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' OF THE
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LORD BYRON
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IN ONE VOLUME.
THE THIRD EDITION, CONSIDERABLY ArOMBNTED.
PRANCPORT O. M.
PRINTED BY AND FOR H. L. BRCENNER.
18 37.
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THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON,
BY J. W. LAKE.
O'er the harp, flrom earlictt years beloved, He threw bis fingers harriedly, and tones Of melancboly beauty died away Upon its strtuj(s of sweetness.
It was reserved for the present age to prodace one distiug^iiishcd example of the Muse liaving descended Qpon a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell affiictioos of no ordinary description; afllictions origi- nating probably in that singular combination of feeling with ima^nation which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those on whom it has been conferred. If ever a man was entitled to lay claim to that character in all its strength and ail its wf*akni*Sff| wjlhjts unbounded range nf f.njnymot^l^ MJ Jtfl f YTTi'i^fTafp^iliiHTy oTpTeaSlirb and of pain, tliat man jgasLord Byron. ^Not does it reqoirc mncb time or a deep acquaintance with human nature to discover why these extraordinary powers should in so many cases have contributed more to the wretched- ness than to the happiness of their possessor.
The *< imagination all compact" which the greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason ; but the delusive pleasure arising from these visions of ima- gination, resembles that of a child whose notice is at- tracted by a fragment of glass, to which a sun-beam has Sben momentary splendour. He hastens to the spot with breathless impatience, and finds the object of his curiosity and expectation is equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the man of quick and exalted powers of imagination: bis fanqy over-estims^te^ the object of his wishes; and pleasure, flo&e, distinction, are alternatefy piirSued^-at- tained^ and despised when in his power. Like the en- chanted fruit in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration lose tlieir attraction and value as soon as tbey are grasped by the adventurer's hand, and all that remains is regret for the time lost in the chase, and wonder at the halludnation under the influence of which it was undertaken. The disproportion between hope and pos- Kssion, which is felt by all men, is thus doubled to those whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding a distant prospect by the rays of imagination. vWe think that many points of resemblance may be lytfaced between Byron and Rousseau. Botli are distin- ^ pished by the most ardent and vivid delineation of intense conception, and by a deep sensibility of passion rather than of affection. Both, too, by this double power, bvdield a dominion over the sympathy of their rea4ers,
far beyond the range of those ordinary feelings which are usually excited by the mere efforts of genius. The impression of this interest still accompanies the perusal of their writings; but there is another interest, of niore lasting and far stronger power, which each of them pos- sessed, — which lies in the continual embodying of the individual character, it might almost be said of the very person of the writer. When we speak or think of lious- seau — or Byron, we are not conscious of speaking or thinking of^h author. We have a vague but impassioned remembrance of men of surpassing genius «^l0qaence, afld^OJwer, — of prodigious capacity both^of misery and happiness. We feel as if we had-<#liiiisi|Q% met snch beings in real life, or bad known them in tnie dim and dark communion of a dream. Each of their works pre- sents, in succession, a fresh idea of themselves; and, while the productions of other great men stand out from them, like something they have created, theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures, busts of their living selves, — clothed, no doubt, at difi'erent times, in different drapery, and prominent from a different back-ground, — but uniformly impressed with the same form, and mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken for the represent- tations of any other of the children of men.
But this view of the subject, though universally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a little explanation. The personal character of which we have spoken, it should be understood, is not altogether that on which the seal of life has been set, — and to which, therefore, moral ap- proval or condemnation is necessarily annexed, as to the language or conduct of actual existence. It is the character, so to speak, which is prior to conduct, and yet open to good and to ill, — the constitution of the being in body and in soul. Each of these illustrious writ- ers has, in tliis light, filled his works with expressions of bis own character, — has unveiled to the world the secrets of his own being, the mysteries of the framing of man. They have gone down into those depths which every man may sound for himself, though not for another; and they have made disclosures to the world of what they beheld and knew there — disclosures that have com- manded and forced a profound and universal«sympathy, by proving tliat all mankind, the troubled and the un- troubled, the lofty and the low, the strongest and the frailest, are linked together by the bonds of a common but inscrutable nature.
.i^ms^ii
.11.
LAKE'S LIFB OF LORD BYRON.
Thus, each of these wayward and richly-gifted spirits made himself the object of profound interest to the world, and that too during periods of society when ample food was every where spread abroad for the meditations and passions of men.
Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and birth, a close resemblance in tlieir passions and their genius may
Ufe traced too between Byron and Robert Burns. Their areers were short and glorious, and they botii perished m the "rich summer of tbeir life and song,*' and in all the splendour of a reputation more likely to increase than diminish. One was a peasant, and tbe other was a peer; but nature is a great leveller, and makes amends for the iiyuries of fortune by tbc richness of her benefactions i\ the genius of Burns raised him to a level with the nobles of the land ; by nature, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. They both rose by the force of their genius, and both fell by the strength of their passions; one wrote from a love, aodthe other fropd a scorn of mankind ; and they t>oth sungoTthe emotions of their own hearts with a vehemence and an originality which few have equalled, and none surely have surpassed.
The versatility of autliors who have been able to draw and support characters, as difl'erent from each other as from their own, has given to their productions the inex- pressible charm of variety, and has often secured them from that neglect which in general attends what is technic- ally called mannerism. But it was reserved for Lore Byron (previous to his Don Juan) to present the same character on the public stage again and again, varied only by the exertions of that powerful genius, which, searching the springs of passion and of feeling in their innermost recesses,knew how to combine their operations, so that the interest was eternally varying, and never aba- ted, although the most important person of the drama retained the same lineaments.
But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blos- som! It has been cut down in its strength, and the past is all that remains to us of Byron. That voice is silent for ever, which, bursting so frequently on our ear, was often heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with regret, but always with the deepest interest — Yet the impression of his works still remains vivid and strong. The charm which cannot pass away is there, —life breath- ing in dead words >- the stem grandeur — the intense power and energy — tlie fresh beauty , the undimmed lustre — the immortal bloom, and verdure, and fragrance of'life, all those still are there. But it was not in these I /ilone, it was in that continual impersonation of himacif . ]/ in his writings, by which he was for ever kept briglitly before the eyes of men.
It might, at first, seem that his undisguised revelation of feelings and passions, whidi the becom'ing pride of human nature, jealous of its own dignity , would in ge- neral desire to hold in un violated silence, could have produced in the public mind, only pity, sorrow, or repugn- ance. But in the case of men of real genius, like Byron, it is otherwise: they are not felt, while we read, as decla- rations published to the world, but almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears. Who is' there that feels for a moment, that the voice which reaches the inmost reeeS^es of his heart, is speaking to the careless multitudes around him? Or if we ao so remember, the words seem to pass by others like air, and to find their way to the hearts for whom they were intended; kindred and sympathetic spirits, who discern and own that secret language, of which the privacy is not violated, though spoken in hearing of the uninitiated, because it is not understood. A great poet may address the whole world in the language of intensest passion, concerning objects of whidi rather than speak foce to face with any one human being on earth, he would perish in his misery. For it is in solitude that he utters what is to t>e wafted by all the winds of heaven : there are, during his inspiration, present with him only the shadows of men. He is not danated, or
LordV, ^produced
perplexed, or disturbed, or repelled by real, living, breath- ing features. He can updraw just as much of the curtain as he chuses that hangs between his own solitude and the world of life. He there pours his soul out partly to him- self alone, partly to the ideal abstractions and imperson- ated images that float around him at his own conju- ration ; and partly to human beings like himself, moving in the dark distance of tbe every-day world. He con- fesses himself, not before men, but before the spirit of humanity; and he thus fearlessly lays open his heatt, assured that nature never prompted unto genius, that, whipn will not triumphantly force its wide way into the human heart
Wc have adjniUMt-iiiat Byron has depicted much of himself in aILhiaJi££0£S ; but wTitn we sedttT to See the poeT shadowed out in all those states of disordered being which his Childe Harolds, Giaours, Conrads, Laras, and Alps exhibit , we are far from believing that his own mind has gone through those states of disorder, in its own experience of life. We merely conceive of it as bar- ing felt witiiin itself the capacity of such disorders, and therefore exhibiting itself before us in possibility. This is not general, — it is rare with great poets. Neither Homer, nor Shakspeare, nor Milton ever so show them- selves in the characters which they pourtray. Their poetical personages have no references to themselves, but are distinct, independent creatures of their minds, * ifi^lhe i\iTI freedom Of intellectual power. In Byron there docs not seem this freedom of power — there is little appropriation of character to events. Cha- racter is first, and all in all; it is dictated, compelled by some force in his own mind — necessitating him, — and the events obey. His poems , therefore, excepting Don Juan, are not full and complete narrations of some one definite story, containing within itself a picture of human life.- They are merely haid^„coofused , and turbulent exemplifications ofecrtain^i^eeping energies and irreaist- ibla passions; they are fragments of a poet's dark dream of life. The very personages, vividly as they are pictured, are yet felt to be fictitious, and derive their chief power over us from their supposed mysterious connexion with the poet himself, and, it may be added, with each other. The law of bis mind was to embody his peculiar feel- ings in the forms of other men. In all his heroes we recognise, though with infinite modifications, tiie same great characteristics: a high and audacious conception of the power of the mind, — an intense sensibility of pas- sion, ~ an almost boundlessca^acitx of tumultuous emotion , — ti boasShg'. admiration of the grandeur of disordered.power, ami, above ati, a soul-felt, blood-felt ddJght in beauty — a beauty, which, in his wild creation, is often scared away from the agitated surface of life by stormier passions, but which, like a bird of calm, is for ever returning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere the black swell subsided into sunshine and peace.
These reflections naturally precede the sketch we arc about to attempt of Lord Byron's literary and private life: indeed they are in a manner forced upon us by his poetur^ by thesentiiQeiit8.Qf. weariness of existence suid.ciuiuJ^ With tile world, whicli It ao freqocntty ex- presses, and hy-the singular analogy which such senti- ments hold wiUi the real incidents of his life.
Lord Byron was descended from an illustrious Tine of ancestry. From the period of the conquest his family were distinguished, not merely for their extensive manors in LEmcashire and other parts of the kingdom « but for their prowess in arms. John de Byron, attended Edward the first, in several warlike expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at the battle ofCressy. Another member of the family, Sir John de Byron, rendered good service in Bosworth field, to the Earl of Richmond, and contri- buted by his valour, to transfer the crown from the head of Richard the third, tothatofHenry the seventh. This Sir John was a man of honour, as well as a brave warrior. Ho was very intimate with his neighbour Sir Gej^vase
LAKE'S L1F£ OF LORD BYRON.
Ill
Clifton; and, althougii Byron fought under Henrj,and CliAoa under Richard , it did not diminish their frieud- aliip, but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test Previous to the battle, the price of which was a kingdom, they lad mutually promised that whichever of them was nnquished, the other should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of his friend's estate. While Clifton was bravely lifting at the head of his troop, he was struck off his horsey wbioh Byron perceiving, he quitted the ranks and rto to the relief of his friend, whom he shielded, but who died in his arms. Sir John de Byron kept liis word; he isteroeded with the king : the estate was preserved to the C6&oa fiunily, and is now in the possession of a descend- ntofSirGcrvase.
In the wars between Charles the first and the parlia- ment, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir ' Nicholas Byron , the eldest brother and representative of tbefiunily, was an eminent loyalist, who, having distin- piished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, was appointed governor of Chelsea, in 1642. He had two loos, who both died without issue; and his younger brother, Sir John, became their heir. This person was made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of James the first He had eleven sons, most of whom distinguish- ed themselves for their loyalty and gallantry on the side of Charles the first Seven of these brothers ^ere ciqiaged at the battle of Marston-moor, of whom four fell in defence of the royal cause. Sir John Byron, one of the survivors, was appointed to many important com- mands, and on the 26th of October, 1643, was created Lord Byron, with a collateral remainder to his brothers. On the dectiiie of the king's a&irs, he was appointed governor to the Duke of York, and, in this office, died without issue, in France, in 1652; — upon which his brother Richard, a celebrated cavalier, became the se- cond Lord Byron. He was governor of Appleby Castle, and distinguished himself at Newark. He died in 1697, 9ged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, tiic daughter of John Viscount Cha worth, of the kingdom of Ireland, by whom be had five sons, all of whom died young except William, whose eldest son, William, was born in 1722, and came to the title inl736.
William, Lord Byron, passed the early part of his life u the navy. In 1763 he was made master of the stag- hounds; and in 1765 was sent to the Tower, and tried befiore the House of Peers foi; killing his relation and neighbour, Mr. Chaworth, in a duel. — The following de£ils of this fatal event are peculiarly interesting from subsequent drcumstances connected with the subject of our sketch.
The old Lord Byron belonged to a club of which Mr. Gbaworth was also a member. It met at the Star and Garter tavern. Pall Mall, once a month, and was called the Nottinghamshire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, they met at four o'clock to dinner as usual, and every thi^g went agreeably on, until about seven o'clock, when a dispute arose betwixt Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth oonoeming the quantity of game on their estates. The dispute rose to a high pitch, and Mr. Chaworth, having paid ins share of the bill, retired. Lord Byron followed him out of the room in which they had dined, and, stop- ping him on the landing of the stairs, called to the waiter to show them into an empty room. They were shown into one, and a single candle being plaeed on the table, — in a few minutes the bell was rung, and Mr. Chaworth found mortally wounded. He said tiiat Lord Byron and he entered the room together. Lord Byron leading the way; that his lordship, in walking fiMward, said something relative to the former dispute, OB which he proposed &stening the door ; that on turning Umaelf round from this act, he perceived his lordship vith his sword half drawn, or nearly so: on which, know- ing his man, he instantly drew his own, and made a thrust at him, which he thought had wounded or killed him;
that then, perceiving his lordship shorten his sword to return the thrust, he thought to have parried it with his left band; that he felt the sword enter his body and go deep through his back; that he struggled, and being the stronger man, disarmed his lordship, and expressed a concern, as under the apprehension of having mortally wounded him; that Lord Byron replied by saying some- thing to the like effect, adding at the same time, that he hoped ''he would now allow him to be as brave a man as any in the kingdom."
For this offence he was unanimously convicted of manslaughter, but, on being brought up for judgment, pleaded his privilege as a peer, and was, in conse- quence, discharged. After this affair he was abandoned by his relations, and retired to Newstead Abbey; where, though he lived in a state of perfect exile from persons of his own rank, his unhappy temper found abundant exercise in continual war with his neighbours and tenants, and sufiicient punishment in their hatred. One of his amusements was feeding crickets, which were his only companions. He had made them so tame as to crawl over him; and used to whip them with a wisp of straw, if too familiar. In this forlorn condition he lingered out a long life, doing all in his power to ruin the paternal mansion for that other branch of the family to which he was aware it must pass at his death, all his own children having descended before him to the grave.
John, the next brother to William, and born in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a very different disposition, although his career in life was almost an unbroken scene of misfortunes. The hardships he endu- red while accompanying Commodore Anson in his ex- pedition to the South Seas are well known, from liis own highly popular and afi'ccting narrative. His only son, born in 1751, who received an excellent education, and whose father procured for him a commission in the guards, was so dissipated that be was known by the name of ''mad Jack Byron/' He was one of the hand- somest men of his time; but his character was so no- torious that his father was obliged to desert him, and his company was shunned by the better part of society. In his twenty-seventh year he seduced the Marchioness of Carmarthen, who had been but a few years married to a husband with whom she had lived in the most happy state, until she formed this unfortunate connexion. After one fruitless attempt at reclaiming his lady, the marquis obtained a divorce ; and a marriage was brought about between her and her seducer; which, after the most brutal conduct on his part, and the greatest misery and keenest remorse on hers, was dissolved in two years by her sinking to the grave, the victim of a broken heart About three years subsequently. Captain Byron sought to recruit his fortunes by matrimony, and having made a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire heiress (lineally descended from the Barl of Huntley and the Princess Jane, daughter of James II. of Scotland]), he united himself to her, ran through her property m a few years, and, leaving her and her only child, the subject of this memoir, in a destitute and defenceless state, fled to France to avoid his creditors, and died at Valenciennes, in 1791.
In Captain Med win's "Conversations of Lord Byron," the following expressions are said to have fallen from his lordship on the subject of his unworthy father : —
"I losjt my &ther when I was only six years of age. My mother, when she was in a rage with me (and I gave her causa enough), used to say, "Ah ! you little dog, you are a Byron all over; you are as bad as your father! " It was very difi'erent from Mrs.MaIaprop's saying : "Ah ! good dear Mr. Malaprop! I never loved him till he was dead." But, in fact» my father was, in his youth, any thing but a "Cselcbs in search of a wife." He would have made a bad hero for Hannah More. He ran out three fortunes, and married or ran away with three wo- men; and once wanted a guinea, tliat he wrote for : I have
rv
LAKE'S LIFB OF LORD BTRON.
the note. He seemed born for his own rain, and that of the other sex. He beg:an by seducing Lady Carmarthen, and spent for her four thousand pounds a-year ; and, not content with one adventure of this kind, afterwards eloped with Miss Gordon. This marriage was not des- tined to be a very fortunate one either, and I don't wonder at her differing from Sheridan's widow in the play ; they certainly could not have claimed *the flitch/ '' Geoige Byron Gordon (for so he was called on ac- count of the neglect his father's family had shown to his mother) was born at Dover, on the 22d of January, 1788. On the unnatural desertion of his father, the entire care of his infant years devolved upon his mother, who retired to Aberdeen, where she lived in almost perfect seclusion, on the ruins of her fortune. Herauidivid.ed affection was naturally concentred in her son, who was her darling; and when he only went out for an ordinary walk, she would entreat him, with the tear glistening in her eye, to take care of himself, as *'slie had nothing on earth but him to live for ; " a conduct not at all pleasing to his adventurous spirit ; the more especially, as some of his companions, who witnessed the affectionate scene, would laugh and ridicule him about it This excessive maternal indulgence, and the absence of that salutary discigiiue and control so necessary to childhood, doubt- less contributed to the formation of the less pleasing features of Lord Byron's character. It must, however, be remembered, in Mrs. Byron's extenuation, not only that tlie circumstances in which she had been left with her son were of a very peculiar nature, but also tliat a slight malformation of one of his feet, and great weakness of constitution, naturally solicited for him in the heart of a mother a more than ordinary portion of tenderness. For these latter reasons he was juoi sent ver.|r early to school, but was allowed to expand' his lungs; and brace his limbs, upon the mountains of the neighbourhood. Tliis was evidently the most judicious method for impart- ing strength to his bodily frame; and the sequel showed tliat it was far from the worst for giving tone and vigour to his mind. The savage grandeur of nature around him; the feeling that be was upon hills where
**Foreign tyrant never trod, But Freedom with her faulchion bright, Swept the stranger from her sight;"
his intercourse with a people whose chief amusements consisted in the recital of heroic talcs of other times, feats of strength, and a display of independence, blended with the wild supernatural stories peculiar to remote and thinly-peopled districts; — all these were calculated to foster that poetical feeling innate in his character.
When George was seven years of age, his mother sent him to the grammar-school at Aberdeen, where he remain- ed till his removal to Harrow, with the exception of some intervals of absence, which were deemed requisite for the establishment of his health. His progress beyond that of the general run of his class-fellows was never so remarkable as after those occasional intervals, when, in a ibw days, he would master exercises which , in the school-routine, it had required weeks to accomplish. But when he had overtaken the rest of the class , he always relaxed his exertions, and, contenting himself with being considered a tolerable scholar, never made any extraordinary effort to place himself at the head of the highest form. It was out of school that he aspired to be the leader of every thing; in ail boyish games and amusements he would be first if possible. For this he was cminenUy calculated; quick, enterprising, and daring, the energy of his mind enabled him to overcome the impediments which nature had tlirown in his way. Even at that early period (iVom eight to ten years of age), all his sports were of a manly character; fishing, shoot- ing, swimming, and managing a horse, or steering and trimming the sails of a boat, constituted his chief delights,
and, to the soperficial observer, seemed his sole oocn* pations.
He was exceedingly brave, and in the juvenUe wars of the school, be generally gained the victory ; upon one occasion, a boy pursued by another took refuge in Mrs. Byron's house: the latter, who had been much abused by the former, proceeded to take vengeance on him even on the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, when Geoi^e interposed in his defence, declaring that nobody sliould be ill-used whiJe under his roof and protection. Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight, and, although the former was by much the stronger of the two, the spirit of young Byron was so determined, that after the combat had lasted for nearly two hours, it iiras suspend- ed because both the boys were entirely exhausted.
A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small Shetland pony which his father had bought him, and one day they went to the banks of the Don to bathe, but having only one pony, they were obliged to follow the good old practice called in Scotland *'ride and tie.'' When they came to the bridge over that dark romantic stream, Byron bethought him of the prophecy which he lias quoted in Don Juan:
"Brig of Balgoonie, hlack's your wa' ; W i' a wife's ae ion and a mear's aefaal, Dounyeshallfa'."
He immediately stopped his companion, who was then riding, and asked him if he remembered the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be ''a mare'« ae foal," he would rather ride over first; because he hsri^i^a mother to lament him, should the protih^y be ftilfiAed by the folting of the bridge, whereas the other had both a father and a mother to grieve for him.
It is the custom of the grammar-school at Aberdeen, that the boys of all the five classes of which it is composed should be assembled for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in the morning; after prayers a censor calls over the names of all, and those who are absent are pu- nished. The first time that Lord Byron had come to school after his accession to his title, the rector had caused his name to be inserted in tlie censor's book , Georgius Do- minus de Byron, instead of Georgius Byron Gordon, as formerly. The boys, unaccustomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud and involuntary shout, which had such an effect on his sensitive mind that he burst into tears , and would have fled from the school had he not been restrained by the master.
An answer which Lord Byron made to a fellow scholar, who questioned him as to the cause of the honorary ad- dition of **Dominns de Byron" to his name, served at that time when he was only ten years of age, to point out that he would be a man who would tliink , speak, and act for himself — who, whatever might be his sayings or liis doings, his vices or his virtues, would not condescend to take them at second hand. This happened on the very day after he had been menaced with being flogged round the school for a fault which he had not committed; and when the question was put to him he replied, **it is not my doing; Fortune was to whip me yesterday for what another did, and she has this day made me a lord for what another has ceased to do. I need not thank her in either case, fbr I have asked nothing at her liands."
On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fifth Lord Byron, departed this life at Newstcad. As the son of this eccentric nobleman had died when GeoVge was five years old, and as the descent both of the titles and estates was to heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded his great* uncle. Upon this change of fortune Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was removed from the immediate care of his mother, and placed as a ward under the guardiansiiip of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had married Isabella, the sister of the preceding Lord Byron. In one or two
LAKB'S LIFE OF LOIU> BTROK.
points of chanflier this great oaont resembled the bard: she also wrote beaatiful poetry ^ and after adorning the p^ and fashionable world for many years, she left it mthoat any apparent cause and with perfect iodill'erenoe, ttd in a great measure secluded herself from society.
Theyonng nobleman's guardian decided that he should reeetre the nsnal education given to England's titled sons, and that he should in the first instance be sent to (he public school at Harrow. He was accordingly placed there under the Mtion of the Rev. Dr. Brury to whom he has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of ChiMe Harold, in a manner which does equal honour to the tutor and the pupil. A change of scene and of dieanMtaneea^o unforeseen and so rapid, would have been haaardoos to any boy, but it was doubly so to one oC Byron's ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at QBcefrom the society of boys in humble life, and placed unoi^ youths of hb own newly -acquired rank, with neaas of gratification which to him must have appeared ooasidcrabic, it is by no means surprising that he should have been betrayed into every sort of extravagance : Booe of them appear, however, to have been of a very culpable nature.
^'Though he was lame,'' says one of his schoolfellows, ^he was a great lover of sports, and preferred hockey to Horace, relinqiushed even Helicon for ''duck-puddle," and gave up the best poet that ever wrote bard Latin for agameof Giicketon the common. He was not remark- able (nor was he ever) for his learning, but he was always a clev«r, plain-spoken, and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand vp against the disadvantage of his lameness with all the ipirit of an andent combatant '^ Don't you remember jour battle with Pitt?" (a brewer's son) said I to him in a letter (for 1 had witnessed it), but it seems that he bad forgotten it *<You are mistaken, I think," said he in reply; '4t moat have been with Rice-Pudding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglases, or G^eorge Raynsford, or Pryoe (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore (the elod)f or with somebody else, aad not withl^tt; for with all the above named and other worthies of the fist had I an interchange of black eyes and bloody noscSy at various and sundry periods ; however it may have happened for all that." "
The annexed anecdotes are characteristic:
The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in their wis- don had resolved to set fire to the scene of all their ills and troubles — the school-room: Byron, however, was agUDSt the motion, and by pointing out to the young rebels the names of their fethers on the walls, he pre- vented the intended conflagration. This early specimen of his power over the passions of his school-fellows, his lordship piqued himself not a little upon.
Byron long retained a friendship for several of his Harrow sdiool-fellows; Lord Clare was one of his con- stant correspondents; Scroope Davics was also one of his chief companions before his lordship went to the continent This gentleman and Byron once lost all their Buiney at ''chicken hazard," in one of the hells of St. James's, and the next morning Davies sent for Byron's pistob to shoot himself with; Byron sent a note refusing to give diem, on the ground that they would be forfeited as a deodand. This comic excuse had the desired effect
ByroBy whilst living at Newstead during the Harrow neation, saw and became enamoured of Miss Chaworth : she is the Mary of his poetry, and his beautiful "Dream" relates to their loves. Miss Chaworth was older than his Lordship by a few years, was light and volatile, and tbiNgh, no doubt, highly flattered by his attachment, yet Ae treated our pioet less as an ardent lover than as a yooager brother. She waa punctual to the assignations vlkh took place at a gate dividing the grounds of the l^RNisfrom theC|Miarorths,andaeoepted his letters from flieonfidaota; but her answers, it is said, were written with more of the cantioa of coquetry than the romance
of 'lovers young dream;" she gave him, hoivcver, her picture, but her hand was reserved for another.
It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron and Miss Chaworth should both have been under the guar- dianship of Mr. White. This gentleman particularly wished that his wards should bemairried togetlier; but Miss C^, as young ladies generally do in such circum* stances, difterM from him, and was resolved to please herself in the choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr. M., commonly known by the name of Jack M., was at this time quite the rage,and Miss C. was not subtle enough to ooncciU the penchant ahe had for this j^ck-tL-dand^ i and though Mr. W. took her from one watering-place to another, still tiie lover, like an evil spirit, followed, and at hist, being somehow more persuasive than the "child of song," he carried off the lady, to tlic great grief of Lord Byron. The marriage, however, was not a happy one; the parties soon separated, and Mrs. M. after- wards proposed an interview with -her former lover, which, by the advice of his sister, he declined.
From Harrow Lord Byron was removed, and entered of Trinity College, Cambridge; there, however, he did not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher esteem than when under the command of his reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above studying the poetics, and held the rules of the Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after-life he did the "invariable principles" of the Rev. Mr. Bowles. Reading after the fashion of the studious men of Cam was to him a bore, and he held a senior wrangler in the greatest contempt Persons of real genius are seldom candidates for college-prizes, and Byron left "the silver cup" for those plodding cha- racters who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon of the unceasing labour necessary to overcome the all but invincible natural dulness of their intellects. Byron, instead of reading what pleased tutors, read what pleased himself, and wrote what could not fail to displease those political weathercoeks. He did not admire their system of education, and they, as is the case with most scholars, could admire no otiier. He took to quizzing them, ana no one likes to be laughed at; doctors frowned, and fellows fumed, and Byron at the age of nineteen left the university without a degree.
Among other means which he adopted to show his contempt for academical honours, he kept a young bear in his room for some time, which he told all his friends he was training up for a fellowship ; but however much the fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance with the "ursa major," they were by no means desirous of as- sociating with his lordship's SUve,
IfVhen about nineteen years of age, Lord Byron bade adieu to the university, and took up his residence at Newstead Abbey. Here his pursuits were principally those of amusement Among others he was extremely fond of the water. In his aquatic exercises be had seldom any other companion than a large Newfoundland dog, to try whoso sagacity and fidelity be would sometimes fall out of the boat, as if by accident, when the dog would seize him, and drag him ashore. On losing tliis dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be erected, with an inscription commemorative of its attachment.
The following descriptions of Newstead's hallowed pile will be found interesting :
This abbey was founded in the year 1 170, by Henry II., as a priory of Black Canons, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It continued in the family of the Byrons until the time of the late lord, who sold it first to Mr. Claughton for the sum of 140,000/., and on that gentleman's not being able to fulfil the agreement, and thus paying 20,000/. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to another person^ and most of the money vested in trustees for the jointure of the Hon. Mrs. Byron. The greater part of tlie edifice still remains. The present possessor. Major , Wildman, is, witli genuine Gothic taste, repairing thia beautiful specimen of architecture. The late Lord Byron
VI
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
y
repaired a coosiderable part of it; bat, forg:etting the rooF, he had turned his atteotion to tlie inside, and the consequence was, that in a few years, the rain paying: a visit to the apartments , soon destroyed all those elegant devices which his lordship had contrived. His lordship's own study was a neat little apartment, decorated with some good classic busts, a select oolleotion of books, an antique cross, a sword in a g:ilt case, and, at the end of the room, two finely polished skulls on a pair of light fency stands. In the garden, likewise, was a great number of these skulls, taken from the burial-ground of the abbey, and piled up together; but afterwards they were recom- mitted to the earth. A writer, who visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold it, says : ''In one corner of the ser- vants' hall lay a stone coflin, in which were fencing gloves and foils, and on the walls of the ample but cheerless kitchen was painted in large letters, ^Waste not -^ want not" During the minority of Lord Byron, the abbey
was in the possession of Lord 6 , his hounds, and
divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and starlings. The internal traces of this Goth were swept away; but without, all appeared as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left it. With the exception of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous and elegant object, I do not recollect the slightest trace of culture or improvement The late lord, a stern and desperate character, who is never mentioned by the neighbouring peasants without a significant shake of the head, might have returned and recognized every thing about him, except, perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There still slept that old pond, into which he is said to have burled his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener, a courageous blade, who was the lord's master and chas- tised him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs, he with is goat and club, and Mrs. Satyr with her chubby cloven -footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter- sections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a moment with their grim visages, and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your bosoms which is felt by the neighbouring peasantry at "th'ond laird's devils." 1 , have frequently asked the country-people near Newstead, what sort of a man his lordship (our Lord Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric but energetic character was evident in the reply: "He 's the devil of a fellow for comical fancies. He flogs th' oud laird to nothing; but be 's a hearty good fellow for all that " "
Walpole, who had visited Newstead, gives, in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the following account of it:
'*As I returned I saw Newstead and Althorpe; Hike both. The former is the very abbey. The great east window of the church remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it: it has a private chapel quite perfect The park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned. The present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks , five thousand pounds worth of which have been cut near the house. En, revanche, he has built two baby forts , to pay his country in castles for damage done to the navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old fhmily liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good col lection of pictures , all animals. The refectory , now the great drawing-room, is full of Byrons : the vaulted roof remaining, but the windows have new dresses making for them by a Venetian tailor."
This is a careless but happy description of one of the noblest mansions in England, and it will now be read with a far deeper interest than when it was written. Walpole saw the seat of the Byrons, old, majestic, and venerable ; but he saw nothing of that magic beauty which fame sheds over the habitations of genius, and which now mantles every turret of Newstead Abbey. He saw it when decay was doing its work on the cloister,
the refectory, and the chapel, and all its honors seemed mouldering into oblivion. He oonld not know that a voice was sor<n to go forth from those antique cloisters, that should be heard through all future ages, and cry, "Sleep no more to all the house." Whatever may be its future fiite, Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a memorable abode. Time may shed its wild flowers on the walls, and let the fox in upon the court-yard and the chambers; it may even pass into the hands of unlet- tered pride, or plebeian opulence; bvt it has been the mansion of a mighty poet Its name is associated with glories thaticannot perish, and will go down to posterity in one of the proudest pages of our annals.
Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest years , tliat nature had added to the advantages of high descent the richest gifts of genius and of fancy. His own talc is partly told in two lines of Lara:
\ / Left by his sire» too young such loss to know, ^ Lord of himself, that heritage of woe.
His first literary adventure and its fiite are well reniem« bered. The poems which he published in his minority had, indeed, those fiiults of conception and diction which are inscparsible from juvenile attempts, and in particular may rather be considered as imitative of what bad caught the ear and fancy of the youthful author, than as exhibiting originality of conception and expression. It was like the first essay of the singing-bird, catching at and imitating the notes of its parent, ere habit and time have given the fulness of tone, confidence, and self- possession which render assistance unnecessary. Yet though there were many, and those not the worst judges, who discerned in his ** Hours of Idleness" a depth of thought and felicity of expression which promised mnch at a more mature age, the work did not escape the critical lash of the ''Scotch Reviewers," who could not resist the opportunity of pouncing upon a titled poet, of showing oft their own wit, and of seeking to entertain their readers with a flippant article, without much respect to the feel- ings of the author, or even to the indications of merit which the work displayed. The review was read, and ex- cited mirth ; the poems were neglected, tlie author, was irritated, and took his revenge in keen iambics, wiiidi, at the same time, proved the injustice of the ofiending critic and the ripening talents of the bard. Having thus vented his indignation against the reviewers and tlieir readers, and put ail the laughter on bis side, Lord Byron went abroad, and the controversy was for some yeais forgotten.
It was at Newstead, just before bis coming of age, he had planned his future travels, and his original intention included a much larger portion of the world, than tlia^ which he afterwards visited. He first thought of Persia, to which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. He afterwards meant to sail for India, and had so far coft* tem plated this project as to write for information from the Arabic professor at Cambridge, and to ask his mother to inquire of a friend who had lived in India, what things would be necessary for his voyage* He formed his plan of travelling upon very different grounds (torn those Khich he afterwards advanced. All men should travel /atone time or another, he thought, and he had then so connexions to prevent him; when he returned he nug:ht enter Into political life, for which travelling would not incapacitate him, and he wished U> judge of men by experience.
At length, in July, 1809, in company with John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. (with whom his acquaintance conn menced at Cambridge) , Lord Byron embarked at FaK mouth for Lisbon, and thence proceeded, by the soutb» ern provinces of Spain, to the Mediterranean. Tha- objects that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to have occupied his mind, to the temporary exclusion of hin^ gloomy and misanthropic thoughts; for a letter wluch 1m^
LAKE'S LIVE OF LORD BYRON.
VII
to Ilk mother from thcnoe contains no incfication
of tllen* but, on the contrary, much playful description of the scenes through which he had passed. At Seville, Loid Byron loosed in the house of two single ladies, OM of whom, however, was about to be married. Though he remained there only three days, she paid liim the most pardcnlar attentions, and, at tlieir parting, embraced him wiih great tenderness, cutting off a loclc of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own. With this specimen of Spanish female Manners, he proceeded to Cadiz, where various incidents occurred to confirm the opinion lie had formed at Seville of the Andalusian belles, and which made him leave Cadiz with regret , and determine to retora to it Lord Byron wrote to his mother from Ualta, announcing his safety , and again from Prevesa, in November. Upon arriving at Yaniua, Lord Byron (bond tliat Ali I^icha was with his troops in Illyrium, heaegiag Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vizier, having heard that an Bnglish nobleman was in his country, had given orders at Yanina to supply him witli every kind (^accommodation, free of expense. From Yanina, Lord Byron went to Tepaleen. Here he was lodged in the pahee, and the next day introduced to Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew him to be a man of rank from the smaUness of his ears, his curling hair, and his white hands, and who sent him a variety of sweetmeats, fruits, and other luxuries. In going in a Turkish ship of war, provided for him by Ali Pacha, from Prevesa, intending to siil for Patras, Lord Byron was very near lost in but a moderate^Kak of wind, from the ignorance of the Turkish ofioersand sailors, and was driven on the coast of Suli. An instance of disinterested hospitality in the chief of a Soliote village occurred to Lord Byron, in consequence of his disasters in the Turkish galliot. The honest AJbsnian, after assisting him in his distress, supplying Us wants, and lodging him and his suite, refused to reeeive any remnneration. When Lord Byron pressed him to take money, he said: ^l wish you to love me, not to pay me." At Yanina, on his return, he was introduced to linssein Bey and Mahmout ^oha, two young children of Ali Pacha. Subsequently, he visited Smyrna, whence he went in the Salsettc frigate to Constantinople. On the dd of May , 1 810, while this frigate was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, accompanied by Licvtenant Ekenhead, swam the Hellespont from the Earopcan shore to the Asiatic — about two miles wide. The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, that it is im- WMrihle cither to swim or to sail to any given point Lord Byron went from the castle to Abydos, and landed on Ilie opposite shore, full three miles below his meditated plMe of approach. He had a boat in attendance all the way; so tliat no danger could be apprehended even if his strength had failed. His lordship records, in one of hit minor poems, that he got the i^s;ue by the voyage; bil it was well known, that when he landed, he was so Msh exhausted , that he gladly accepted the offer of a Ttekish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for several hens; he was then very ill, and as Lieutenant Bkenhead was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was kft The Turk had no idea of the nuUr or conso- of his inmate,bat paid him most marked attention, wife was his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he M the shore, ooihpletcly recovered. When he was iteot to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a ahccae, and a skin filled 4vith wine, and then presented with a few paras (about a penny each), prayed to Mess htm, and wished him safe home. His lord- him no return to this, more than saying he felt obliged. Bwt when he arrived at Abydos, he sent Mrhis man SteAmo, to the Turk, with an assortment of ilMwHieCs, a fiowfing piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve |Mi of silk to oHike gowns for his wife. The poor Turk Mitstonisbed, nod said: <* What a nobte return for an jltaChnmanhy V* Be tfaenfbrmed the resolution of cross** mt 4k HeUespont, asd, In prggNrim perttm^, thanking
his lordship. His wife approved of the plan; and he had
sailed about half way across, when a sudden squall upset his boat and the poor Turkish fisherman found a watery grave. Lord Byron was much distressed when he heard of the catastrophe, and, with all tliat kindness of heart which was natural to him, he sent to the widow fifty dol- lars, and told her he would ever be her friend. This anecdote, so highly honorable to his lordship's memory, is very little known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on the spot at the time, furnished the particulars, and added that, in the year 1817, Lord Byron, then proceeding to Constantinople, landed at the same spot, and made a handsome present to the widow and her son, who recol- lected the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, his dress and appearance having so altered him.
It was not until after Lord Byron arrived at Constan- tinople that he decided not to go on to Persia, but to pass the following summer in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr. Hobheuse left him to return to England. Ou losing his companion. Lord Byron went again, and alone, over much of the old track which he had already visited, and studied the scenery and manners, of Greece especially, with the searching eye of a poet and a painter. HLb mind appeared occasionally to have some tendency towards •, a recovery from the morbid state of moral apathy which \y^ he had previously evinced, and the gratification which he manifested on observing the superiority, in every respect, of Engtand to other countries, proved that pa- triotism was far from being extinct in his bosom. The embarrassed state of his afl'airs at length induced him to return home, to endeavour to arrange them; and he arrived in the Volage frigate on the 2d of July, 1811, having been absent exactly two years. His health had not suffered by his travels, although it had been inter- rupted by two sharp fevers; but he had put himself entirely on a vegetable diet, and drank no wiae.
Soon after his arrival, he was summoned toNewstead, inconsequence of the serious illness of his mother; but on reachmg the abbey, found that she had breathed her last He suffered much from this loss, and from Uie dis- appointment of not seeing her before her death; and while bis feelings on the subject were still very acute, he received the intelligence that a friend, whom he highly esteemed, had been drowned in the Cam. He had not long before heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a school- « fellow, to whom he was much attacjied. These three ; melancholy events, occurring within the space of a ^ month, had, no doubt, a powerful effect on Lord Byron's feelings.
Towards the termination of his ''English Bards and Scoteh Reviewers," the noble author had declared, that it was his intention to break off, from that period, his newly -formed connexion with the Muses, and that, should he return in safety from the *'Minarets" of Con- stantinople, the ''Maidens'' of Greorgia, and the ''Sublime Snows'' of Mount Caucasus, nothing on earth should tempt him to resume the pen. Such resolutions are sel- dom maintained. In February, 1812, the first two cantos of '^Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (with the manuscript of which he had presented his friend Mr. Dallas) made their appearance, produciug an effect upon the public equal to that of any work which had been published within this or the last century.
This poem is, perhaps, tJie most original in the English language, both in conception and execution. It is no more IUlo Beattie's Minstrel than Paradise Lost— though the former production was in the noble author's mind when first thinking of Childe Harold. A great poet, who
Eives himself up free and unconfined to Uie impulses of is genius, as Byron did ui the better part of this sii^:ular ^ creation, shows to as a spurit as if sent out from the hands of nature, to range over the earth and the societies of men. Even Shakspeare himself submits to the shackles of history nnd society. But here Byron has traversed the whole eartli, borne atong by the whirlwind of his own
vm
LAK£*S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
J
spirit Wherever a forest frowned, or a temple flittered — tliere he was privileged to bend his flight He sud- denly starts up from his solitary dream , by the secret fountain of the desert, and descends at once into the tnmult of peopled or the silence of deserted cities. Wliat- cver actually lived — bad perished heretofore — or that had within it a po%ver to kindle passion, became the in«tort«/of his all-embracing song. There are no nnitks of time or place to fetter him — and we fly witli him fram hill-top to hill-top, and from tower to tower, over all pe solitude of nature, and all the maguilioenoe of art Wl^en tlie past pageants of history seemed too dim and faded, he would turn to the splendid spectacles that have d^- nified our own days, and the images of kings and coiL- querors of old, gave place to those that were yet living ii^ sovereignty and exile. Indeed much of the powe^ wbicli\ Byron possessed was derived from tfiis source. He lived in a sort of sympathy with the public mind — sometimes wholly distinct from it — sometimes acting in opposition to it — sometimes blending with it, ^ but, at all times, in all his thoughts and actions, bearing a reference to thc^- public mind. His spirit needed not to go back into thf past, — tliough it often did so, — to bring tlie objects c€.^ its love back to eardi in more beautiful life. The existence he painted was — the present The objects he presented were marked oat to him by men's actual regards. It was his to speak of all those great political events which were objects of such passionate and universal sympathy. But chiefly he spoke our own feelings, exalted in thought, language, and passion. His travels were not, at first, the self-impelled act of a mind, severing itself in lonely roaming from all participation in the society to which it belonged, but rather obeying the general notion of the mind of that society.
The indications of a bold, powerful, and original mind which glanced through every line of Childe Harold, electrified the mass of readers, and placed at once upon Lord Byron's head, the garland for which other men of genius have toiled long, and which they have gained late. He was placed pre-eminent among the literary men of his country by general acclamation. Those who had so rigorously censured bis juvenile essays, and perhaps 'Mreaded such another field," were the first to pay warm homage to his matured efi'orts; while others, who saw in the sentiments of Childe Harold much to regret and to censure, did not withhold their tribute of applause to tlic depth of thought, the power and force of expression, and the energy of sentiment which animated the "Pilgrimage." Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared to greet the author, with that fame which is the poef s best reward. It was amidst such feelings of admiration that Lord Byron fully entered on tliat public stage where, to the close of his life, he made so distinguished a figure.
Bvery thing in his manner, person, and conversation tended to maintain the charm which his genius had flung around him; and those admitted to his conversation, far from finding that the inspired poet sunk into ordinary mortality , felt themselves attached to him not only by many noble qualities, but by the interest of a mysterious, undefined, and almost painful curiosity. \
It is well known how wide the doors of society are^ opened in London to literary merit, even to a degree for inferior to Lord Byron's, and that it is only necessary to be honorably distinguished by the public voice to move as a denizen in the first circles. This passport was not necessary to Lord Byron, who possessed the hereditary claims of birth and rank. But the interest which his genius attached to his presence, and to his conversation, was of a nature far beyond what these hereditary claims could of themselves have conferred, and his reception was enthusiastic beyond any thing imaginable. Lord Byron was not one of those literary men of whom it may be truly said, minuii prasentiafamam» A countenance, exquisitely modelled to the expression of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the remarkable contrast of very
I dark hair and eye-brows, with light and expressire eyM, presented to the physiognomist the most intn-estiag sub- ject for the exercise of his art The predominating es* pression was that of deep and habitual thought, which gave way to the most rapid play of Stares when hi engaged in interesting discussion ; so that a brotlier poel compared them to the sculpture of a beautitUI alabaster vase, only seen to perfection when lighted up from within. The flashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, or satirical dis- like which frequently animated Lord Byron's counter nance, might, cluring an evening's conversation, be mis- taken by a stranger for its habitual expression, so easily and so happily was it formed for tliem all; but those u ho had an opportunity of studying his features for a leiigdi of time, and upon various occasions, both of rest and emotion, knew that their proper language was that of melancholy. Sometimes shades of this gloom interrupted even his gayest and most happy moments ; and the follow- ing verses are said to have dropped from his pen to excuse a transient expression of mehincholy which over- clouded the general gaiety.
When from the heart where Sorrow sits.
Her dusky shadow mounts too high. And o'er the changing aspect flits.
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye — Heed not the gloom that soon shall sink,
My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the captives shrink^
And bleed within their silent cell.
It was impossible to notic^e a dejection belonging neither to the rank, the age, nor the success of this young noble- man, without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament It was obviously of a degree incalculably more serious than that alluded to by Prince Arthur *-*
1 remember when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness
But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and felt that his sphere was far above the fashion- able and frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong efl'cct of colouring to a character whose tints were otherwise decidedly romantic. Noble and far descende<^ the pilgrim of distant and savage countries, eminent as a poet among the first whom Britain has produced, and having besides cast around him a mysterious charm arising from the sombre tone of his poetry, and the oo casiona] melancholy of his deportment, Lord Byroa oo- copied the eyes and interested the feelings of all. The enthusiastic looked on him to admire, the serious with a wish to admonish, and the soft with a desire to console. Even literary envy, a base sensation , from which, per- haps, this age is more free than any other, forgave the man whose splendor dimmed the fame of his competitors. \ the generosity of Lord Byron's disposition, his readiuess e\ no assist merit in distress, and to bring it forward where unknown, deserved and obtained general regard; while his poetical effusions, poured forth with equal force and fertility, showed at once a daring confidence in his own powers, and a determination to maintain, by continued efl'ort, the high place he had attained in British literature; At one of the fashionable parties where the noble bard was present, His Majesty, then Prince Regent, entered the room: Lord Byron was at some distance at the timep but, on learning who he was, His Royal Highness seat a gentleman to him to desire that he would be presented. Of course the presentation too^ place ; tlie Regent ex* '^ pressed his admiration of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,** . and entered into a conversation which so fascinated th^, poet, that had it not been for an accident which defcrrcdf!,;
LAKE'S LIFE OP LORD BYRON.
IX
a lerce inteoded to have been held the next day, he woafd have gone to court Soon after, however, an unfortunate kflimoeooonteracted the effect of royal praise, and Lord Byron permitted himself to write and speak disrespect- fally of the prince.
The whole of Byron's political career may be summed up in the following anecdotes:
The Earl of Carlisle having declined to introduce Lord ByroB to tlie House of Peers, he resolved to introduce himself, and accordingly went there a little before the usual hour, when he knew few of the lords would be present On entering he appeared rather abashed and looked very pale , but , passing the woolsack, where the Cbaneellor (Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordinary routine of the house, he went directly to the table, where the oaths were administered to him in tlie osnal manner. The Lord Chancellor then approached, and offered his hand in the most open familiar manner, congratulating him on his taking possession of his seat. Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers in the Chancellor's hand; the latter returned to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a few minutes on one of the op- position benches, retired. To his friend, Mr. Dallas, who followed him out, he gave as a reason for not entering into the spirit of the Chancellor, ''that it might have been supposed he would Join the court-party, whereas he intended to have notiung at all to do with politics."
He only addressed tlie house three times : the first of his speeches was on the Frame-work Bill ; the second in &vour of the Catholic claims, which gave good hopes of his becoming an orator; and tiie other related to a petition from Major Cartwright. Byron himself says, the Lords told him **bis manner was not dignified enough for them, and would better suit the lower house;" others say, they gathered round him while speaking, listening with the greatest attention— a sign at any rate that he was interesting. He always voted with the opposition, but evinced no likelihood of becoming the blind partisan of other side.
The following is a pleasing instance of the generosity, the delicacy, and the un wounding benevolence of Byron's aalme:
A young lady of considerable talents , but who had ■ever been able to succeed in turning them to any pro- liable account, was reduced to great hardships through the misfortunes of her family. The only persons from vhon she could have hoped for relief were abroad, and ID niged on, more by the sufferings of thofeshe held dear Ihaa by her own, she summoned up resolution to wait on Lord Byron at his apartments in the Albany, and ask his n^btcription to a volume of poems: she had no previous kaoniedge of him except from his works, but from the holdoess and feeling expressed in them , she concluded that he most be a man of kind heart and amiable dispo- sition. Experience did not disappoint her, and though she entered tlie apartment with faltering steps and a pal- pitsi6aigbeart,she soon found courage to state her request, vhtch die did in the most simple and delicate manner : he heard it with the most marked attention and tlie keen- otfjB^iathy; and when she had ceased speaking, he, »tf to avert her thou|i^ts from a subject which could not he hot painful to her, began to converse in words so fas- OMiBg, and tones so gentle, that sb/s hardly perceived hehad been ivriting, until he pat a folded slip of paper ■16 her hand, saying it was his sabscription, and that he MMl heartily wished her success. '*BuV' added he, "we «ehoth young, and the world is very censorious, and so HI were to take any active part in procuring subscribers l^fovr poems, I fear it would do yon harm rather than ■M," The jrouofT lady, overpowerd by the prudence and itfmtj of his conduct, took her leave, and upon openijog iHhe street the paper, which in her agitation she had not ly locked at, she found it was a draft upon his for fifty pounds 1
The enmity that Byron entertained towards the Earl of Carlisle was owing to two causes: the earl had spoken rather irreverently of the"Hours ofldleness," whenByron expected, as a relation, that he would have countenanced it He had moreover refused to introduce his kinsman to tlie House of Lords, even, it is said, somewhat doubting Ills right to a seat in that honorable house.
The Earl of Carlisle was a great admirer of the classic drama, and once published a sixpenny pamphlet, in which he strenuously argued in behalf of the propriety and necessity of small theatres: on the same day that this weighty publication appeared, he subscribed a thousand pounds for some public purpose. On this occasion Byron composed the following epigram
Carlisle subscribes a thousand pound Out of his rich domains ; ' And for a sixpence circles round The produce of his brains : 'T is thus the difl'erenoe you may hit Between hia fortune and his wit
Byron retained his antipathy to this relative to the last On reading some lines in the newspapers addressed to Lady Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by -Napoleon, beginning:
Lady, reject the g^ft, etc.
He immediately wrote the following parody :
Lady, accept the gift a hero wore.
In spite of all this elegiac stuff: Let not seven stanzas written by a bore
Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff.
Sir Lumley Skefiington had written a tragedy, called, if we remember right, "The Mysterious Bride," which was fairly damned on the first night: a masquerade took place soon after tliis fatal catastrophe, to which went John Cam Hobhoosc, as a Spanish nun who had been ravished by the French army , and was under the pro- tection of his lordship. Skefiington, compassionating the unfortunate young woman, asked, in a very sentimental manner, of Byron, "who is she?"— "The Mysterious Bride," replied his lordship.
On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr. Dallas called upon him, and, after the usual salutations had passed, inquired if he was prepared with any other work to sup- port the fame which he had already acquired. Byron then delivered for his examination a poem, entitled "Hints from Horace," being a paraphrase of the art of poetry. Mr. Dallas promised to superintend the publication of this piece as he had done that of the satire, and, accord- ingly, it was carried to Cawthorn the bookseller, and matters arranged ; but Mr. Dallas, not thinking the poem likely to increase his lordship's reputation, allowed it to linger in the press. It began thus:
Who would not laugh if Lawrence, hired to grace His costly canvass with each flatter'd face. Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? Or should some limner join, for show or sale, A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail? Or Low D * ** (as once the world has seen) Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen -p Not all that forced politeness which defends Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems The book whioh^ sillier than a sick man's dreams. Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, Poetic nightmares, without head or feet.
Mr. Dallas expressed his sorrow that his lordship had written nothing else. Byron then told him that he had
LAKE'S L)FB OF LORD BYBON.
oci^sionally composed some verses in Spenser's measure, relative to the countries he had visited. *^They are not worth troubling you mth/* said his lordship, '*butyoa shall have them all with you:" he then took ^'Cbilde Harold's Pilgrimage" from a trunk, and delivered it to him. Mr. Dallas, having read the poem, was in raptures with it; he instantly resolved -to do his utmost in sup- pressing the "Hints fromHorace," and to bring out Childe Harold. He urged Byron to publish this last poem; but he was unwilling, and preferred to liave the *' Hints" published. He would not be convinced of the great merit of the'^'Childe," and as some person had seen it before Mr. Dallas, and expressed disapprobation, Byron was by no means sure of its kind reception by the world. In a short time afterwards, however, he agreed to its publi- cation, and requested Mr. Dallas not to deal witli Caw- thorn, but offer it to Miller of Albemarle Street: he wished a fashionable publisher; but Miller det'lined it, chiefly on account of the strictures it contained on Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Longman had refused to publish the "Satire," and Byron would not suffer any of iiis works to come from tliat house: the work was therefore carried to Mr. Murray , who then kept a shop opposite St« Dunstan's church in Fleet Street. Mr. Murray had ex- pressed a desire to publish for Lord Byron, and regretted that Mr. Dallas had not taken the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" to him; but this was after its success.
Byron fell into company witli Hogg , the Ettrick Shepherd, at the Lakes. The Shepherd was standing at the inn-door of Ambleside, when forth came a strapping young man from the house, and off with his hat, and out with his hand. Hogg did not know him, and appearing at a dead halt, the other relieved him by saying, "Mr. Hogg, I hope you will excuse me; my name is Byron, andl cannot help thinking that we ought to hold ourselves ac- quainted." The poets accordingly sliook hands immedia- tely, and, while they continued at the Lakes, were hand and glove, drank furiously together, and laughed at their brother bards. On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, which the Shepherd was so mischievous as to show to them.
When residing at Mitylene in the year 1812,he portion- ed eight young girls very liberally, and even danced with them at the marriage-feast; he gave a cow to one man, horses to another, and cotton and silk to several girts who lived by weaving these materials : he also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek testaments to the poor children.
While at Metaxata, in 1823, an embankment, at which several persons had been engaged digging, fell in, and buried some of them alive: he was at dinner when he heard of the accident, and, starting up from the table, ran to the spot, accompanied by his physician, who took a supply of medicines with him. The labourers who were employed to extricate their companions, soon became alarmed for themselves, and refused to go on, saying, they believed they had dug out all the bodies which had becD covered by the ruins. Lord Byron endeavoured to induce them to continue their exertions, but finding menaces in vain, he seized a spade and began to dig most zealously; at length the peasantry joined him, and they succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death.
It is stated in the '* Conversations," that Byron was engaged in several duels, — that in one instance he was hims4lf principal in an <<aflfair of honour" with Hob- house, — and would have been so in another with Moore, if the Bard of Erin's challenge bad been properly for- warded to him.
On the 2d of Jannary, 1815, Lord Byron married , at Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne Isabella^, only daughter of Sir Ralph Mi^banke (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he had made a proposal twelve months before, but was rejected : well would it have been for their mutual happiness had that rejection been repeated. After
their marriage. Lord and Lady Byron took a house in London; gave splendid diuner-parties ; kept separate ; carriages; and, in short, hiunched into every sort of fashionable extravagance. This could not last long; (be portion which his lordship had received with Miss Mil* banke (ten thousand pounds) soon melted away ; and, tt ; length, an execution was actually levied on the furniture ^ of his residence. It was then agreed that Lady Byroa, who, on the 10th of December, 1815, had presented her 'lord with a daughter, should pay a visit to her fattier tiU the storm was blown over, and some arrangements had been made with their creditors. From that visit she never returned, and a separation ensued, for which variou reasons have been assigned ; the real cause or causes, however, of that regretted event, are up to this momeat involved in mystery, though, as might be expected, a wonderful sensation was excited at the time, and eveiy description of contradictory rumour was in active cir- culation.
Byron was first introduced to Miss Mil banke at Lady- — 's. Li going up stairs he stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who accompanied him that it was a bad omea. On entering the room, he perceived a lady more simply dressed than the rest sitting on a sofa. He asked Moore if she was a humble companion to any of the ladies. The latter replied, "She is a great heiress; you'd better marry her, and repair the old place Newstcad."
The following anecdotes on the subject of this unfor- tunate marriage are given from Lord Byron's Conver- sations, in his own words:
"There was something piquant , and what we term Dretty, in Miss Milbanke ; her features were small and reminine, though not regular; she had the fairest skin imaginable; her figure was perfect for her height, and there was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, whidi was very characteristic, and formed a happy contrast Id the cold artificial formality and studied stifi'ness which is called fashion: she interested me exceedingly. It is un- necessary to detail the progress of our acquaintance: I became daily more attached to her, and it ended in my making her a proposal that was rejected; her refnsal iras couched in terms that could not ofi'end me, I was besidet persuaded that in declining my ofier she was governed by the influence of her mother ; and was the more con- firmed in this opinion by her reviving our correspondence herself twelve mouths after. Thetenour of her letter was, that although she could not love me. she desired my friendship. Friendship is a dangerous word for young ladies; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day to fly.
"I was not so young when my father died, bat that I : perfectly remember him, and had very early a horror of , matrimony from the sight of domestic broils: this Item- ing came over me very strongly at my wedding. Some* thing whispered me that I was sealing my own death- warrant. I am a great believer in presentiments ; Socrates' demon was not a fiction ; Monk Lewis had his monitor; and Napoleon many warnings. At. the last moment I would have retreated if I could have done so; I called to mind a friend of mine, who had married a young, beanti-^ ful, and rich girl, and yet was miserable ; he had strongly urged me against putting my neck in the same yoke : and, to sliow you how firmly I was resolved to attend to hit advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas to one that I should always remain single. Six years afterwards I sent hiiBii the money. The day before I proposed to Lady Byron, 1 had no idea of doing so.
"It had been preaieted by Mrs. Williams, that twenty* seven was to be a dangerous age for me; the fortune^ tetKng witdi was right,it was destined to prove so. I shaH never forget the 2d of January ! Lady Byron (Byrn, h(f ' pronounced it) was the only unconcerned person presentt Lady Noel, her mother, cried; I trembled like a leaf,- ^ made the wrong responses , and , after the ceremonTt called her Miss Milbanke. '
LAKB'8 LIFB OF. LORD BYRON.
XI
'there is a aii^ar history attached to the ring; the
I tery day the matcli was ooacluded, a ring of my mother's
; thatbad been lost was dug up by thegardener at Newstead.
Ithoi^t it was sent on purpose for the wedding; but
my fliother's oiarriage bad not been a fortunate one, and
this ring was doomed to be the seal of an unhappier
I anion stilL
^'After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country- seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was surprised at the arrange- ments for the journey, and somewhat out of humour to find a lady's maid stuck between me and my bride. It vas rather too early to assume the husband, so I was fiMced to submit, but it was not with a very good graces
''I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had married liady Byron out of spite, and becauise she had refused me twice. Though I was for a BMHoent vexed at her prudery , or whatever it may be called, if I had made so uncavalier, not to say brutal, a jpeech, I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly bave Idft the carriage to me and the maid (I mean the iadj's); she had spirit enough to have done so, and vottld properly have resented the affront.
**Oui honey-moon was not all sunshine, it had its douds; and Hobhouse has some letters which would lerve to explain the rbe and fall in the barometer; but it was never down at zero.
*'A curious tiling happened to me shortly after the honey-moon, which was very awkward at the time, but has since amused, me much. It so happened tiiat three married women were on a wedding- visit to my wife (and in the same room at the same time), whom I had known to be all birds of the same nest Fancy the scene of con- lig»oa that ensued.
**The world says I married Miss Miibanke for her Jbrtnne, bei^use she was a great heiress. All I have ever reouved or am likely to receive (and that has been twice paid back too) , was 10,000 Lst. My own income at this period was small and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a bare UOO Lst. a year ; the Lancashire property was hampered with a law-suit, which has cost me 1 4000 Lst , and is not yet finished.
1 heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlmont had been Uie means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind against me; that she had employed herself and others in watching me in London, and had reported having traced me into a house io Pertland- Place. There was one act unworthy of any one but such a confidante; I allude to the breaking open my writing-desk: a book was found in it that did not do much credit to my taste in literature, and some letters from a married woman with whom I had been intimate More my marriage. The use that was made of the latter «aiflu>st unjustifiable, whatever may be thought of the breach of confidence that led to their discovery. Lady ^roa sent tliem to the husband of the lady, who had the good sense to take no notice of their contents. The giavcst accusation that has been made against me is that of having intrigued with Mrs. Mardyn in my own house, iaiRMiiieed her to my own table; there never was a more ■tfonnded calumny. Being of the Committee of Drory- Lmie Theatre, I have no doubt that several actresses called on me; but as to Mrs. Mardyn, wbo was a beautiful I mgamn, and might have been a dangerous visitress, I w as ; MKcdy acquainted (to speak) with her. I might even I BB^ a more serious charge against-* --than employing spies to watch suspected amours. I had been shut up in a^arkslreet in London writing 'The Siege of Corinth,' aad had refused myself to every one till it was finished. f 1 mas surprised one day by a doctor and a lawyer almost * themselves at the same time into my room; I did haow till afterwards the real object of their visit I their questions singular^ frivolous, and some- ifliportoDate, if not impertinent; but what sliould ilMe thought if 1 had known that they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity I I have no doubt that my
answers to these emissaries' interrogations were not very rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by other things; but Dr. Baiilie could not conscientiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam, and perhaps the lawyer gave a more fiivourable report to his employers. The doctor said afterwards he had been told that I always looked down when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and exliibited other symptoms equally infallible, particularly those that marked tlie late king's case so strongly. 1 do not, however, tax Lady Byron with tliis transaction: probably she was not privy to it; she was the tool of others. Her mother always detested me, she had not even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of man, and of whom you may form some idea, when I tell you that a leg of mutton was always served at his table, that he might cut the same joke upon it), I broke a tooth, and was in great pain, which 1 could not avoid showing. 'It will do you good,' said Lady Noel; *1 am glad of it !' — I gave her a look 1
*<Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never express them; wrote poetry too, but it was only good by accident; her letters were always enigmatical, often unintelligible. She was easily made the dupe of the designing,, for she thought her knowledge of mankind infallible. She had got some foolish idea of Madame de Stael's into her head, that a person may be better known in the first houi than in ten years. She had the habit of drawing people's cliaracters after she had seen them once or twice. She wrote pages on pages about my cliaracter , but it was as unlike as possible. She was governed by what she called fixed rules and principles, squared mathematically. She would have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It must be confessed, however, that she gave no proof of her boasted consistency; first she refused me, then she accepted me, then she separated herself from me — so much for consistency. I need not tell you of the obloqjiiy and opprobrium that were cast upon my name when our separation was nuide public ; I once made a list from the journals of the day of the different worthies, ancient and modern, to whom I was compared: I remember a few, Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry
the Eighth, and lastly, the , All my former friends,
even my cousin George Byron, who had been brought up with me, and whom 1 loved as a brother, took my wife's part: he followed tlie stream when it was strongest against me, and can never expect any thing from me; he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. I was looked upon as the worst of husbands,, tlie most abandoned and wicked, of men; and my wife as a suffering angel, an incarnation of all the virtues and perfections of the sex. I was abused in the public prints* made the common talk of private companies, hissed as I went to the House of Lords , insulted in tlie streets , afraid to go to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. Mardyn had been driven witli insult The Examiner was the only paper that dared say a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey the only person in the fashionable world that did not look upon me as a monster.
^'In addition to all tliese mortifications, my affairs were irretrievably involved, and almost so as to make me what tliey wished. I was compelled to part with Newstead, which I never could have ventured to sell in my mother's lifetime. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for having done so, though I am told that the estate would not now bring half as much as I got for it: tliis does noiat all reooacile me to liaviag parted with the old Abbey. I did not make up my mind to this step but from tlie last necessity; I had my wife's portion to repay, and was determined to add 10,000 Lst more of my own to it, whidi I did: I always hated being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. The moment I had put my affairs in train, and inlittle more than eighteen months after my mar- riage, I left England, an involuntary exile, intending it should be for ever. "
XII
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
Wc shall here avail ourtelrcs of some observations by a powerful and elegant critic, *) whose opinions on the personal character of Lord Byron, as well as on the merits of his poems, are, from their originality, candour, and keen discrimination, of considerable weight.
<*T}ie charge against Lord Byron," says this writer, '4s, not that he fell a victim to excessive temptations, and a combination of circnmstances, which it required a rare and extraordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, prudence, and steadiness to surmount; but that lie abandoned a situation of uncommon advantages, and fell weakly, pusiilanimously, and selfishly, when victory would have been easy, and when defeat was ignominious. In reply to this charge, I do not deny that Lord Byron inherited some very desirable, and even enviable privileges in the lot of life which fell to his share, f should falsify my own sentiments if I treated lightly (he gift of an ancient Eng* lish peerage, and a name of honour and venerable anti- quity ; but without a fortune competent to that rank, it is not *a bed of roses,' nay, it is attended with many and extreme difficulties, and the difficulties arc exactly such as a genius and temper like Lord Byron's were least cal- culated to meet — at any rate least calculated to meet under the peculiar collateral circumstances in which he was placed. His income was very narrow; his Newstead property left him a very small disposable surplus; his Lancashire property was, in its condition, unproductive. A profession, such as the army, might have lessened, or almost annihilated the difficulties of his peculiar position ; but probably bis lameness rendered this impossible. He seems to have had a love of independence, which was noble, and probably even an intractability ; but this tem- per added to his indisposition to bend and adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, or intriguing^ man, witliout a single good quality of head or heart, might have ma- naged it much better; he might have made himself sub- servient to government, and wormed himself into some lucrative place; or he might have lived meanly, con- formed himself stupidly or crtngingly to all humours, and been borne onward on the wings of society with little personal expense.
'*Lord Byron was of another quality and temperament If the world would not conform to him, still less would he conform to the world. He had all the manly, baronial pride of his ancestors, though he had not all their wealth, and their means of generosity, hospitality, and patronage. He had the will, alas ! without the power.
'< With this temper, these feelings, this genius, exposed to a combination of such untoward and trying circum- stances, it would indeed have been inimitably praise- worthy, if Lord Byron could have been always wise, prudent, calm,eorrect, pure, virtuous, and unassailable :^ if he could have shown all tlie force and splendour of his mighty poetical energies, without any mixture of their clouds, their baneful lightnings, or their storms: — if he could have preserved all his sensibility to every kind and noble passion, yet have remained placid, and unaffected by the attack of any blameable emotion ;— that is, it would have been admirable if he had been an angH^and not a man !
<* Unhappily, the outrages he reiviv(*d, the gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, even in the time of his highest fiivour with the public, turned the delights of his very days of triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of moody, fierce, and violent despair, which led to humours, acts, and words, that mutually aggravated the ill wiWand the offences between hun and his assaihints. There was a daring spirit in his temper and his talenta, which was always inflamed rather than corrected by opposition.
"In ttiis most unpropitious state of things, every thing that went wrong was attributed to Lord Byron, and.
♦) Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart who has written so diffusely and so ably on Lord Byron's genius and character.
when once attributed, was assumed and argued upon as an undeniable fact Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, — quite unattended by a particle of doubt, ^ that in many things in which he has been the most blamed, he was the absolute victim of misfortune; that unpropitious trains of events (for I do not wish to shift the blame on others) led to explosions and consequent derangements, wbicb no cold, prudent pretender to extreme propriety and correctness could have averted or met in a manner less blameable than that in which Lord Byron met them.
**It is not easy to conceive a character less fitted to oon- ciliate general society by his manners and habits tliaa that of Lord Byron. It is probable that he could make his address and conversation pleasing to ladies when he chose to please; but, to the young dandies of fasbioa, noble and ignoble, he must have been very repulsive: as long as he continued to be the ton, — the lion, — tiiey uMy have endured him without opening their mouths, because he had a frown and a lash wbicli they were not willing to encounter; but when his back was turned, and they thought it safe, I do not doubt that they burst out into full cry ! I have heard complaints of his vanity, his pee- vishness, his desire to monopolise distinction, his dislike of alt hobbies but his owu. It is not improbable that there may have been some foundation for these com- plaints: 1 am sorry for it if there was; I regret such little- nesses. And then another part of the story is probably left untold : we hear nothing of the provocations given hioi;— sly hints, curve of the lip, side-looks, treacheroiis smiles, Dings at poetry, shrugs at noble authors , slang; jokes, idiotic bets, enigmatical appointments, and boasts of being senseless brutes ! We do not hear repeated the jest of the glory of the Jew, that buys the ruined peer's falling castle; the d-d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud and the best hounds in the country out of the snip- pings and odds and ends of his contract; antl the famous good matcti that the duke's daughter is going to make with Dick Wigly, the son of the rich slave merchant at Liverpool ! We do not hear the clever dry j(.*sts whispered
round the table by Mr , eldest son of the new and rich
Lord , by young Mr , only son of Lord — , the
ex-lords A., B., and C., sons of the three Irish Union earls, great borough-holders, and the very grave and sarcastic
Lord , who believes that he has the monopoly of all
the talents and all the political and legislative knowledge of the kingdom, and that a poet and a bellman are only fit to be yoked together.
''Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty poet driven into exile! Yes, driven! who would live in a country in which he bad been so used, even though it was Uie land of his nativity, the land of a thousand noble an- cestors, the land of freedom, the land where his head had been crowned with laurels,— but where his heart liad been tortured, where all his most generous and most noble tliouglits had been distorted and rendered ugly, and where his slightest errors and indiscretions had been magnified into hideous crimes."
Lord Byron's own opinions on the connubial state are thus related by Captain Parry: —
''Thereare,"8aid his lordsbip,*'80 many undefinable,aad nameles8,and not-to-be named causes of dislike,aversion, and disgust, in the matrimonial state, that it is always impossible for the public, or the best friends of the par* ties, to judge between man and wife. Theirs is a relation about which nobody but themselves can form a cx>rrect idea, or have any right to speaks As long as ndtlier party commits gross injustice towards the other; as longas nei- ther the woman nor the mati is guilty of any offence which is injurious to the community ; as long as the husband provides for his offspringt and secures the public agiunst the dangers arising from their neglected education , or from the charge of supporting them ; by what riglit does it censure him for ceasing to dwell under the same roof with a wooian, who is to him, because he knows her, wbile
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
xm
others do not, an objei;t of loathings? Can any thing be more monstroos than for the public voice to compel individuals who dislike each other to continue their coba- bilation ? This is at least the effect of its interfering with t relationship j of which it has no possible means of jndging. It does not indeed drag a man to a woman's bed by physical force ; but it docs exert a moral forceoontinu- ally and effectively to accomplish the same purpose. No- body can escape this force but those who are too high, or those who are too low, for public opinion to reach ; or those hypocrites who are, before others, the loudest in their approbation of the empty and unmeaning forms of society, that they may securely indulge all their propen- Hties in secret. I have suffered amazingly from this inter- ftrence ; for tliough I set it at defiance, 1 was neither too Ugh nor too low to be reached by it, and I was not hy- pocrite enough to guard myself from its consequences.
''What do they say of my family-affairs in England, Parry! My story, I suppose, like other minor events, laterested the people for a day, and was then foigotteU ;" I replied, no ; 1 thought, owing to the very greatinterest the public took in him, it was still remembered and talked about I mentioned that it was generally supposed a difference of religious sentiments between liim and Lady Byron had causMl the public breach. ''No, Parry," was ttie reply; "Lady Byron has a liberal mind, particularly as to religions opinions; and I wish, when 1 married her, that 1 had possessed the same command over myself that I now da Had I possessed a litUe more wisdom, and more forbearance, we might have been happy. I wished, when I was first married, to have remained in the country, particularly till my pecuniary embarrassments were over. 1 knew tiie society of London; I knew the cha- racters of many of those who are called ladies, with whom Lady Byron would necessarily have to associate, and 1 dreaded her contact with them. But I have too much of my mother about me to be dictated to : I like freedom from constraint; I hate artificial regulations: my con- * duct has always been dictated by my own feelings; and Lady Byron was quite the creature of rules. She was not permitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as the pliy- alctan prescribed. She was not suffered to go out when I wished to go ; and then the old house was a mere ghost- house; I dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking. It was an existence I could not support" Here Lord Byron broke offabrnptiy, saying, "I bate to speak of ray faaily-affiEiirs; though 1 have been compelled to talk nonsense concerning them to some of my butterfly visit- ors, glad on any terms to get rid of their importunities. Iloogto be again on the mountains. I am fond of solitude, and should never talk nonsense if I always found plain ' men to talk to.'*
In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted England, to letnra to it no more. He crossed over to France, through whieh he passed rapidly to Brussels, taking in his way a survey of the field of Waterloo. He then proceeded to Coblentz, and up the Rhine to Basle. He passed the summer on the banks of the lake of Geneva. With what enthusiasm he enjoyed, and with what contemplations he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry soon exhibited to ttievrorld. His third canto of Childe Harold, his Manfred, and his Prisoner of Chillon were composed at the Cam- JMgM Diodati, at Coligny, a mile from Geneva.
These productions evidently proved that the nnfor- taaate events which had induced Lord Byron to become a voluntary exile from tiis native land, however they m^ght have exacerbated his feelings, had in no measure cMed his poetical fire.
Tke anecdotes that follow are given as his lordship irtiifd them to Captain Medwin :
'Switzerland Is a country I have been satisfied with
Mciag once ; Turkey I could live in for ever. I never
i ihlipel my predilections. I was in a wretched state of
I tr«tth, and worse spirits, when I was at Geneva; but
I fmct aad the lake, physicians better than Polidori, soon
set me up. I never led so moral a life as during my resi- dence in that country ; but I gained no credit by it Where tiiere is a mortification, there ought to be reward. On the contrary, there is no story so absurd that they did not invent at my cost I was watched by glasses on the opposite side of the lake, and by glasses too that must have had very distorted optics. 1 was waylaid in my evening drives — I was accused of corrupting all tlie^'- setteg in the rue Basse. I believe that they looked upon me as a man-monster worse than XUcpiqueur,
"1 knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsch was very civil to me; and I have a great respect for Sismondi. I was forced to return the civilities of one of their profess- ors bv asking him, and an old gentieman, a friend of Gray s, to dine with me. I had gone out to sail early in the morning, and the wind prevented me from returning in time for dinner. I understand that I offended them mortally. Polidori did tiie honours.
"Among our countrymen I made no new acquaint- ances ; Shelley, Monk Lewis, and Hobhouse were almost the only English people I satv. No wonder; I showed a distaste for society at that time, and went littie among the Genevese; besides, I could not speak French. What is become of my boatman and boat? I suppose she is rotten; she was never worth much. When I went the tour of the lake in her with Shelley and Hobhouse, she was nearly wrecked near the very spot where Saint- Preux and Julia were in danger of being drowned. It would have been classical to have been lost there, but not so agreeable. Shelley was on the lake much oitener than I, at all hours of the night and day : he almost lived on it; his great rage is a boat We are both building now at Genoa, I a yacht, and he an open boat
"Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with an opi- nion of my immorality. I used occasionally to visit her at Coppet; and once she invited me to a family-dinner, and 1 found the room full of strangers, who had come to stare at me as at some outlandish beast in a raree-show. One of the ladies fointed, and the rest looked as if his satanio majesty had been among them. Madame de Stael took the liberty to read me a lecture before this crowd, to which I only made her a low bow."
His lordship's travelling equipage was rather a sin- gular one, and afforded a strange catalogue for the Do- gana : seven servants,fi ve carriages,nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog and mastiff, two cats, three pea-fowls and some hens (I do not know wheUier I have classed them in order of rank), formed part of his live stock ; these, and all his books, consisting of a very large library of mo- dern works (for he bought all the best that came out), together with a vast quantity of furniture, might well be termed, with Ctesar, 'impediments."
From about the commencement of the year 1817 to that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal residence was Venice. Here he continued to employ himself in poetical compo- sition witii an energy still increasing. He wrote the La- ment of Tasso , the fourth canto of Childe Harold, the dramas of Marino Faliero, and the Two Foscari; Beppo, Mazeppa, and the earlier cantos of Don Juan.
Considering these only with regard to intellectual acti- vity and force, there can be no ditt'erence of opinion ; though there may be as to their degree of poetical ex- cellence, the class in the scale of literary merit to which they belong, and their moral, religious,and political tend- encies. The Lament of Tasso , which in every line abounds in the most perfect poetry, is liable to no coun- tervailing objection on the part of the moralist
In the third canto of the "Pilgrimage," the discontented and repining spirit of Harold had already beoome much softened:
Joy was not always absent from his fecc, [grace. But o'er it in such scenes would steal with tranquil
He is a being of still gentler mould in the fourth canto; his despair has even sometimes assumed a smitingncss»
XIV
JLAKE'S UFB OF LORD BYRON.
and tbe loYely and Ihrelj creations of the poel*s brain are less paiofully alloyed, and less suddenly checked by tbe gloomy visions of a morbid imagination. He represented himself, from tlie beginning, as a ruin; and when we first gazed upon him, we saw indeed in abundance the black traces of recent violence and convulsion. The edifice wajs not rebuilt; but its hues were softened by the passing ivings of Time, and the calm slow ivy had found leisure to wreath the soft green of its melancholy among the fragments of the decay. In so facUiie pilgrim became wiser, as he seemed to think more of others and with a greater spirit of humanity. There was something liendish in the air with which he surveyed the first scene of his vvanderings; and no proof of the strength of genius was ever exhibited so strong and unquestionable as the sud- den and entire possession of the minds of men by such a being as he then appeared to be. He looked upon a bull- fight and a field of battle with no variety of emotion. Brutes and men were, injiiscyes, the same blijodj stupid victims of the savage lust of pdlrcr. He seemed to shut liiseyes to every thing of that'citizenship and patriotism which ennobles the spirit 0fthr~sT»tdtm7~and to 4e4ight in scattering the dusfand aslies of bis'derision over ail the most sacred resting-places of tbe son! of man. Even then* we must allow, the original spirit of the Bnglishman and the poet broke triumphantly, at times, tlirough the chill- ing mist in which it bad been spontaneously enveloped. In Greece, above all, the contemplation of Actium, Sala- mis, Maratlion, Thermopyhe, and Platea, subdued tbe prejudices of him ivho had gazed unmoved, or with dis- dain, upon fields of more recent ^|lOnF«—¥iie.itQbUity of manhood appeared to delight this moody_yi8itant ; and he accorded, without reluctance, to the sliades of long departed heroes tliat reverent homage which , in the strange mixture of envy and scorn wherewith the coutenv* plati ve so often regard active men, he had refused to the living, or to the newly dead.
But there would be no end of descanting on the cha- racter of the Pilgrim, nor of the moral reflections which it awakens; we tiierefore take leave of Childe Harold in his own beaatifol language :
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been -^ A sound which makes us linger; — yet, farewell I Ye I who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; Farewell! •♦♦♦♦•
Alas! we must now say farewell ''for ever."
Manfred was the first of Lord Byron's dramatic poems, and, we tliink, the finest The spirit of his genius seems there wrestling with the spirit of his nature, the struggle being for the palm of sublimity. Manfred has always ap- peared to us one of the most genuine creations of the noble bard's mind. The melancholy is more heartfelt; the poet does not here seem to scow 1 his brows, but they drop under the weight of his thoughts; his intelk:ct, too, is strongly at work in it, and the stern haughtiness of tlie principal character is altogether of an intellectual cast: tlie conception of this character is Miltonic. The poet has made him worthy to abide amongst tiiose ^'palaces of nature,'' those ''icy halls," "where forms and fall^ tlie avalanche." Manfred stands up against the stupendous scenery of the poem, and is as lofty, towering and grand as the mountains: when we picture him in imagination be assumes a shape of height and independent dignity, shining in its own splendour amongst the snowy summits which he was accustomed to climb. The passion, too, in this compositi<Ai, is fervid and impetuous, but at the same time deep and full, which is not always the case in Byron's productions; itis serious and sinoeretliroHghout.
The music of tiie lan^ageia as solemn and as touclungas
that of the wind coming through the bending ranks of the inaccessible Alpine forests; and tlie mists and vapours rolling down the gullies and ravines that yawn horribly ; on tlie eye, are not more wild and striking in their ap* pearance than are the supernatural creations of the poet's ' fancy, whose magical agency is of mighty import, but is nevertheless continually surmounted by the iiigh intel- lectual power, invincible will, and intrepid philosophy of Maui'red.
The first idea of the descriptive passages of this beautiful poem will be easily recognised in the folio wiog extract from Lord Byron's travelling -memorandum* book.
'*Sept 22, 18ia Left Tbun in a boat, which carried us the length of this lake in three hours. The lake small, but * the banks fine — rooks down to the water's edge — landed at New house. Passed Interlacken— entered upon a range of scenes beyond all description or previous conception. Passed a rock bearing an inscription — two brothers — one murdered the other — just the place for it After a variety of windings came to an enormous rock —arrived at tbe foot of the mountain (the Jungfrau) — glaciers — . torrents — one of these 900 feet visible descent — lodge at the curate's — set out to see the valley -— heard an avalanche fiaill, like thunder! — ^glaciers enormous — storm comes on — thunder and lightning, and hail ! all in per- fection and beautiful. The torrent is in shapes curving over the rock, like the tail of the white horse streaming in the wind — just as might be conceived would be that of the *Pale Horse,' on which Death is mounted in the Apocalypse. It is neitlier mist nor water, but a sonie* thing between both ; its immense height gives it a wave, a curve, a spreading here, a oondension there— wonder- ful — indescribable.
"^ept. 23. Ascent of the AVingren, the Dent d^argent shitting like truth on one side, on the other the clouds rose from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices, like the foam of the ocean of hell during a spring tide! It was white and sulphury, and immeasu* ' rably deep in appearance. The side we ascended was of course not of so precipitous a nature, but on arriving at the summit we looked down on the other side upon a boiling sea of cloud, dashing against tlie crag on which we stood. Arrived at the Grecnderwold; mounted and rode to the higher glacier — twilight, but distinct — very fine — glacier Kke a frozen hurricane— starlight beauti- ful— the whole of the day was fine, and, in point of weather, as the day in which Paradise was made. Passed whole woods of witliered pines — all withered — trunks stripped and lifeless — done by^a single winter."
Of Lord B^'ron's tragedies we shall merely remark, with reference to the particular nature of their tragic cha- racter, tliat the effect of them all is rather grand, terrible, and terrific, than mollifying, subduing, or pathetic As dramadc poems they possess much beauty and originality.
The style and nature of tbe poem of Don Juan forms a singularly felicitous mixture of burlesque and pathos, of humorous observation and the higher elements of poetical composition. Never was the English language festooned into more luxurious stanzas than in Don Juan: like the dolphin sporting in its native waves, at every turn, however grotesque, displaying a new hue and a new beauty, so tbe noble author there shows an absolute control over his means, and at every cadence, rhyme, or construction, however whimsical, delights us with novel and magical associations. We wish, we heartily wish, that the fine poetry which is so richly scattered through the sixteen cantos of tliis most ordinal and most astonish- ing production, bad not been mixed up with very much that is equally frivolous as foolish; and sincerely do we regret, that the alloying dross of sensuality should run so freely through the otherwise rich yein of the author's verse.
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BTRON.
XV
Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a most noble in- stSBce of gpenerosity . The house of a shoemaker, near his lordship's residence in St Samuel, was burnt to the groond, with every article it contained, and the proprietor reduced with a larj^e family to the greatest indigence and waaL When Lord Byron ascertained the afflicting cir- eaiBStances of that calamity, he not only ordered a new and superior habitation to be immediately built for the suflerer, the whole expense of which was borne by his lordship, but also presented the unfortunate tradesman with a sum equal in value to the whole of his lost stock in trade and furniture.
Lord Byron avoided as much as possible any inter- coarse with his countrymen at Venice; this seems to have been in a great measure necessary, in order to pre- Vfnt the intrusion of impertinent curiosity. In an appen- da to one of his poems, written with reference to a book of travels, the author of whidi disclaimed any wish to be ifitrodnced to the noble lord, he loftily and sarcastically ckutises the incivility of such a gratuitous declaration, eipresses hi^ ^utter abhorrence of any contact with the bavelfing English ;" and thus concludes : "Except Lords Laosdowlie, Jersey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr. Lewis, W.Bankes^M.Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kionaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recol- lect to have exchanged a word with another Englishman siDoe I left their country, and almost all these 1 had known before. The others, and God knows there were some hnadreds, who bored me with letters or visits, I refused to have any eommunication with ; and shall be proud and loppy when that wish becomes mutual.'^
After a residence of three years at Venice, Lord Byron removed to Ravenna, towards the close of the year 1819. Here he wrote the Prophecy of Dante, which exhibited a new specimen of the astonishing variety of strength and expansion of faculties he possessed and exercised. About fliesaafietimehe wrote Sardanapalus, a tragedy; Cain, a mystery; and Heaven and Eartli, a mystery. Though there are some obvious reasons which render Sardana- palus unfit for the Bnglish stage, it is, on the whole, the nrast splendid specimen which our language affords of that species of tragedy which was tlic exclusive object of Lord Byron's admiration. Cain is one of the productions whidi has subjected its noble author to tlie severest de- uiDciations, on account of the crime of impiety alleged against it; as it seems to have a tendency to call in question the benevolence of Providence. In answer to the lond and general outcry which this production occa- sioned. Lord Byron observed, in a letter to his publisher, '^ *Cain' be blasphemous, ^Paradise Lost' is blaspiie- moQS, and the words of the Oxford gentleman^ *£vil, be thou my good', arc from that very poem from the mouth of Satan; and is there any thing more in that of Lucifer iu the mystery? *Caiu' is nothing more than a drama, not apiece of argument: if Lucifer and Cain speak as tlie lint rebel and first murderer may be supposed to speak, nearly alt the rest of the personages talk also according toQieir characters; and the stronger passions have ever been permitted to the drama. I have avoided introducing ftc Deity as in Scripture, though Milton does, and not very wisely eitlier : but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain instead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings OB the subject, by falling short of what all uninspired men mast &11 short iu, viz. giving an adequate notion of the eftctofthe presence of Jehovah. The old mysteries in- troduced him liberally enough, and all this I avoided in te new one."
As event occurred at Kavenna during his lordship's IliT there, which made a deep impression on him, and to wilch he alludes in the fifth canto of Don Juan. The mi- Any commandant of the place, who, though suspected of bdng secretly a Carbonaro, was too powerful a man to i heftrr»ted, was assassinated opposite to Lord Byron's ' faboe. His lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the
usual hour of exercise, when his horse started at the report of a gun: on looking i^p. Lord Byron perceived a man throw down a carbine and run away at full speed, and another man stretched upon the pavement a few yards from himself; it was the unhappy commandant. A crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured to offer the least assistance. Lord Byron directed his servant to lift up the bleeding body, and carry it into his palace; though it was represented to him that by doing so he would confirm the suspicion, which was already enter-* tained^ of his belonging to the same party. Such an ap- prehension could have no effect on Byron's mind when an act of humanity was to be performed; he assisted in bearing the victim of assassination into the house, and patting Mm on a bed. He was already dead from several wounds : **he appeared to have breathed his last without a struggle,^' said his lordship, when afterwards recount- ing the aflair. *'I never saw a countenance so calm. His adjutant followed the corpse into the house; I remember his lamentation over him :— *Povcro diavolo I non aveva fatta male, anch^ adun cane.' " The following were the noble writer's poetical reflexions (in Don Juan) on view- ing the dead body:
— " I gazed (as oft I gazed the same)
To try if I could wrench aught out of death.
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a failh ;
But it was all a mystery: — here we are.
And there we go: — but where? Five bits of lead,
Or three, or two, or one, send very far !
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed?
Can every element our elements mar?
And air, earth, water, fire, — live, and we dead ?
We whose minds comprehend all things ? — No more :
But let us to the story as before."
That a being of such glorious capabilities should abs- tractedly, and without an attempt to tlirow the respon- sibility on a fictitious personage, have avowed such start- ling doubts, was a daring which, whatever might then have been his private opinion, he ought not to have hazarded*
"It is difficult," observes Captain Med win, "to judge, from the contradictory nature of his writings, what the religious opinions of Lord Byron really were. From the conversations I held with him, on the whole, I am inclined to think that if he were occasionally sceptical, and thought it, as he says in Don Juan,
"A pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float
Like Pyrrho, in a sea of speculation." yet his wavering never amounted to a disbelief in the divine Founder of Christianity."
"Calling on him one day," continues the Captain, "we found him, as was sometimes tlie case, silent, dull, and sombre. At length he said: 'Here is a little book some- body has sent me about Christianity, that has made me very uncomfortable; the reasoning seems to me very strong, the proofs are very staggering, I don't think you can answer it, Shelley, at least I am sure I can't, and what is more, I don't wish it.'
"Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said: *L— B
thought the question set at rest in tlie History of the De- cline and Fall, but I am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter of volition to unbclieve. Who likes to own that he has ben a fool all his life, — to unlearn all that he has been taught in his youth, or can think that some of the best men that ever lived have been fools? I don't know why I am considered an unbeliever. I disowned the other day that I was of Shelley's school in metaphysics, though I admired his poetry; not but that he has changed his mode of thinking very much since he wrote the notes to "Queen Mab," which I was accused of having a hand in. I know, however, that I am considered an infidel. My wife and sister, when they joined parties, sent me prayer- books. There was a Mr. Mulock, who went about the continent preaching orthodoxy in politics and religion,
XVI
LAKJfi'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
a writer of bad sonnets^ and a lecturer in worse prose, — he tried to convert me to some new sect of Christianity. He was a ^reat anti-materialist, and abused Locke.'
•*On another occasion he said: *I have just received a letter from a Mr. Sheppard, inclosing a prayer made for my welfare by his wife a few days before her death. The letter states that he has had the misfortune to lose this amiable woman, who had seeu me at Ramsgate, many years ago, rambling among the clifl's; that she had been impressed with a sense of my irreligion from the tenour of my works, and had often prayed fervently for my con- version, particularly in her last moments. The prayer is beautifully written. I like devcition in women. IShc must have been a divine creature. I pity the man who has lost her! 1 shall write to him by return of the courier, to con- dole with him, and tell him that Mrs. S. need not have entertained any concern for my spiritual aliairs, for that no man it more of a ckrittian than I am, whatever my writings may have led her and others to suspect' "
We have give^ the above extracts from a sense of justice to the memory of Lord Byron; they are redeem- ing and consolatory evidences that his heart was far from being sheathed in unassailable scepticism, and, as such, ought not to be omitted in a preface to his works.
In the autumn of 1821, the noble bard removed to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his residence there in the Lan- franchi palace, and engaged in an intrigue with the beauti- ful Guiocioli, wife of the Count of that name, which con- nexion, with more tlian his usual constancy, he main- tained for nearly three years, during which period the Countess was separated from her husband, on an appli- cation from the latter to the Pope.
The following is a sketch of this ''fair enchantress,'' as taken at the time the liaison was formed between her and Byron. ** The Countess is twenty-three years of age, though she appears no more than seventeen or eighteen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her complexion is de- licately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by the longest eye-lashes in the world, and her hair, which is ungathered on her head, plays over her falling shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much embon- point for her height; but her bust is perfect Her features want little of possessing a Grecian regularity of outline; and she has the most beautiful mouth and teeth imagi- nable. It is impossible to see without admiring - to hear tlie Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. Her ama- bility and gentleness show themselves in every intonation of her voice, which, and the music of her perfect Italian, gives a peculiar charm to every thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem component parts of her nature. Not- withstanding that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the exile and poverty of her aged father sometimes affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy on her countenance which adds to the deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her conversation is lively without being learned; she has read all the best authors of her own and the French language. She often conceals what she knows, from the fear of being thought to know too much, possibly from being aware that Lord Byron was not fond o( blues. He is certainly very much attached to her , without being actually in love. His description of the Georgioni in the Manfrini palace at Venice is meant for the Countess. The beautiful sonnet prefixed to the 'Prophecy of Dante' was addressed to her."
The lines, written by Byron when he was about to quit Venice to join the Countess at Ravenna (See p. d91.) show the state of his feelings at that time.
It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried life than Lord Byron led at this period in the society of a few select friends. Billiards, conversation, or reading, tilled up the intervals till it was time to take the evening-drive, ride, and pistol-practice. ^
He dined at half an hour after sun-set, then drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Gniccioli's fother, passed
several hoars in her society, returned to bis palace, and either read or wrote till two or three in the morning; occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic complaint to which he was, or &ncied himself, subject
While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a serious affray occurred, in which he was personally concerned. Taking his usual ride , with some friends , one of them was violently jostled by a serjcant-major of hussars, who dashed , at full speed , through the midst of the party. They pursued and overtook him near the Piaggia gate; but their remonstrances were answered only by abuse and menace, and an attempt, oMhe part of the guard at the gate, to arrest them. This occasioned a severe scufile, in which several of Lord Byron's party were wounded, as was also the hussar. The consequence was, that all Lord Byron's servants (who were warmly attached to him, and had sho\%u great ardour in his defence) were banished from Pisa; and witli them the Counts Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was himself ad\ ised to leave it; and as the Countess accompanied her father, lieaooa after joined them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was oocasioned'by a new persecution of the Counts Gamba. An order was issued for them to leave the Tuscan states in four days; and after their embarkation for Genoa, the Countess and Lord Byron openly lived together, at the Lanfranchi palace.
It was at Pisa that Byron wrote "Werner," a tragedy; the "Deformed Transformed," and continued his "Don Juan" to the end of the sixteenth canto. We venture to introduce here the following critical summary of this wonderful production of genius.
The poem of Don Juan has all sorts of faults, many of which cannot be defended, and some of which are dis- gusting ; but it has, also, almost every sort of poetical merit: there are in it some of the finest passages Lord Byron ever wrote; there is amazing knowledge of human nature In it; there is exquisite humour; there is freedom, andbound,and vigour of narrative imagery.sentiment and style, which are admirable; there is a vast fertility of deep, intensive, and Original thought; and, at the same time, there is the profusion of a prompt and most richly-stored memory. The invention is lively and poetical; the de- scriptions are brilliant and glo wing,yet not over-wrought, but fresh from nature, and faithful to her colours; and the prevalent character of the whole (bating too many dark spots), not dispiriting, though gloomy ; not misan- thropic, though bitter ; and not repulsive to the visions of poetical enthusiasm, though indignant and resentful.
Lord Byron's acc^uaintance with Leigh Hunt, the late editor of the Examiner, originated in his grateful feeling for the manner in which Mr. Hunt stood forward in bis justification, at a time when the current of public opinion ran strongly against him. This feeling induced him to invite Mr. Hunt to tlie Lanfranchi palace, where a suite of apartments were fitted up for him. On his arrival in the spring of 18t22, a periodical publication was pro- jected, under the title of "The Liberal," of which Hunt was to be the editor, and to which Lord Byron and Percy Shelley (who had been residing for some time on ternns of great intimacy with his lordship) were to contribute. Three numbers of the"Lit>eral" were published inLondon, when, in consequence of the unhappy fate of Mr. Shelley (who perished in the Mediterranean by the upsetting of a boat), and of other dLicouraging circumstances, it was discontinued.
Byron attended the funeral of his poet-friend, the following description of \^hich, by a person who waa present, is not without interest: — * <M8th August, 182*1. — On the occasion of Shelley *s melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, and on the day of my arrival learnt tliat Lord Byron was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in performing the last offices to his friend. We
I4AK£'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
XVII
cMwIoaspot marked by an old and withered trook of a iirtrcey and near it, on the beadi, stood a solitary but covered with reeds. The situation was well calculated for a poelfs frave.. ^ few weeks before I bad ridden with hiia and Lord Byron to this very spot» which I after- wards visited more than once. In front was ama^ni- fieeot extent of the blue and wmdless Mediterranean, with the isles of Elba and Guyana, — Lord Byron's jacht at anchor in the offing: on the other side an almost boendiess extent of sandy wilderness, uncultivated and vBinhabited, here and tliere interspersed in tuAs with waderwood carved by the sea-breeze, and stunted by tlie barrea and dry nature of the soil in which it grew. At eqaal distances along the coast stood higK^uare towers, ibr the double purpose of guarding the coast from smugg- flog, and enforcing the quarantine laws. This view was boanded by an immense extent of the Italian Alps, which are here particularly picturesque from their volcanic and laaniiUd appearances, and which, being composed of white marble, give their summits the appearance of snow. As a foreground to this picture appeared as extraordinary a group. Lord Byron and Trelawney were seen standing over the burning pile, with some of the soldiers of the guard; and Leigh Hunt, whose feelings and nerves oouM not carry him through the scene of horror, lying back in the carriage, — the four post-horses ready to drop with the intensity of the noon-day sun. The stillness of all around was yet more felt by the shrill scream of a aolitafy curlew , which, perhaps attracted by the body, wheeled in soch narrow circles round the pile, that it Bight have been struck with the hand, and was so fearless that it could not be driven away. Looking at tlie corpse, Lofd Byron said: — "Why, that old black silk hand- kcfchief retains its form better than that human body V Searoely was the ceremony concluded, when Lord Byron, igUaled by the spectacle he had witnessed, tried to dis- sipate in some degree the impression of it by his favourite rerreation. He took off his clothes, therefore, and swam to the yacht, which was riding a few miles distant The beat of the sun and checked perspiration threw him into a fever, which he felt coming on before he left the water, aad whkfa became more violent before he reached Pisa. Oa his retam he immediately took a warm bath, and the aeit morning was perfectly recovered.''
The enmity between Byron and Southey, the poet- laareate, is as well known as that between Pope and Colfey Gibber. Their politics were diametrically opposite, aad the noble bard regarded the bard of royalty as a rene- gado from his early principles. It was not, however, so nacfa on account of political principles that the enmity between Byron and Southey was kept up. The peer, in bit satire, had handled the epics of the laureate **too roa^y," and this the latter deeply resented. Whilst tra- veifBig on the continent, Southey observed Shelley's aaBK in the Album, at Mont Anvert, with **A&toq" writ- tea after it , and an indignant comment in tlie same faoguage written under it; also the names of some of Byron's other friends. The laureate, it is said, copied the Bmes and the comment, and, on his return to England, reported the whole circumstances, and hesitated not to ooadade Byron of the same principles as his friends. In a poem be subsequently wrote, called the "Vision of Mgmenty'' he stigmatized Lord Byron as the tather of flbe'^tanic School of Poetry." His lordship, in a note appended to the *^TwoFoscari," retorted in a very severe Bttaacr,and eren permitted himself to ridicule Southey 's wife^ the sister of Coleridge's wife, they having been at one tiaae 'Hwo milliners of Bath." The laureate wrote an aaswer to this note in the Courier newspaper, which, when Byroo saw it, enraged him so much that he con- sailed with his friends whether or not he ought to go to Sflglaod to answer it personally. . In cooler moments, however, he resolved merely to write his ''Vision of h^Knent," which was a parody on Southey 's, and ap- i one of the numbers of the "Iiibetal," for which
Hirnt, the publisher, was prosecuted by the ^^Consti- tutional Asisociation/' and found guilty.
As some of our readers may be curious to know the rate which Lord Byron was paid for his productions, we annex the following statement, byMr.Murray, the book- seller, of the sums given by him for the copy-rights of most of his lordship's works:
Childe Harold, I. II 60K) Lst.
— — III 1575
— — IV 2100
Giaour 525
Bride of Abydos 5'25
Corsair 525
Lara 700
Siege of Corinth 525
Parisina 525
Lament of Tasso 315
Manfred ; . . . . 315
Beppo 525
DonJuanLII 1525
— — m. IV. V 1525
Doge of Venice 1050
Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari . . 1100
Mazeppa 525
Prisoner of Chillon 525
Sundries 450
Total .~Z 15,455 Lst
As is the cose with many men in aflluent circumstances, Byron was at times more than generous; and agfun, at other times, what might be called mean. He once bor- rowed 500Lst in order to give it to the widow of one who had been his friend; he frequently dined on five Pauls, and once gave his bills to a lady to be examined, because he thought he was cheated. He gave 1 000 Lst for a yacht, which he sold again for 300 Lst, and refused to give the sailors theur jackets. It ought however, to be observed, lhat£e^fiC<2SUy ^^ natural to him, and that his avarice. . if it can be so termed, was a mere whim or caprice of the^ moment — a rdle he could not long sustain. He once borrowed 100 Lst to give to the brother-in-law of Southey, Coleridge, the poet, when the latter was in distress. In his quarrel with the laureate he was pro- voked to allude to this circumstance, which certainly he ought not to have done.
Byron was a great admirer of the Waverley novels, and never travelled without them. '*They are," said he to Captain Med win one day, ''a library in themselves, — a perfect literary treasure. I could read them once a year with new pleasure." During that morning he had been reading one of Sir Walter's novels, and delivered, accord- ing to Medwin, the following criticism. '*How difficult it is to say any thing new ! Who was that voluptuary of antiquity, who ofl'ered a reward for a new pleasure? Per- haps all nature and'art could not supply a new idea."
The anxious and paternal tenderness Lord Byron felt for his daughter, is expressed with unequalled beauty and pathos in the first stanza of the third canto of Childe Harold. '<What do you think of Ada?" said he to Medwin, looking earnestly at his daughter's miniature, that hung by the side of his writing-table. 'They tell me she is like me — but she has her mother's eyes. It is very odd that my mother was an only child; ~ I am an only child; my wife is an only child; and Ada is an only child. It is a singular coincidence; that is the least that can be said of it I can't help thinking it was destined to be so ; and perhaps it is best I was once anxious for a son ; but, after our separation, was glad to have had a daughter; for it would have distressed me too much to have taken him away from Lady Byron, and I could not have trusted her with a son's educatioiu I have no idea of boys being brought up by mothers. I suffered too much from that myself: and then, wandering about the world as I do, I could not take proper care of a child : otherwise I should not have left AUegra, poor little thing! at Ravenna. She
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LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
has been a great resoaroe to me, though I am not so fond of her as of Ada: and yet I mean to make their fortunes equal — there will be enough for them both. I have desired in my will that Allegra shall not marry an English- man. The Irish and Scotch make better husbands than we do. You will tliink it was an odd fancy; but I was not in the best of humours with my countrymen at that moment — you know the reason. I am told that Ada is a little termagant ; I hope not. I shall write to my sister to know if this is the case: perhaps I am wrong in letting Lady Byron have entirely her own way in her education. I hear that my name is not mentioned in her presence; that a green curtain is always kept over my portrait, as over something forbidden; and that she is not to know that she has a lather till she comes of age. Of course she will be taught to hate me; she will be brought up to it. Lady ByTon is conscious of all this, and is afraid that I shall some day carry olf her daughter by stealth or force. I might claim her of the Chancellor , without having recourse to either one or the other; but Iliad rather be unhappy myself than make her mother so; probably I shall never see her again." Here he opened his writing- desk, and showed me some hair, which he told me was his child's.
Several years ago, Lord Byron presented his friend, Mr. Thomas Aloore, with his "Memoirs," written by himself, with an understanding that they were not to be published until after his death. Mr. Moore, with the consent and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold the manu- script to Mr. Murray, the bookseller, for the sum of two thousand guineas. The following statement by Mr. Moore, will however show its fate. '^Without entering into the respective claims of Mr. Murray and myself to the pro- perty in these memoirs (a question which now that they are destroyed can be but of little moment to any one), it is sufficient to say that, believing tlie manuscript still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. Leigh, with the sole reservation of a protest against its total destruction; at least, without previous perusal and consultation among the parties. The majority of the persons present disagreed with this opinion, and it waa the only point upon which there did exist any difi'erenoe between us. The manuscript was acrx>rdingly torn and burnt before our eyes, and 1 immediately paid to Mr. Mur- ray, in the presence of the gentlemen assembled, two thousand guineas, with interest, being the amount of what I owed him upon the security of my bond, and for which I now stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs. Longman and Co.
*'Since then, the family of Lord Byron have, in a manner highly honourable to themselves, proposed an arrangement, by which the sum thus paid to Mr. Murray might be reimbursed me; but from feelings and consi- derations, which it is unnecessary here to explain, 1 have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their ofi'er."
Before we close the details of what may be termed Lord Byron's poetical life — before we enter on the painfully interesting particulars connected with the last and noblest part he performed in his brilliant but brief career — we beg leave to introduce the following .mmmary of his chara<Her:
There seems to have been something of a magical antidote in Lord Byron's genius to the strange propen-^ sities, to evil arising both from his natural passions and temper, and the act^ideutal unpropitious circumstances of his life. In nO man were good and evil mingled in such strange intimacy, and in such strange proportions. His passions were extraordinarily violent and fierce; and his temper, uneasy, bitter, and capricious. His pride was deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent and uncon- trollable. All these were exactly such as the fortuitous position of his infancy, boyhood, and first manhood, tended to aggravate by discouragements, crosses, and mortifications. He was directly and immediately sprung; firom a stock of old nobility, of an historic name, of
venerable antiquity. All bis alliances, including Ms fathor, had moved in liigh society. But this gay father died, im« provident or reckless of the future, and left him to wastt his childhood in poverty and dereliction, in the rennote town of Aberdeen, among the few maternal relations who yet would not utterly abandon his mother's shipwrecked fortunes. At die age of six years he became presumptive heir to the family peerage, and at the age of ten the peerage devolved on him. He then was sent to tlie public school of Harrow; but neither his person, his acquired habxtSy his scholarship, nor his temper, fitted him for this strange arena. A peer, not immediately issuing from the fashion* able circles, and not as rich as foolish boys suppose a peer ought to be, must have a wonderful tact of society, and a managing, bending, intriguing temper, to play his part with eclat, or with comfort, or even without degrar dation. All the treatment wiiich Lord Byron now received confirmed the bitterness of a disposition and feelings naturally sour, and already augmented by chilling so- litude, or an uncongenial sphere of society.
To a mind endowed with intense sensibility and nnex- tinguishable ambition, these circumstances operated in cherishing melancholy, and even misanthropy. They bred an intractability to the light humours, the heartless cheerfulness, and all the artillery of unthinking emptiness by which tlie energies of tlie bosom are damped and broken. There were implanted within him the seeds of profound reflexion and emotion, which grew in him to such strength, that the tameness, the petty passions, and frivolous desires of mankind in their ordinary intercour- ses of pleasure and dissipation, could never long retain him in their chains without weariness and disgust, eveo when they courted, dandled, flattered, and admired him. He was unskilled in their pitiful accomplishments, and disdained the trifling aims of their vanity, and the tests of excellence by which they were actuated, and by which they judged. He never, therefore, enjoyed their blan- dishments, and, ere long, broke like a giant from their bonds.
There can be no doubt, that disappointments, working on a sombre temper, and the consequent melancholy ana sensitiveness aiding, and aided by, the spells of the muse» were Lord Byron's preservatives; at least, that they pro- duoed redeeming splendours, and moments of pure and untained intellect, and exalting ebullitions of grand or tender sentiment, or noble passion, which, by fits at least, if not always, adorned his compositions, and will for ever electrify and elevate his readers.
Had Lord Byron succeeded in the ordinary way to bis peerage, accompanied by the usual circumstances of pros- perity and case, — had nothing occurred capable of sti«> mutating to strong personal exertions, the mighty seeds within him had probably been worse than neutral — they had worked to unqualified mischief! In many cases this is not the effect of prosperity ; but Lord Byron's qualities were of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense and unri- valled in degree.
\ When, in the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted £ag-- 1 land, to return to it no more, he had a dark, perilous^ aod appalling prospect before him. The chances against the jdue future use of his miraoulous and fearful i^fts of genius, poisoned and frenzied as they were by blighted hopes and all tlie evil incidents which had befallen him, were too numerous to be calculated without overwhelm- ing dismay ! Few persons, of a sensibility a little above the common, would have escaped the pit of black and unmitigated despondence ! But Lord Byron's elasticity of mind recovered itself, and soon rose to far higher coa^ oeptions and performances than before. He passed tlie summer upon the banks of the lake of Geneva ! With /what enthusiasm he enjoyed and with what contem- plations he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry soon exhibited to the world! He has been censured for his peculiarities, his unsocial life, and his disregard of the babitSy the decorams, and the civilities of the world, and
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
XIX
oflhenutik to which be belonged. He might have pleaded, that the world rejected him, and he the world; but the chajrge is idle in itself, admitting it to have originated with his own will. A man lias a right to live in solitude if he chases it; and, above all, he who gives such fruits of his solitude 1
Intheaatumn of 1822, Lord Byron quitted Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remained throughout the winter. A letter written by his lordship, while at Genoa, is sin- gularty honourable to him, and is the more entitled to ■olioc, as it tends to diminish the credibility of an as- sertion made since his death, that he could bear no rival hi feme, but instantly became animated with a bitter jea- tonsyand hatred of any person who attracted the public attention from himself. If there be a living being towards whom, according to that statement. Lord Byron would hate experienced such a sentiment, it must be the pre- tuned author of *'Waverley." And yet, in a letter to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 182>% the folio wiug are the jost and liberal expressions used by Lord Byron, in adverting to a pamphlet which had been recently pub- lished by Monsieur Beyle.
'There is one part of your observations in the pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon: — it regards Waiter Scott You say that "his character is little worthy of enthusiasm/' at the same time that you mention his productions in the manner they deserve. I have known Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations which call forth the real character, and I can assure you that his character is worthy of admiration; — that, of all men, be is the most open, the most honourable, the most amjabie. With bis politics I have nothing to do: they differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them, and sincerity may be humble^ but she cannot be servile. 1 pray you, therefore, to correct or soften that passage. You may, perhaps, attribute this officiousness of mine to a false affectation of candour, as I happen to be a writer also. Attribute it to what motive you please, but believe the truth. I say that Walter Scott is as nearly a thorough good BMo as man can be, because I know it by experience to he the case."
The motives which ultimately induced Lord Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, struggling for emanci- patioo» arc sufficiently obvious. It was in Greece that ha high poetical faculdes had been Erst fully developed. Greece, a land of the most venerable and illustrious history, ofpeculiarly grand and beautiful scenery, inha- bited by various races of the most wild and picturesque maaners, was to him the land of excitement, — never- cbying, never-wearying, never-changing excitement It was necessarily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of powerful and original intellect, of quick and sensible Mbgs, of a restless and untameable spirit, of various bformatioo, and who, above all, was satiated with com- noQ enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared to Urn to be the formality, hypocj-isy and sameness of daily file. Pwelling upon tliat country, as it is clear from all Lord Byron's writings be did, with the fondest solicitude, and being, as he was well known to be, an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very systematic lover of freedom, be could nenonnconoerned spectator of its recent revolution : and at aooa as it seemed to him that his presence might be neful, he prepared to visit once more the shores of Greece. It is not improbable, also, that he had become ambitious of a name as distinguished for deeds as it was already by his writings. A glorious and novel career appa- icoOj presented itself, and he determined to try the event
Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and arrived, in CeiMnlonia in the early part of August, 1823, attended ftf a suite of six or seven friends, in an Bnglish vessel (the HerculeSy Captain Scott), which he had chartered Sat the express purpose of taking him to Greece. His lordship had never seen any of the volr-anic mountains, and for this purpose tbe vessel deviated from its regular
course, in order to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that place a whole night, in the hopes of witnessing the usual phenomena, but, for the first time within the memory of man, the volcano emitted no fire. The disap- pointed poet was obliged to proceed, in no good humour with the fabled forge of Vulcan.
Greece, though witti afair prospect of ultimate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled state. The third cam- paign bad commenced, with several instances of distin- guished success — her arms were every where victorious, but her councils were distracted. Western Greece was in a critical situation, and although the heroic Marco Botzaris had not fallen in vain, yet the glorious enter- prise in which he perished only checked, and did not prevent the advance of the Turks towards Anatolica and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy of the best days of Greece, hailed with transport Lord Byron's arrival in that country, and his last act before proceeding to the attack, in which he fell, was to write a warm invitation for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. In his letter, which he addressed to a friend at Missolonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost tlie first proceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, which was the arming and provisioning of forty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the defence of Misso- longhi. After the battle Lord Byron transmitted bandages and medicines, of which he had brought a large store from Italy, and pecuniary succour to those who had been wounded. He had already made a very generous offer to the government He says, in a letter, "I offered to ad- vance a thousand dollars a month, for the succour of Missolonghi , and the Suliotes tinder Botzaris (since killed) ; but the government have answered me through of this island, that they wish to confer with me pre- viously, which is, in fact, saying they wish me to spend my money in some f)thcr direction. I will take care that it is for the public cause, otherwise I will not advance a para. The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the party in power say the others wish to seduce me; so, between the two, I have a diflicult part to play : however, I will have nothing to do with the factions, unless to reconcile them, if possible."
Lord Byron established himself for some time at the small village of Metaxata, in Cephalonia, and dispatched two friends, Mr. Trelawncy and Mr. Hamilton Browne, with a letter to the Greek government, in order to collect intelligence as to the real state of thing^. His lordship's generosity was almost daily exercised in his new neigh- bourhood. He provided for many Italian families in distress, and even indulged the people of the country in paying for the religious ceremonies which they deemed essential to their success.
In the mean while. Lord Byron's friends proceeded to Tripolitza, and found Colocotroni (the enemy of Mauro- cordato, who had been compelled to flee from the pre- sidency) in great power : his palace was filled with armed men, like the castle of some ancient feudal chief, and a good idea of his character may be formed from the lan- guage he held. He declared that he had told Mauro- cordato that, unless he desisted from his intrigues, he would put him on an ass and whip him out of the Morea, and that he had only been withheld from doing so by the representation of his friends, who had said that it would injure the cause.
They next proceeded to Salamis, where the congress was sitting, and Mr. Trelawney agreed to accompany Odysseus, a brave mountain-chief, into Negropont. At this time the Greeks were preparing for many active enterprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his Suliotes and Maurocordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, which, at that time (October, 1823), was in a very cri- tical state, being blockaded both by land and sea. "There have been," says Mr. Trelawney, "thirty battles fought and won by the late Marco Botzaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens will be in danger, and thousands of throats out.
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LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
A few thousand dollars would provide ships to relieve it; a portion of this sum is raised— and I would coin my heart to save this key of Greece !" A report like this was sufficient to show the point where succour was most needed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve Misso* longhi was still more decidedly confirmed by a letter which he received from Maurocordato.
Maurocordato was at this time endeavouring to collect a fleet for the relief of Missolonghi, and Lord Byron ge- nerously ofl'ered to advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 12,000 Lst) to pay for fitting it out In a letter in which he announced this his noble intention, he alluded to tbe dissensions in Greece, and stated, that if these continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of assistance, or even good wishes from abroad, would be at an end.
''I must frankly confess/' he says in his letter, ''that unless union and order are confirmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all the assistance which the Greeks could expect from abroad, an assistance wbich migbt be neither trifling nor worthless, will be suspcndei! or destroyed; and, what is worse, the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in consenting to the establishment of an independent power, will be per- suaded tliat tlie Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, themselves undertake to arrange your disorders in such a way as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, and that are indulged by your friends.
"And allow me to add once for all, I desire the well- being of Greece, and nothing else; I will do all I can to secure it; but I cannot consent — I never will consent to the English public, or English individuals being de- ceived as to tlie real state of Greek afl'airs. The rest, gentlemen, depends on you; you have fought gloriously ; act honourably towards your fellow-cidzeus and towards the world, and then it will no more be said, as has been repeated for two thousand years witli tbe Roman histo- rian, that Philopaemen was ttie last of the Grec^ians. Let not calumny itself (and it is difiicult to guard against it in so difficult a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with the patriot Greek in peace, after you have extermi- nated him in war.''
The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evidently gave great pain to Lord Byron, whose sensibility was keenly atifected by the slightest circumstance which he consi- dered likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. "For my part," heobservesinanotherof his letters, "I will stick by the cause while a plank remains which can be honour- ably clung to; if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier Mussulmans." In a letter to his banker at Cephalonia, he says: "I hope tilings here will go well, some time or otlter; I will stick by the cause as long as a cause exists."
His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst the deep anxiety he felt for the success of the Greeks. He ridiculed with great pleasantry some of the supplies which had been sent out from England by the Greek committee. In one of his letters, also, after alluding to his having advanced 4000 Lst, and expecting to be called on for 4000 Lst more, he says: "How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should happen to be in their company? I therefore request and require that you should apprise my trusty and trust- worthy trustee and banker, and crown and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the honourable, that he prepare all monies of mine, including the purchase-money of Roch- dale manor, and mine income for the year A. f>. 1824, to answer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc etc. May you live a thousand years ! which is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than the Spanish Cortes constitution.*'
All being ready, two Ionian vessels were ordered, and, embarking his horses and efl'ects. Lord Byron sailed firom
Argostoli on the 29th of December. At Zante, his lord- ship took a considerable quantity of specie on board, and proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two accidents occurred in this short passage. Count Gamba, who had accom- panied his lordship from Leghorn, had been charged with the vessel in which the horses and part of the money were embarked. When ofl' Chiarenza, a point which lies between Zante and the place of their destination, they were surprised at daylight on finding themselves under tbe bows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, to the activity displayed on board Lord Byron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she escaped, while the second was fired at, brought to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba and his companions being taken before Yusufi* Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary chief had sacriiiced the preceding year at Prevesa, and their fears would most probably have been realised, had it not been for the presence <^ mind displayed by the Count, who, assuming an air of hauteur and indifi'creuce, accused the captain of (he frigate of a scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at and detaining a vessel under English colours, and con- cluded by informing Ynsufi', that he might expect the vengeance of the British government in tlius interrupting a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognising in the master of the vessel a person who had saved his life id the Black Sea fifteen years before, not only consented to the vessel's release, but treated the whole of tlic pas- sengers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to take a day's shooting in the neighbourhood.
Owing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's vessel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, a cluster of rocks within a few miles of Missolonghi. Vfr'liile detained here, he was in considerable danger of being captured by the Turks.
Lord Byron was received at Missolonghi with enthu* siastic demonstrations of joy. No mark of honour or welcome which the Greeks could devise was omitted. The ships anchored off the fortress fired a salute as he passed. Prince Maurocordato, and all the authorities, with the troops and the population, met him on his land- ing, and accompanied bim to the house which had been prepared for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude and the discharge of cannon.
One of the first objects to which he turned his attention was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war had been carried oiu The very day of his lordship's arrival was signalised by his rescuing a Turk, who had fallen into the hands of some Greek sailors. The individual thus saved, having been clothed by his orders, was kept in the houae until an opportunity occurred of sending him to Patras. Nor had his lordship been long at Missolonghi, befbre an opportunity presented itself for showing his sense of Yusufi' Pacha's moderation in releasing Count Gamba. Hearing that there were four Turkish prisoners in the town, he requested that they might be placed in his bands. This being immediately granted, he sent tbem to Patras, with a letter addressed to the Turkish chief, expressing his hope that the prisoners thenceforward taken on both sides would be treated with humanity. This act was followed by another equally praise- worthy, which proved how anxious Lord Byron felt to give a new turn to the system of war&re hitherto pursued. A Greek cruiser having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly women and cliildren, they were also placed in the hands of Lord Byron, at his par- ticular request; upon which a vessel was immediately hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty- four, were sent to Prevesa, provided with every requisite for their comfort during the passage. The Turkish governor of Prevesa thanked his lordship, and assured him, that he would take care equal attention should be in future shown to the Greeks who might beoomo prisoners.
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
XXI
Aaothcr gmod olQcct with Lord Byron, and one which he never oeosed to forward with the most anxious solici- tade^ was to reconciie the quarrels of the native cliiefs, to nakethem friendly and confiding towards one another, and snbmlssive to the oFders of the government He had neither time nor opportunity to carry this point to any neat extent: much good was, however, done.
Lord Byron landed at Missolongbi animated witli mi- fitary ardour. After paying the fleet, which, indeed, had only come out under the expectation of receiving its trrcnrs from the loan which he promised to make to the proTisiottal gorernment, he set about forming a brigade ofSaliotes. Five hundred of these, the bravest and most resolute of thesoldiers of Greece, were taken into his pay on the 1st of January, 1824. An expediUon against Le- psnlo was proposed, of which the command was given to Lord Byron. This expedition, however, had to experience delay and disappointment. The Sn]iot«s, conceiving that they had found a patron whose wealth was inex- hautible, and whose generosity was boundless, deter- mined U> make the most of the occasion, and proceeded to the most extravagant demands on their leader for anears, and under other pretences. These mountaineers, BDtameable in the field, and unmanageable in a town, veie, at this moment, peculiarly disposed to be obstinate, fiolous, and mercenary. They had been chiefly instru- mental in preserving Missolongbi when besieged the pre- vious autumn by the Turks; had been driven from their abodes; and the whole of their families were, at this time, in the town, destitute of either home or sufficient snppfies. Of turbulent and reckless character, they kept the ptoce in awe^* and Maurocordato having, unlike the oAcr eaptains, no soldiers of his own, was glad to find a body of valiant mercenaries, especially if paid for out of the funds of another ; and, consequently, was not disposed to treat them with harshness. Within a fortnight after
I Lend Byron's arrival, a burgher refusing to quarter some Saliotes, who rudely demanded entrance into his house, was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some lives were tost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit could ill brook tlie delay of a favourite scheme, but he saw, with the utmost Gkagrin, that the state of bis troops was such as to render
i any attempt to lead them out at that time impracticable. The project of proceeding against Lepanto being thus
I snspended, at a moment when Lord Byron's enthusiasm was at its height, and when he had fully calculated on striking a blow which could not fail to be of the utmost
I service to the Greek cause, the unlooked-for disappoint-
' oMBt preyed on his spirits, and produced a degree of inilibility which, if it was not the sole cause, contributed greatly to a severe fit of epilepsy, with which he was at- taekcd on the 15th of February. His lordship was sitting m Oe apartment of Colonel Stanhope, talking in a jocular ■aaner with Mr. Parry, the engineer, when it was ob- served, from occasional and rapid changes in his counte- naarir, that he was sufl^ering under some strong emotion. Oft a sudden he complained of a weakness in one of his kn, and rose, but finding himself unable to walk, he oM oet for assistance. He then fell into a state of ner-
i mm and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a bed. Por some minutes his countenance wtki much distorted. He however quickly recovered his senses, his speech 1, and he soon appeared perfectly well, although 1 and exhausted by the violence of the struggle. the fit, he behaved with his usual extraordinary I, and his efforts in contending with, and attempt- ip^ lo master, the disease, are described as gigantic In te «mne of the month, the attack was repeated four i; the violence of the disorder, at length, yielded to amediea which his physicians advised, such as bleed- Arid battling, perfect relaxation of mind; and he Inlly recovered. An accident, however, happened a days after his first illness, which was ill calculated to ^Iheeflbrts of bis medical advisers. A Suliote aceom- by aBOther man, and the late Marco Botzaris'
little boy, walked into the Seraglio, which place, before Lord Byron's arrival, bad l>een used as a sort of fortress and barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they were ejected with great difficulty for the reception of the committee-stores, and for the occupation of the engineers, who required it for a laboratory. The sentinel on guard ordered the Suliote to retire, which being a species of motion to which Suliotes are not accustomed, the man carelessly advanced ; upon which the Serjeant of the guard (a German) demanded his business, and receiving no satisfactory answer, pushed him back. These wild warriors, who will dream for years of a blow if revenge b out of their power, are not slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck again, the Serjeant and he closed and struggled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his belt; the Serjeant wrenched it out of his hand, and blew the powder out of the pan. At this moment Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the fray, came up, and ordered the man to be taken to the guard-room. The Suliote was then disposed to depart, and would have done so if the serjeant would have permitted him. Un- fortunately, Captain Sass did not confine himself to merely giving the order for his arrest; for when the Suliote struggled to get away. Captain Sass drew his sword and suruck him with the flat part of it ; whereupon the enraged Greek flew upon him, with a pistol in one hand and the sabre In the otlier, and at the same moment nearly cut off the Captain's right arm, and shot him through the head. Captain Sass, who was remarkable for hi^ mild and courageous character, expired in a few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of distinguished bravery. This was a serious affair, and great apprehen- sions were entertained that it would not end here. The Suliotes refused to surrender the man to justice, alleging that he had been struck, which, in Suliote law, justifies all the consequences which may follow.
In a letter written a few days after Lord Byron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. "I am a good deal belter," he observes, ^'though of course weakly. The leeches took too much blood from my temples the day after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it ; but I have been up daily, and out in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and Uveas temperately as well can be, without any liquid but water, and without any animal food." After adverting to some other subjects, the letter thus conclu- des: '^Matters are here a little embroiled with the Su- liotes, foreigners, etc; but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and circum- stances wilt permit me to be supposed useful."
Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in health, his friends felt, from the first, tliat he ought to try a change of air. Missolongbi is a flat, marshy, and pestilential pbicc, and, except for purposes of utility^ never would have been selected for his residence. A gentleman of Zante wrote to him early In March, to induce him to return to that island for a time. To his letter the following answer was received: —
<<I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country- house, as for all other kindness, in case my health should require my removal ; but i cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of (even supposed) utility. There is a stake worth millions such as I am, and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the cause. While I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves: but allowance must be made for them by all reasonable people."
It may be well imagined, after so severe a fit of illness, and that in a great measure brought on by the conduct of the troops he had taken into his pay, and treated with the utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no humour to pursue his scheme against Lepanto, oven supposing that his state of health had i>een such as toi>ear the fatigue of a campaign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, showed
. i
xxu
LAKE'S USE OF LORD BYRON.
some signs of repentaaoe,and ofiered to place (bemselvvs at his lordship's disposal. But still they had an objection to the nature of the service : '*they would not fight against stone walls V It is not surpcising that the expedition to .Lepanto was no longer thought of.
In conformity with our plan, we here add a selection of anecdotes , connected with Lord Byron's residence at HissolonghL They are principally taken from Capt Parry's **Last Days of Lord Byron;" a work which seems to us, from its plain and unvarnished style, to bear the stamp and impress of truth.
In speaking of the Greek Committee one day, his lord- ship said — '*! conceive tliat I have been already grossly ill-treated by tlie oommittee. In Italy, Mr. Bkiquiere, their agent* informed me that every requisite supply would be forwarded with all dispatch. I was disposed to come to Greece, but I hastened my departure in conseqnenoe of earnest solicitations. No time was to be lost, I was told, and Mr. Blaquiere, instead of waiting on me at liis return from Greece, left a paltry note, which gave me no information whatever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail to mention my surprise at his conduct; b^t it has been all of a piece. I wish the acting committee had had some of the trouble which has fallen on me since my arrival here; they would have been more prompt in their proceedings, and would have known better what the country stood in need oT. They would not have delayed the supplies a day, nor have sent out German officers, poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for my assist- ance. I am a plain man, and cannot comprehend the use of printing-presses to a people who do not read. Here the committee have sent supplies of maps, I suppose, that I may teach the young mountaineers geog:raphy. Here are buglehorns, witliout bugle-men, and it is a chance if we can find any body in Greece to blow tliem. Books are sent to a people who want guns: they ask for a sword, and the committee give them the lever of a printing-press. Heavens ! one would think the committee meant to inculcate patience and submission, and to con- demn resistance. Some materials for constructing forti- fications they have sent, but they have chosen their people so ill, that the work is deserted, and not one para have they sent to procure other labourers. Their secretary, Mr. Bowriug, was disposed, I believe, to claim the pri- vilege of an acquaintance with me. He wrote me a long letter about the classic land of freedom, the birth-place of the arts, the cradle of genius, the habitation of the gods, the heaven of poets, and a great many such fine things. I was obliged to answer him, and 1 scrawled some nonsense in reply to his nonsense; but 1 fancy I shall get no more such epistles. When I came to the conclusion of the poetry-part of my letter, I wrote, "so much for blarney, now for business." I have not since heard in the same strain from Mr. Bo wring."
"My ftiture intentions," continued he, "as to Greece, may be explained in a few words : I will remain here till she is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen under their power. All my income shall be spent in her service; but, unless driven by some great necessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum intended for my sister's children. Whatever I can accomplish with my in- come, and my personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. When Greece is secure against external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their government as they like. One service more, and an eminent service it will be, I think I may perform for them. You, Parry, shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel ; the Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador or agent; I will go to the United States, and procure that free and enlightened government to set the example of recognising the federation of Greece as an independent state. This done, Bngland must follow the example, and then the fate of Greece will be permanently fixed, and she will enter into all her rights, as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Burope."
''This," observes Captain Piarry, in his pfaun tad maaly
manner, "was Lord Byron's hope, and tliis was to be fail last project in favour of Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambition entered , more than that just and < proper one, the basis of all virtui, and the distinguished characteristic of an honourable mind — the hope of gaining the approbation of good men. Asaaa«thor,lM liad ahx^ady attained the pinnacle of popularity and of fame; but this did not satisfy his noble ambition. He hastened to Greece, with a devotion to liberty, and a m$k in favour of the oppressed, as pure as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in the purest days of chivalry to gaia the reputation of an unsullied warrior, and of a disaater- ested statesman. He was her unpaid, but the blessings of all Greece, and the high honour his own oountry-men bestow on his memory, bearing him in their hearts, prove tliat be was not her unrewarded champion."
Lord Byron's address was the most afiable and court- eons perhaps ever seen; his manners, when in a good humour, and desirous of being well with his guest, were winning, fascinating in tlie extreme, and though bland, still spirited, and with an air of frankness and genero- sity—qualities in wliidi he was certainly not deficient He was open to a fault — a characteristic probably the result of his fearlessness and independence of the world ; but so open was he, that his friends were obliged to be upon their guard with him. He was the worst person in the world to confide a secret to ; and if any diarge against any body was mentioned to him, it was probably the first communication he made to the person in question. He hated scandal and tittle-tattle — loved the manly straight- forward course : he would harbour no doubts, and never live with another witli suspicions in his bosom — out came the accusation, and he called upon the individual to dear, or be ashamed of, himself. He detested a lie — nothing enraged him so much: he was by temperament and education excessively irritable, and a lie cM>mpietely uu- chained him — his indignation knew no bounds. He had considerable tact in detecting untruth; he would smell it out almost instinctively; he avoided the timid driveller, and generally chose his companions among the lovers and practisers of sincerity and candour. A man tells a false- hood , and conceals the truth, because he is afraid that the declaration of the tiling as it is will hurt him. Ijord Byron was above all fear of this sort: he flinched from telling no one what he thought to bis face ; from his in- fancy he had been afraid of no one. Falsehood is not the vice of the powerful: the Greek slave lies, the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his adherence to truth. The anecdote that follows, told by Parry, is highly charac- teristic : —
"When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day ordered by Lord Byron to a<xompany him to tlie mouth of the harbour to inspect the fortiticadons, in order to make a report on the state they were in. He and I were in his own punt, a little boat which he had, rowed by a boy; and in a large boat, accompanying us, were Prince Maurocordato and his attendants. As I was viewing , on one hand , the Turkish fleet attentively, and reflecting on its powers, and our means of defence; and looking, on the other, at Prince Maurocordato and liis attendants, perfectly un- concerned, smoking their pipes and gossiping as if Greece were liberated and at peace, and Missolonghi in a state of complete security, I could not help giving vent to a feeling of contempt and indignation. 'What is tlie mat- ter,' said his lordship, appearing to be very serious, <what makes yon so angry, Parry V *l am not angry/ I replied, *my lord, but somewhat indignant The Turks, if they were not the most stupid wretches breatiiing, might take the fort of Vasaladi, by means of two pinnaces, any night they pleased; they have only to approach it with mufiled oars; they will not be heard, I will answer for their not being seen; and they may storm it in a few minutes. With eight gun-boats, properly armed with
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
XXIII
M-ponnden, they might batter both Missolongbi and AoatoUca to the ground. And there sits the old gentle- voman, Prince Manrocordato and his troop, to whom I applied an epithet I will not here repeat^ as if they were all perfectly safe. They Itnow their powers of defence are inadequate, and they have no means of improving them. If I were in titeir place, I should be in a fever at the thought of my own incapacity and ignorance, and I should burn with impatience to attempt the destruction of those stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks and Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbecility, of each other.' (bad scarcely explained myself fully, when his lordship ordered our boat to be placed alongside the other, and actually related our whole conversation to the priuce. in doing it, however, he took on himself the task of pacifying both the prince and me, and though I was at first very angry, and the prince, I believe, very much annoyed, he SQoceeded. Maurocordato afterwards showed no dissa- tislaotion with me, and i prized Lord Byron's regard too Bucli, to remain long displeased with a proceeding which was only an unpleasant manner of reproving us both."
*K>n one occasion (which we before slightly alluded to) he had saved twenty-four Turkish women and chil- dren from slavery and all its accompanying horrors. I was sammoned to attend him and receive his orders, that every thing should be done which might contribute to thdr comfort He was seated on a cushion at the upper end of the room, the women and children were standing before him, with their eyes fixed steadily on him, and on his right hand was his interpreter, who was extracting from the women a narrative of their sufferings. One of them, apparently about thirty years of age, possessing f^eat vivacity, and whose manners and dress, though she was then dirty and disfigured, indicated that she was superior in rank and condition to her companions, was spokeswoman for the whole* I admired the good order the others preserved, never interfering with the explanation or Interrupting the single speaker. I also admired the rapid manner in which the interpreter explained every fUng they said, ao as to make it almost appear that there was but one speaker. — After a short time, it was evident Ifail what Lord Byron was hearing affected his feelings- fab oounlcnanGe changed, his colour went and came, and Itfaoogfat he was ready to weep. But he had on all oc- ctttOBS a ready and peculiar knack in turning conver- flBliott from any disagreeable or unpleasant subject; and he imd recourse to this expedient. He rose up suddenly, tmA tarning round on his heel, as was his wont, he said soaKthiog quickly to his interpreter, who immediately repealed it to the women. All eyes were instantly fixed oiiaK,andone of the party, a young and beautiful woman, spoke very warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and said they might retire. The women all slipped off' their shoes in an instant, and going up to his lordship, each in iMwe tiioDyaccompanied by their children, kissed his hand fiervcBtiy, invoked, in the Turkish manner, a blessing boihoa his head and heart, and then quitted the room. TUs was too much for Lord Byrod, and he turned his liHcaway to conceal his emotion/'
*H)ne of Lord Byron's household had several times iavoived himself and his master in perplexity and trouble, hf Us unrestrained attachment to women. In Greece this had been very annoying, and induced Lord Byron to fhiBk of a means of curing it A young Suliote of the ftmrd was accordingly dressed up like a woman, and uikacled to |^lace himself in the way of the amorous MMHL The bait took, and after some communication, hadiaflier by signs than by words, for the pair did not ■iicntand each other's language, the sham lady was cttMeAdty conducted by the gallant to one of Lord Byron's ■fMluiints. Here the couple were surprised by an enrag- es SkGote, a husband provided for the occasion, accom- 1 by half a dozen of his comrades, whose presence
t Ihreats terrified the poor lacquey almost out of his
lo. The noise of course brought Lord Byron to the
spot, to laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue him from the effects of his terror." *
"A few days after the earthquake, which took place on the 2Ist of February, as we were all sitting at tabic in the evening, we were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a shaking of the house, somewhat similar to that which we had experienced when the earthquake occurred. Of course all started from their places, and there was the same kind of confusion as on the former evening, at which Byron, who was present, laughed immoderately; we were re-assured by this, and soon learnt that the whole was a method he had adopted to sport with our fears."
"The regiment, or rather the brigade, we formed, can be described only as Byron himself describes it There was a Greek tailor, who had been in the British service in the Ionian Islands, where he had .married an Italian woman. This lady, knowing something of the military service, petitioned Lord Byron to appoint her husband master 'tailor of the brigade. The suggestion was useful, and this part of her petition was immediately granted. At the same time, however, she solicited that she might be permitted to raise a corps of women, to be placed under her orders, to accompany the regiment She stipu- lated for free quarters and rations for them, but rejected all claim for pay. They were to be free of all incumbran- ces, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, stating the matter to me, he said he hoped I should have no objection. I had been accustomed to see women ac- company the English army, and I knew that, though sometimes an incumbrance, they were on the whole more beneficial than otherwise. In Greece there were many circumstances which would make their services extremely valuable, and I gave my consent to the measure. The tailor's wife did accordingly recruit a considerable number of unincumbered women, of almost all nations, but prin- cipally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and Negresses. *I was afraid,' said Lord Byron, *when I mentioned this matter to you, you would be crusty, and oppose it, — it is the very thing. Let me see, my corps outdoes Falstaff*s : there are English, Germans, French, Maltese, Ragusians, Italians,Neapoli(ans« Transy Ivanians, Russians, Suliotes, Moreotcs, and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up tlie rear, tlic tailor's wife and her troop. Glorious Apollo ! no general had ever before such an army.' "
"Lord Byron had a black groom with him in Greece, an American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He al- ways insisted on this man's calling himMassa, whenever he sp(»ke to him. On one occasion, the groom met with two women of his own complexion, who bad been slaves to the Turks and liberated, but had been left almost to starve when the Greeks had risen on their tyrants. Being of the same colour was a bond of sympathy between them and the groom, and he applied to me to give both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I granted the applica^ tion, and mentioned it to Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of his groom, and ordered that he should be brought before him at ten o'clock the next day, to answer for his presumption in making such an application. At ten o'clock, accordingly, he attended his master with g^eat trembling and fear, but stuttered so when he at« tempted to speak, that he could not make himself under- stood; Lord Byron endeavouring, almost in vain, te preserve his gravity, reproved him severely for his pre- sumption. Blacky stuttered a tliousand excuses, and was ready to do any thing to appease his massa's anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he trembling from head to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his visible dread— all tended to provoke lauyliter ; and Lord Byron, fearing his own dignity would be hove overboard, told him to hold his tongue, and listen to his sentence. I was commanded to enter it in his memorandum-book, and then he pronounced in a solemn tone of voice, while Blacky stood aghast, expecting some severe punishment, the following doom : 'My determination is , that the
XXIV
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON.
chiidreD born of those black women, of which you may be the father, shall be my property, and I will maintain them. What say you?' 'Go — Go— God bless you, massa, may you live great while,' stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth to tell the good news to the two distressed women.
The luxurjf of Lord Byron's living at this time may be seen from the following order, which he gave his snperin- tendant of the household, for the daily expenses of his own table. It amounts to no more than one piastre.
Paras. Bread, a pound and a half .... 15
Wine 7
Fish 15
Olives . 3
40
This was his dinner; breakfast consisted of a single dish of tea, without milk or sugar.
The circumstances that attended the death of this il- lustrious and noble-minded man, are described in the following plain and simple manner by his faithful valet and constant follower, Mr. Fletcher: —
''My master," says Mr. Fletcher, ^'continued his usual custom of riding daily when the weather would permit, until the 9th of April. But on that ill-fated day he got very wet, and on his return home his lordship changed the whole of his dress; but he had been too long in bis wet clothes, and the cold, of which he had complained more or less ever sinee we left Cephalonia, made this attack be more severely felL Though rather feverish during the night , his lordship slept pretty well , but complained in the morning of a pain in his bones, and a head-aclie: this did not, however, prevent him from taking a ride in the afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. On his return, my master said that the saddle was not perfectly dry^ fk>om being so wet the day before, and observed that be thought it had made him worse. His lordship was again visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry to perceive, on the next morning, that illness appeared to be increasing. He was very low, and complained of not having had any sleep during the niglit. His lordship's appetite was also quite gone. I prepared a little arrow-root, of which he took three or four spoon- fuls, saying it was very good, but he could take no more. It was not till the third day, the 12th, that I began to be alarmed for my master. In all his former colds he always slept well, and was never affected by this slow fever. I therefore went to Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millingcn, the two medical attendants , and inquired minutely into every circumstance connected with my master's present illness : both replied that there was no danger, and I might make myself perfectly easy on the subject, for all would be well in a few days. This was on the I3tb. On the following day, I found my master in such a state, that I could not feel happy without supplicating that he would send to Zante for Dr. Thomas. After expressing my feais lest his lordship should get worse, he desired me to consult the doctors, which I did, and was told there was no occasion for calling in any person, as they hoped all would be well in a few days. Here I should remark, that his lordship repeatedly said, in the course of the day, he was sure the doctors did not understand his disease; to which I an- swered, *Then, my lord, have other advice by all means.' *They tell me,' said his lordship, <that it is only a com- mon cold, which, yon know, I have had a thousand times.' 'I am sure, my lord,' said I, Hhat you never had one of so serious a nature.' *I think I never had,' was his lordship's answer. I 'repeated my supplications that Dr. Thomas should be sent for, on the 16th, and was again assured tliat my master would be better in two or three days. After these confident assurances, I did not renew my entreaties until it was too late. With respect to the medicines that were given to my master, I could not persuade myself that those of a strong purgative
nature were the best adapted for his complaint, conclu- ding that, as he had nothing on his stomach, the only effect would be to create, pain ; indeed, this must liave been the case with a person in perfect health. The whole nourishment taken by my master, for the last eight days, consisted of a small quantity of broth, at two or three different times, and two spoonfuls of arrow-root on the 18th, the day before his death. The first time I hcaitl of there being any intention of bleeding his lordship was on the I5th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bnioo, but objected to at first by my master, who asked Mr. Millingen if there was any great reason for taking blood.' The latter replied that it might be of service, but added it might be deferred till the next day ; and, accordingly, my master was bled in the right arm on the evening of the 16th, and a pound of bk>od was taken. I observed, at the time, that it had a most inflamed appearance. Dr. Bruno now began to say, that he had frequently urged my master to be bled, but that he alwajs refused. A long dispute now arose about the time that had been lost, and the necessity of sending for medical aid to Zante; upon which I was informed, for the first time, that it would be of no use, as my master would be better or no more before the arrival of Dr. Thomas. His lord- ship continued to get worse, but Dr. Bruno said, he thought letting blood again would save his life; and I lost no time in telling my master bow necessary it was to comply with the doctor's wishes. To this he replied by saying, he feared they knew nothing about his disorder; and then, stretching out his arm, said, 'Here, take my arm andtio whatever you like.' His lordship continued to get weaker, and on the 17th he was bled twice in the morning, and at two o'clock in the afternoon : the bleediog at both times was followed by fainting fits, and he would have fallen down more than once had I not caught him in my arms. In order to prevent such an accident, I took care not to permit his lordship to stir without supportiag him. On this day my master said to me twice, *I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week; I know,' added his lordship, 'that a ipan can only be a certain time without sleep and then he must go mad without any one being able to save him; and I would ten times sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying — I am more fit to die than people think!'
'1 do not, however, believe that his lordship had any apprehension of his fate till the day aftci' the 18th, when he said, *I fear you and Tita will be ill by sitting conti- nually night and day.' I answered, *We shall never leave your lordship till you are better.' As my master had a slight fit of delirium on the 16th, I took care to remove the pistol and stiletto^ which had hitherto been kept at his bedside in the night. On the 18th his lordship addressed me frequently, and seemed to be very much dissatisfied with his medical treatment I then said, 'Do allow me to send for Dr. Thomas?' to which he answered, *l>o so, but be quick; I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease. Write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.' I did not lose a moment in obeying my master's orders; and on informing Dr. Bruno and Mr. Millingen of it, they said it was very right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. On returning to my master's room, his first words were 'have you seat?* — *I have,, my lord,' was my answer; upon which he said, 'you have done right, for I should like to know wliat is the matter with me.' Although his lordship did not ap- pear to think his dissolution was so near, I could perceive he was getting weaker every hour, and he even began to have occasional fits of delirium. He afterwards said, 'I now begin to think I am seriously ill, and in' case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish togiveyou several directions, which I hope you will be particular in seeing executed/ I answered I would in case such an event came to pass, bat expressed a hope that he would live many years to
xxvn
A CHARACTER OF LORD BYRON,
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
AtfiMT the general calmnett of the political at- ■ospliere, we have been stunned from another quarter by one of tliose death-notes which are pealed at intervals, asfromanarchai^l'strunipetyto awaken the soul of a vhde people at once. Lord Byron, who has so long and so asqily filled the highest plate in the public eye, has shared the lot of humanity. HiAiordship died at Misso- looghi oo the 19th of ApriL That mighty genius which walked amoiiigst men as something superior to ordinary Bortaltty, and whose powers were beheld with wonder, and soniethiog approaching to terror, as if we knew not wbedicr they were of good or of evil, is laid as soundly to rest as the poor peasant whose ideas never went beyond his daily task. IThe voice of just blame and of malignant censure are at o3!ceirilenced ; and we feel almost as if the great luminary (^heaven had suddenly disappeared from the sky, at the moment when every telescope was levelled far the eiaminati<m of the spots which dimmed its bright- neat. It is not now the question what were Byron's faults, what his mistakest but, how is the blank which he has kftia British literature to be filled up? Not, we fear, in «ae generatioiiy which, among many highly gifted per- sons, has produced none who approach Byron in origin- ■Bty, the first attribute of genius. Only thirty six years •Ui^somneh already done for inmiortality, — so much 0m n iiiaining, aa it seems to us short-sighted mortals, la Mjntaln and to extend his feme, and to atone for mMoa IB conduct and levities in composition; who will ■olgrieve that such a race has been shortened, though am always keepingthe straight path ~ such a light extin- gaiihed, though sometimes flaming to dazzle and to be- vflderT One -word on this ungrateful subject ere we frftitforevcr.
The enors of LordByron arose neither firom depravity ifhear^ — for nature had not committed the anomaly of
" iglo such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral ,— nor firom. feelings dead to the admiration of u No man had ever a kinder heartfor sympathy, or %WUK Open hand for the relteftrf disfresST,' uud no mind «aif^^]^;eformed lOf m^ euibusi^n^aamlration oT ■aUractionSy'pfOvided lie-wicr donvinced'thatthe actors hidproceeded upon disinterested principles. LordByron ims totally free, from the^ cucjse jmd 4iegRRlation'0f Jite- UftmCf — its jealousies, we mean, and its envy. But his MMMhnfuI gettius was df a nature which disdained Mpmnt even when restraint was most wholesome. When itiihool, the tasks in which he excelled were those only fUeh he undertook voluntarily; and bis situation as a f&uagttma of rank, with strong passions, and in the un- MImllod enjoyment of a considerable fortune, added to mM impatience of strictures or coercion which was
Cnal to him. As up Author, he refused to plead at the of criticism; as a man^ he would not submit to be
morally amenable to tlie tribunal of public opinion. Re- monstrances from a friend, of whose intentions and kind- ness he was secure, had often great weight with him; but there were few who could venture on a task so difficult Reproof be endured with impatience^ and repsoach har- dened him in his error, — so that he often resembled the gallant war-steed, who rushes forward on the sfeel that wounds him. In tiie most painful crisis of his private life he evinced this irritability and impatience of censure in such a degree, as almost to resemble the noble victim of the bull-tight, which is more maddetied by the squibs, darts, and petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds beyond the lists, than by tlie lance of his nobler, and, so to speak, his more legitimate antagonist In a word, much of that in which he erred was in bravado and scorn of his censors, and was done with the motive of Dry den's despot, ''To show his arbitrary power."
It is needless to say that his was a false and prejudiced view of such a contest; and if the noble Bard gained a sort of triumph, by compelling the world to read his poetry, though mixed with baser matter, because it was his, he gave in return an unworthy triumph to the un- worthy, besides deep sorrow to those whose applause, in his cooler moments, he most valued*
It was the same with his politics, which on several oc- casions assumed a tone menacing and contemptuous to the constitution of his country ; while in fect,Lord Byron was in his own heart sufficientiy sensible, not only oif his privileges as a Briton, but of the distinction attendiiur his high birth and rank, and was pccoliarry sensitive of those shades which constitute what is termed the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, notwithstanding his having employed epigrams and all the petty war of wit, when such would have been much better abstained from, he would have been found, had a collision taken place between the aristocratic parties in the State, exerting all his energies in defence of that to which he naturallv belonged. His own feeling on these subjects he has explained in the very last canto of Don Juan; and they arc in entire harmony with the opinions which we liaVe seen expressed in liis correspondence, at a moment when matters appeared to approach to a serious struggle in his native country.
We are not, however, Byron's apologists, for now^ alas! he needs none. His excellencies will now be uni- versally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and believe) not remembered in bis epitaph. It will be recol- lected what a part he has sustained in British literature since the first appearance of Childe Harold, — a space of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing under tiieshadeof his laurels, no living upon the resource of past reputation; none of that co<f(l/tn^ and petty pre- caution, whicli little authors call 'taking care of their fame." Byron let his fame take care of itselL His foot
xxvni
GOETHE UND BYROK.
was always in the arena, his shield hung always in the lists; and although bis own gigantic renown increased the difficulty of the struggle , since he could produce nothing, however great, which exceeded the public esti- mates of his genius, yet he advanced to the honourable contest again and again and again, and came always off witli distinction, almost always with cAnplete triumph. As various in composition as Shakspeare himself (this will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his Don Juan) he has embraced every topic of human life, and sounded every string on the divine harp, from its slight- est to its most powerful and heart- astounding tones. There is scarce a passion or« situation which has escaped his pen; and he might be drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping and the laughing Muse, although his most power- ful efforts have certainly been dedicated to Melpomene. His genius seemed as prolific as various. The most pro- digal use did not exhaust his powers, nay, seemed rather to increase their vigour. Neither ChiltU Haroldy nor any of the most beautiful of Byron's earlier tales, contain more exquisite morsels of poetry than are to be found scattered through the cantos of Don Juan, amidst verses which the author appears to have thrown off with an effort
as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its teres to the wind. But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blossom! It has been cut down in its strength, and the past is all that remains to us of Byron.- We can scarce reconcile ourselves to the idea — scarce think that the voice is silent for ever, which, bursting so often on oar ear, was often heard with rapturout admiration, some- times with regret, but always with the deepest interest: All that's bright must fade. The brightest still the fleetest With a strong feeling of awful sorrow we take leave of the subject Death creeps upon our most serious as well as upon our most idle employments ; and it is a jreflectioa solemn and gratifying, that he found our Byron in no moment of levity, but contributing his fortune, and ha- zarding his life, in behalf of a people only endeared to him by their past glories, and as fellow -creatures suffering under the yoke of a heathen oppressor. To have fallen in a crusade for freedom and humanity, as in olden times it would have been an atonement for the blackest crimes, may in the present be allowed to expiate greater follies than even exaggerated calumny has propagated against Byron.
GOETHE UND BYRON.
Zwisohen den bciden Dichtem bestand ein VerhKltniss, durch dessen zarte Andeutung der Ueberlebende dem Abgeschiedenen ein wArdiges Denkmal gesetzt hat
<'Der dcntsche Bichter, bis ins hohe Alter bemtlht, die Yerdienstc frCiherer und mitlebender Manner sorg- r^tig und rein anzuerkennen , indem er dies als das sicherste Mittel eigener Bildung von jeher betrachtete, musste wohl auch auf das grosse Talent des Lords, bald nach desseji erstemErscheuen, aufmerksam werdcn, wie er denn auch die Fortschritte jcner bedeutenden Lci- stungen und eines ununterbrochenen Wirkens unab- liissig begleitete. Hierbei war denn leicht zu bemerken, dass die allgemeine Anerkennung des dichterischen Yer- dienstes mit Yermehrung und Steigcrung rasch auf ein- ander folgender Productionen in gleichem Maase fort- wuchs. Auch ware die diesseitige frobcThcilnahmehieran hochst vollkommen ge wesen, hatte nicht dcr genialcOich- ter durch leidenscbaftlicbeLebensweiseund inneres Mis- behagcn sich selbst ein so geistreichcs als griinzenloses Hervorbringen und seinen Freunden den reizenden Ge- nuss- an seinem hohen Daseyn einigermassen verkflm- mert Der deutsche Bewunderer jcdoch, bierdurch nicht geirrt, folgte mit Aufmerksamkeit einem so seltenen Leben und Diohten in aller seiner Exoentricitiit, die frei- lich urn desto auffallender seyn musste, als ihresGleichen in vergangenen Jahrhunderten nicht wohl su entdecken gewesen und uns die Elemente zur Berechnuag einer solchen Bahn vbllig abgingen. Indessen waren die Be- mahungen des Deutschen dem Bngliinder nicht snbe« kannt geblieben, der davon in seinen Gedichten unzwei- deutigc Beweise darlegte, nicht weniger sich durch Rei- aende mit manchem freundlicheu Grass veraehmen liess.
Sodann aber folgte, Aberraschend, gleichfalls durch Yer« mittlung, das Originaiblatt einer Dedication des Trauer- spiels SardanapaiuM in den ehrenreiGhsten Ausdrtlokea und mit der freundlichen Anfrage, oh solche gedachtem StadL vorgedrnckt werden kbnnte. Der deutsche mit sich selbst und seinen Leistnngen im hohen Alter wohlbe* kannte Dichter durfte den Inhalt jener Widmung^ nur als Aeusserung eines treiHichen , hodiftlhlenden » sich selbst seine Gegeustimde schafienden, unerschbpflichea Geistes mit Dank und Besclieidenheit betrachten ; auch fSiklilte er sich nicht unzufrieden, als, bei mandierlei Yer- spatung, Sardanapal ohne ein solches Yorwort gedrackt wurde, und fhnd sich schon glOcklich im Besitz eines lithographirtenFac simile, zu hochst werthemAndenkdk Dochgabder edle Lord seinen Yorsatz nicht auf^ dem deutschen Zeit- und Geist-Genossen eine bedeutende Frenndiichkeit zu erweisen; wie denn das Trauerspiel Werner ein hochst sdiatzbares Denkmal an der Stime fahrt Hiemadi wird man denn wohl dem deutschen Dichtergreise zutrauen, dass er, einen so grandlich gu- ten Willen, welcher uns auf diesar Erde selteu bege^net, von einem so hoch gefeierten Manne ganz unverhoffl er^ fehrend, sich gleidifiills bereitete mit Klarheit und Kraft auszttsprechen, von welcher Hoohachtung er flir seinen unAbertrofEenen Zeitgenossen durchdrnngen, von wel- chem theilnehmenden Gefuhl fUr ihn er belebt sey. Aber die Aufgabe fand sich so gross, und erschien iuuuer grosser, jemehr man ihrniihcr trat; denn was soil man von einem Brdgebornen sagen, dessen Yerdienstc durch Betrachtnng und Wort nicht zu ersdibpfen sind? Ala daher ein junger Mann, Herr Sterling , angenehm von Person und rein von Sitten, im Frilbjahr 1623 seinen
LORD BTBON'B LAST LINBS.
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Wcf TOB Oeoua gerade nach Weimar nabin, mid auf aaem kkinea Biatte weoig eigeabaadige Worte des TCKkrtea Maiuies als Bmpfdilaag Oberbrachte, als ana tald daraaf daa Gerikeht verlautete, der Lord werde seiaea groasea SinBy seiae maaaigfidtigea Krafle, aa er- kabeag^fihrliche Tbatea fiber ICeer verweadea, da war udit liager so madera uad etiig aachatehendea Gedicht feichffiebco:
£ia freandlich Wort komnrt, eiaes nach dam andero, Voa Sfldea her uad briagt oas frohe Staadea ;
Sf rafk oas aaf aam Edelstea au waadern, Nkht iat der Geist, doch iat der Fuss gebaadea.
Wk loll ich dem, dea ich so laag' begleitet^ Naa etwas Trautich's ia die Ferae sagea ?
DuBy der sich selbst im laaersten bestreitet. Stark aagcwohaty das tiefste Weh zo tragea.
WoU sejr ihm docb, wean er sloh selbst einpfiadet!
£r wage aelbst sieh faoehb^lAckt aa aentten, Wcaa Mnaeakraft die Schmeraea (kberwiadet;
Uad wie ich iha erkanat, mog' er sich keaaen. WitMuw, tUn 22. JuMy, 1823* ^
Es gelangte aach Geaua» faad ihn abcr aicht mehr da- iribst; achoa war der treffliche Frenad al^gesegeU uad achiea daeaa jeden schoa weit entferat; darch Stflrme jcdock sarOokgehalteay landcte er ia Livorno, wo ihn du henfich geaendetegerade aoch traf, urn es tm Angen-
bficke seiner Abfehrt, den 24. Jnly ld23» mit eiaem rei- neo schon-geffthlten Blatt erwiedern an konnen; als werthestes Zeugaiss eines wOrdigea Verhaltaisses outer den kostbarsten DocoBAeatea vom Besitaer aafznbe- wahrea. So sehr oas nan ein aoiches Blatt erfreoen und rfthren and an der schbnsten Lebenshoffnang aofregen niusste, so erhalt es gegenwiirtig dorch das uaseitige Ai>- ieben des hohen Schreibendea den grossten schmerz- iichsteo Werth, indem es die allgemeiae Traaer der Sittea- uad liicbterwelt Aber seinen Yerlust tHr nns ieider ganz in8l>esondere schiirft, die wir nach vollbrach- tem grossen BemOhen hoffen durften, den yorzflglichsten Geist, den glftcklich erworbenea Freond und zugleich den measchlicbsten Sieger , personlich zu begrOssen. Nun aber erhebt uns die Ueberzeogung , dass seine Nation ans deal, theilweise gegen ihn autbrauseaden, tadeladea, scheltenden Taumei piotzlich zor Nftchtern- heiterwachen und allgemein begreifen werde, dass alle Sohalen und Schiacken der Zeit und des IndividuoaBS^ durch weldie sich anch der beste hindurcfa uad beraus zu arbeiten hat^aur augenblicklichy verganglich und bin- fallig gewesen, wogegen der staunuafswArdige Rulim^ ^ zu deal er seia Yateriand f&r jetzt und kinfUg' erhebt, in seiner