My Recollections of Lord Byron
"Cain," the "Vision of Judgment," and many other things; that the fifth
act of "Sardanapalus" was the work of forty-eight hours, and the fifth
act of "Werner" of one night; that during another year passed between
Pisa and Genoa, in the midst of annoyances, sorrows, perpetual changes,
he wrote ten cantos of "Don Juan," his admirable mystery of "Heaven and
Earth," his delightful poem of the "Island," the "Age of Bronze," etc.
When we see all that, it must be acknowledged that if Lord Byron, in
devoting himself to poetry, took a false step for his own happiness, it
did not mar the manifestation of his genius. But if the world had cause
to applaud, he did not share this sentiment. It might almost be said
that he always wrote unwillingly; and certainly it may be added that
fame never inspired him with vanity. That noble desire might, doubtless,
have made his heart beat for a while, but it yielded to his
philosophical spirit. If at twenty-six, being repelled from public
business by the political bias of the day, and from a military career by
other circumstances, he could write in his memoranda "I am not
ambitious," how much more disposed did he feel to renounce every kind of
ambition two years later, when he was leaving England, full of disgust,
and having sounded all the depths of the human soul.
"The wise man is cured of ambition by ambition itself," says La
Bruyere; "he tends toward such great things that he can not confine
himself to what are called treasures, high posts, fortune, and favor. He
sees nothing in such poor advantages _good_ or _solid_ enough to fill
_his heart_, to deserve his cares and desires; and it even requires
strong efforts for him not to disdain them too much. The only good
capable of tempting him is that sort of fame which ought to be the meed
of pure, simple virtue; but men are not wont to give it, and he is fain
to go without it."
The only advantage Lord Byron wished to derive from his reputation was
to render it subservient to his heart--the true focus of his noble
existence. Even in the first days of youth, when his pulses beat
strongly for glory, it is evident that he would make it tributary to
heart--a means rather than an end. But this became more and more
conspicuous when he had really attained to fame. In Italy especially he
had become quite indifferent to the pompous praise accorded by reviews,
while a single word emanating from the heart made an impression on him,
ofttimes causing tears to start. He wrote to Moore from Ravenna, in
1821:--
"I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in England (I never saw
her), who says she is given over of a decline, but could not go out of
the world without thanking me for the delight which my poesy for several
years, etc., etc., etc. It is signed simply N.N.A., and has not a word
of 'cant' or preachment in it upon my opinions. She merely says that she
is dying, and that, as I had contributed so highly to the pleasure of
her existence, she thought that she might say so, begging me to _burn_
her _letter_--which, by the way, I can _not_ do, as I look upon such a
letter in such circumstances as better than a diploma from Gottingen.
"I once had a letter from Drontheim, in Norway (but not from a dying
woman), in verse, on the same score of gratulation. These are the things
which make one at times believe one's self a poet."[137]
And in "Detached Thoughts," which he wrote at Ravenna, we find:--
"A young American, named Coolidge, called on me not many months ago. He
was intelligent, very handsome, and not more than twenty years old,
according to appearance; a little romantic--but that sits well upon
youth--and mighty fond of poesy, as may be suspected from his
approaching me in my cavern. He brought me a message from an old servant
of my family (Joe Murray), and told me that he (Mr. Coolidge) had
obtained a copy of my bust from Thorwaldsen at Rome, to send to America.
I confess I was more flattered by this young enthusiasm of a solitary
trans-Atlantic traveller, than if they had decreed me a statue in the
Paris Pantheon (I have seen emperors and demagogues cast down from their
pedestals even in my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the street
called after him in Dublin); I say that I was more flattered by it,
because it was _simple, unpolitical, and was without motive or
ostentation_, the pure and warm feeling of a boy for the poet he
admired."
The lines written on the road between Ravenna and Pisa, scarcely two
years before his death, beginning with--
"Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story,"
would alone suffice to prove that his love of fame had both its source
and its sole gratification in his heart. These charming verses end
thus:--
III.
"Oh FAME!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
IV.
"_There_ chiefly I sought thee, _there_ only I found thee:
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee:
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory."
Some days before setting out for Genoa, while walking in the garden with
Countess G----, he went into a retrospective view of his mode of life in
England. She, on hearing how he passed his time in London, perceiving
what an animated existence it was, so full of variety and occupation,
showed some fears lest his stay in Italy, leading such a peaceful,
retired, concentrated sort of life, away from the political arena
presented by his own country, might entail too great a sacrifice
offered on the altar of affection. "Oh no," said he, "I regret nothing
belonging to that great world, where all is artificial, where one can
not live to one's self, where one is obliged to be too much occupied
with what others think, and too little with what we ought to think
ourselves. What should I have done there? Made some opposition speeches
in the House of Lords, that would not have produced any good, since the
prevailing policy is not mine. Been obliged to frequent, without
pleasure or profit, society that suits me not. Have had more trouble in
keeping and expressing my independent opinions. I should not have met
you.... Ah, well! I am much better pleased to know you. What is there in
the world worth a true affection? Nothing. And if I had to begin over
again, I would still do what I have done." When Lord Byron thus unfolded
the treasures concealed in his heart, his countenance spoke quite as
much as his words.
It was at this same period that he wrote in his drama of "Werner:"--
"Glory's pillow is but restless,
If love lay not down his cheek there."
And now to sum up, let us say that, after having considered Lord Byron
not only in his actions, and their most apparent motives; not only in
the exercise of all his faculties, and in his sentiments sincerely
expressed, but that, having likewise confronted him with all the forms
of self-love, it is impossible for us to see aught else in him but that
legitimate pride belonging to great souls, and the noble passion for
glory--sentiments united in him with the peculiar feature of being under
control of his affections. Thus, then, when the day came that he was
called upon to sacrifice his affections, not only in the name of
humanity, but also in the name of his love for glory, which was already
a virtue, since he only desired and sought it to become a benefactor of
mankind; then, by this new sacrifice, and by that even of life, his
noble passion for glory attained to the height of a sublime virtue.
Although our impartial examination of Lord Byron's faults end really in
demonstrating their absence, let us beware nevertheless of raising him
above humanity by asserting that he had none. La Bruyere thus sums up
his portrait of the great Conde:--"_A man who was true, simple, and
magnanimous, and in whom only the smallest virtues were wanting._" This
fine sentence may partly apply to Lord Byron also. Only, to be just, we
must substitute the singular for the plural. And instead of declaring
that the lesser virtues were wanting in him, we must say _one_ of the
smaller virtues. In truth, he had not that prudence which proposes for
our supreme end the preservation of our prosperity, fortune, popularity,
tranquillity, health--in a word, of all our goods--and which constitutes
Epicurean wisdom. But this virtue is really so mixed up with personality
and egotism, that one may hesitate ere granting it the rank of a virtue;
and we ought not to be astonished if it were wanting in Lord Byron, for
it can with difficulty be found united to great sensibility of heart and
great generosity of character. Nevertheless, had he possessed it, his
life might have been much happier. Had he possessed it, instead of
devoting his revenue and all his literary gains to friends, disappointed
authors, and unfortunates of all kinds, he would have kept them for
himself; and thus he might have been able to brave almost all the storms
of his sad year of married life, when his annoyances were greatly
increased by the embarrassed state of his affairs. Had he possessed this
prudence, he would not in his boyish satire have attacked so many
powerful persons, nor, at a later period, would he have made to himself
idols of truth and justice. He would have spared the powers that be, and
respected national prejudices, in order not to draw down on his own head
so much rancor and calumny; he would not have given a hold to slander,
nor suffered himself to be insulted by being identified with the heroes
of his poems; he would not have compromised his fine health by an
anchorite's regimen; he would not have depreciated himself; he would
have extended to himself the indulgence with which he knew so well how
to cloak the faults of others, and instead of confiding to indiscreet
companions, as subjects for curiosity and study, adventures somewhat
strange, and the usual routine of juvenile follies, he would have
profited by the system so current in our day of satisfying inclinations
silently and covertly; lastly, and above all, he would not have married
Miss Milbank.
All these reproaches are well founded. But if we may say with reason
that he wanted prudence for his own interests, we ought at the same time
to _add that he never wanted it for the interests of others_. Did we not
see him, even in earliest youth, burn writings, or abstain from writing,
through excess of delicacy and fear of wounding his neighbors?
"I have burned my novel and my comedy," said he in 1813. "After all, I
see that the pleasure of burning one's self is as great as that of
printing. These two works ought not to have been published. I fell too
much into realities; some persons would have been _recognized_, and
others _suspected_."
When he sent Murray his stanzas to the Po, he forbade him to print it,
because it gave intimate details.
His greatest fear at Pisa and Genoa was lest the newspapers should have
spoken of his feelings for the Countess G----.
But without seeking other examples, it suffices to glance at his conduct
in Greece, where his prudence formed matter of astonishment to every
body. Monsieur Tricoupi, the best historian of the war of Greek
independence, has rendered him the most complete justice on this head.
Let us then sum up by saying that, contrary to what is found in most,
even virtuous men, Lord Byron possessed great and sublime virtues in the
highest degree, and the lesser ones only in a secondary degree. As to
his faults, it is evident they all sprang from his excellent qualities.
Endowed with all kinds of genius, except the one of calculating his
personal interest, he failed in different ways to discharge his duty