to the proud man, did
it not rather seem a happiness to him?
When he had done some wrong, far from refusing to make excuses, was he
not the first to think of it, saying that he could not go to rest, with
resentment in his heart? While a mere boy, and when he had been wounded
in his most enthusiastic feelings by a fortunate rival, Mr. Musters, was
not Byron the first to hold out his hand and express regret for the
bitterness of a few words?
Far from hiding his faults, and not satisfied with avowing them, did he
not magnify them, exaggerate them to such a degree that this generous
impulse became a real fault in him?
Far from having been too proud and reserved in his habits of life, have
we not seen him reproached with being too familiar?
Did envy or rivalry ever enter into his soul?
And lastly, far from conceiving too much self-satisfaction, far from
rendering his own mind the homage characteristic of pride, did not Lord
Byron, looking at himself through the weaknesses of other men,
constantly depreciate himself?
All the ways in which genius is wont to manifest itself were assuredly
alike familiar to him; neither philosophy nor art had any secrets for
him. But he only made use of them to produce continual acts of humility
instead of pride; saying, that if philosophy were blind, art was no less
incapable of fulfilling the aspirations of mind, and realizing the ideal
beheld in imagination.
His very skepticism, or rather what has been called by this name,
affords another great proof of his modesty. "Skepticism," says Bacon,