Thomas Moore - Life of Lord Byron, Vol. III

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[Footnote 99: The sale of these books took place the following month,
and they were described in the catalogue as the property of "a Nobleman
about to leave England on a tour."

From a note to Mr. Murray, it would appear that he had been first
announced as going to the Morea.

"I hope that the catalogue of the books, &c., has not been published
without my seeing it. I must reserve several, and many ought not to be
printed. The advertisement is a very bad one. I am not going to the
Morea; and if I was, you might as well advertise a man in Russia _as
going to Yorkshire_.--Ever," &c.

Together with the books was sold an article of furniture, which is now
in the possession of Mr. Murray, namely, "a large screen covered with
portraits of actors, pugilists, representations of boxing-matches,"
&c.]

* * * * *

During the month of January and part of February, his poems of The Siege
of Corinth and Parisina were in the hands of the printers, and about the
end of the latter month made their appearance. The following letters are
the only ones I find connected with their publication.

LETTER 240. TO MR. MURRAY.

"February 3. 1816.

"I sent for 'Marmion,' which I return, because it occurred to me,
there might be a resemblance between part of 'Parisina' and a
similar scene in Canto 2d of 'Marmion.' I fear there is, though I
never thought of it before, and could hardly wish to imitate that
which is inimitable. I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford whether I
ought to say any thing upon it;--I had completed the story on the
passage from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like scene naturally,
without a thought of the kind: but it comes upon me not very
comfortably.

"There are a few words and phrases I want to alter in the MS., and
should like to do it before you print, and will return it in an
hour.

"Yours ever."

* * * * *

LETTER 241. TO MR. MURRAY.

"February 20. 1816.

"To return to our business--your epistles are vastly agreeable.
With regard to the observations on carelessness, &c. I think, with
all humility, that the gentle reader has considered a rather
uncommon, and designedly irregular, versification for haste and
negligence. The measure is not that of any of the other poems,
which (I believe) were allowed to be tolerably correct, according
to Byshe and the fingers--or ears--by which bards write, and
readers reckon. Great part of 'The Siege' is in (I think) what the
learned call Anapests, (though I am not sure, being heinously
forgetful of my metres and my 'Gradus',) and many of the lines
intentionally longer or shorter than its rhyming companion; and
rhyme also occurring at greater or less intervals of caprice or
convenience.

"I mean not to say that this is right or good, but merely that I
could have been smoother, had it appeared to me of advantage; and
that I was not otherwise without being aware of the deviation,
though I now feel sorry for it, as I would undoubtedly rather
please than not. My wish has been to try at something different
from my former efforts; as I endeavoured to make them differ from
each other. The versification of 'The Corsair' is not that of
'Lara;' nor 'The Giaour' that of 'The Bride;' Childe Harold is
again varied from these; and I strove to vary the last somewhat
from _all_ of the others.

"Excuse all this d----d nonsense and egotism. The fact is, that I
am rather trying to think on the subject of this note, than really
thinking on it.--I did not know you had called: you are always
admitted and welcome when you choose.

"Yours, &c. &c.

"P.S. You need not be in any apprehension or grief on my account:
were I to be beaten down by the world and its inheritors, I should
have succumbed to many things, years ago. You must not mistake my
_not_ bullying for dejection; nor imagine that because I feel, I am
to faint:--but enough for the present.

"I am sorry for Sotheby's row. What the devil is it about? I
thought it all settled; and if I can do any thing about him or Ivan
still, I am ready and willing. I do not think it proper for me just
now to be much behind the scenes, but I will see the committee and
move upon it, if Sotheby likes.

"If you see Mr. Sotheby, will you tell him that I wrote to Mr.
Coleridge, on getting Mr. Sotheby's note, and have, I hope, done
what Mr. S. wished on that subject?"

* * * * *

It was about the middle of April that his two celebrated copies of
verses, "Fare thee well," and "A Sketch," made their appearance in the
newspapers:--and while the latter poem was generally and, it must be
owned, justly condemned, as a sort of literary assault on an obscure
female, whose situation ought to have placed her as much _beneath_ his
satire as the undignified mode of his attack certainly raised her
_above_ it, with regard to the other poem, opinions were a good deal
more divided. To many it appeared a strain of true conjugal tenderness,
a kind of appeal, which no woman with a heart could resist: while by
others, on the contrary, it was considered to be a mere showy effusion
of sentiment, as difficult for real feeling to have produced as it was
easy for fancy and art, and altogether unworthy of the deep interests
involved in the subject. To this latter opinion, I confess my own to
have, at first, strongly inclined; and suspicious as I could not help
regarding the sentiment that could, at such a moment, indulge in such
verses, the taste that prompted or sanctioned their publication appeared
to me even still more questionable. On reading, however, his own account
of all the circumstances in the Memoranda, I found that on both points I
had, in common with a large portion of the public, done him injustice.
He there described, and in a manner whose sincerity there was no
doubting, the swell of tender recollections under the influence of
which, as he sat one night musing in his study, these stanzas were
produced,--the tears, as he said, falling fast over the paper as he
wrote them. Neither, from that account, did it appear to have been from
any wish or intention of his own, but through the injudicious zeal of a
friend whom he had suffered to take a copy, that the verses met the
public eye.

The appearance of these poems gave additional violence to the angry and
inquisitorial feeling now abroad against him; and the title under which
both pieces were immediately announced by various publishers, as "Poems
by Lord Byron on his domestic Circumstances," carried with it a
sufficient exposure of the utter unfitness of such themes for rhyme. It
is, indeed, only in those emotions and passions, of which imagination
forms a predominant ingredient,--such as love, in its first dreams,
before reality has come to embody or dispel them, or sorrow, in its
wane, when beginning to pass away from the heart into the fancy,--that
poetry ought ever to be employed as an interpreter of feeling. For the
expression of all those immediate affections and disquietudes that have
their root in the actual realities of life, the art of the poet, from
the very circumstance of its being an art, as well as from the coloured
form in which it is accustomed to transmit impressions, cannot be
otherwise than a medium as false as it is feeble.

To so very low an ebb had the industry of his assailants now succeeded
in reducing his private character, that it required no small degree of
courage, even among that class who are supposed to be the most tolerant
of domestic irregularities, to invite him into their society. One
distinguished lady of fashion, however, ventured so far as, on the eve
of his departure from England, to make a party for him expressly; and
nothing short, perhaps, of that high station in society which a life as
blameless as it is brilliant has secured to her, could have placed
beyond all reach of misrepresentation, at that moment, such a compliment
to one marked with the world's censure so deeply. At this assembly of
Lady J * *'s he made his last appearance, publicly, in England; and the
amusing account given of some of the company in his Memoranda,--of the
various and characteristic ways in which the temperature of their manner
towards him was affected by the cloud under which he now appeared,--was
one of the passages of that Memoir it would have been most desirable,
perhaps, to have preserved; though, from being a gallery of sketches,
all personal and many satirical, but a small portion of it, if any,
could have been presented to the public till a time when the originals
had long left the scene, and any interest they might once have excited
was gone with themselves. Besides the noble hostess herself, whose
kindness to him, on this occasion, he never forgot, there was also one
other person (then Miss M * *, now Lady K * *,) whose frank and fearless
cordiality to him on that evening he most gratefully
commemorated,--adding, in acknowledgment of a still more generous
service, "She is a high-minded woman, and showed me more friendship than
I deserved from her. I heard also of her having defended me in a large
company, which _at that time_ required more courage and firmness than
most women possess."

* * * * *

As we are now approaching so near the close of his London life, I shall
here throw together the few remaining recollections of that period with
which the gleanings of his Memorandum-book, so often referred to,
furnish me.

"I liked the Dandies; they were always very civil to _me_, though in
general they disliked literary people, and persecuted and mystified
Madame de Stael, Lewis, * * * *, and the like, damnably. They persuaded
Madame de Stael that A * * had a hundred thousand a year, &c. &c., till
she praised him to his _face_ for his _beauty_! and made a set at him
for * *, and a hundred fooleries besides. The truth is, that, though I
gave up the business early, I had a tinge of dandyism[100] in my
minority, and probably retained enough of it to conciliate the great
ones at five-and-twenty. I had gamed, and drank, and taken my degrees in
most dissipations, and having no pedantry, and not being overbearing, we
ran quietly together. I knew them all more or less, and they made me a
member of Watier's (a superb club at that time), being, I take it, the
only literary man (except _two others_, both men of the world, Moore and
Spenser,) in it. Our masquerade[101] was a grand one; so was the
dandy-ball too, at the Argyle, but _that_ (the latter) was given by the
four chiefs, B., M., A., and P., if I err not.

"I was a member of the Alfred, too, being elected while in Greece. It
was pleasant; a little too sober and literary, and bored with * * and
Sir Francis D'Ivernois; but one met Peel, and Ward, and Valentia, and
many other pleasant or known people; and it was, upon the whole, a
decent resource in a rainy day, in a dearth of parties, or parliament,
or in an empty season.

"I belonged, or belong, to the following clubs or societies:--to the
Alfred; to the Cocoa Tree; to Watier's; to the Union; to Racket's (at
Brighton); to the Pugilistic; to the Owls, or "Fly-by-night;" to the
_Cambridge_ Whig Club; to the Harrow Club, Cambridge; and to one or two
private clubs; to the Hampden (political) Club; and to the Italian
Carbonari, &c. &c., 'though last, _not least_.' I got into all these,
and never stood for any other--at least to my own knowledge. I declined
being proposed to several others, though pressed to stand candidate."

* * * *

"When I met H * * L * *, the gaoler, at Lord Holland's, before he sailed
for St. Helena, the discourse turned upon the battle of Waterloo. I
asked him whether the dispositions of Napoleon were those of a great
general? He answered, disparagingly, 'that they were very simple.' I had
always thought that a degree of simplicity was an ingredient of
greatness."

* * * *

"I was much struck with the simplicity of Grattan's manners in private
life; they were odd, but they were natural. Curran used to take him off,
bowing to the very ground, and 'thanking God that he had no
peculiarities of gesture or appearance,' in a way irresistibly
ludicrous; and * * used to call him a 'Sentimental Harlequin.'"

* * * *

"Curran! Curran's the man who struck me most[102]. Such imagination!
there never was any thing like it that ever I saw or heard of. His
_published_ life--his published speeches, give you _no_ idea of the
man--none at all. He was a _machine_ of imagination, as some one said
that Piron was an epigrammatic machine.

"I did not see a great deal of Curran--only in 1813; but I met him at
home (for he used to call on me), and in society, at Mackintosh's,
Holland House, &c. &c. and he was wonderful even to me, who had seen
many remarkable men of the time."

* * * *

"* * * (commonly called _long_ * * *, a very clever man, but odd)
complained of our friend Scrope B. Davies, in riding, that he had a
_stitch_ in his side. 'I don't wonder at it,' said Scrope, 'for you ride
_like a tailor_.' Whoever had seen * * * on horseback, with his very
tall figure on a small nag, would not deny the justice of the repartee."

* * * *

"When B * * was obliged (by that affair of poor M * *, who thence
acquired the name of 'Dick the Dandy-killer'--it was about money, and
debt, and all that) to retire to France, he knew no French, and having
obtained a grammar for the purpose of study, our friend Scrope Davies
was asked what progress Brummell had made in French; he responded, 'that
Brummell had been stopped, like Buonaparte in Russia, by the Elements.'

"I have put this pun into Beppo, which is 'a fair exchange and no
robbery; for Scrope made his fortune at several dinners (as he owned
himself) by repeating occasionally, as his own, some of the buffooneries
with which I had encountered him in the morning."

* * * *

"* * * is a good man, rhymes well (if not wisely), but is a bore. He
seizes you by the button. One night of a rout, at Mrs. Hope's, he had
fastened upon me, notwithstanding my symptoms of manifest distress, (for
I was in love, and had just nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor
husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips, were near my then idol, who was
beautiful as the statues of the gallery where we stood at the time,)--*
* *, I say, had seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and
spared neither. W. Spencer, who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief,
saw my case, and coming up to us both, took me by the hand, and
pathetically bade me farewell; 'for,' said he, 'I see it is all over
with you.' * * * then went away. _Sic me servavit Apollo._"

* * * *

"I remember seeing Blucher in the London assemblies, and never saw any
thing of his age less venerable. With the voice and manners of a
recruiting sergeant, he pretended to the honours of a hero,--just as if
a stone could be worshipped because a man had stumbled over it."

[Footnote 100: Petrarch was, it appears, also in his youth, a Dandy.
"Recollect," he says, in a letter to his brother, "the time, when we
wore white habits, on which the least spot, or a plait ill placed, would
have been a subject of grief; when our shoes were so tight we suffered
martyrdom," &c.]

[Footnote 101: To this masquerade he went in the habit of a Caloyer, or
Eastern monk,--a dress particularly well calculated to set off the
beauty of his fine countenance, which was accordingly, that night, the
subject of general admiration.]

[Footnote 102: In his Memoranda there were equally enthusiastic praises
of Curran. "The riches," said he, "of his Irish imagination were
exhaustless. I have heard that man speak more poetry than I have ever
seen written,--though I saw him seldom and but occasionally. I saw him
presented to Madame de Stael at Mackintosh's;--it was the grand
confluence between the Rhone and the Saone, and they were both so d----d
ugly, that I could not help wondering how the best intellects of France
and Ireland could have taken up respectively such residences."

In another part, however, he was somewhat more fair to Madame de Stael's
personal appearance:--"Her figure was not bad; her legs tolerable; her
arms good. Altogether, I can conceive her having been a desirable woman,
allowing a little imagination for her soul, and so forth. She would have
made a great man."]

* * * * *

We now approach the close of this eventful period of his history. In a
note to Mr. Rogers, written a short time before his departure for
Ostend[103], he says,--"My sister is now with me, and leaves town
to-morrow: we shall not meet again for some time, at all events--if
ever; and, under these circumstances, I trust to stand excused to you
and Mr. Sheridan for being unable to wait upon him this evening."

This was his last interview with his sister,--almost the only person
from whom he now parted with regret; it being, as he said, doubtful
_which_ had given him most pain, the enemies who attacked or the friends
who condoled with him. Those beautiful and most tender verses, "Though
the day of my destiny's over," were now his parting tribute to her[104]
who, through all this bitter trial, had been his sole consolation; and,
though known to most readers, so expressive are they of his wounded
feelings at this crisis, that there are few, I think, who will object to
seeing some stanzas of them here.

"Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain--it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.

"Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though lov'd, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.

"From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.

On a scrap of paper, in his handwriting, dated April 14. 1816, I find
the following list of his attendants, with an annexed outline of his
projected tour:--"_Servants_, ---- Berger, a Swiss, William Fletcher,
and Robert Rushton.--John William Polidori, M.D.--Switzerland, Flanders,
Italy, and (perhaps) France." The two English servants, it will be
observed, were the same "yeoman" and "page" who had set out with him on
his youthful travels in 1809; and now,--for the second and last time
taking leave of his country,--on the 25th of April he sailed for Ostend.

The circumstances under which Lord Byron now took leave of England were
such as, in the case of any ordinary person, could not be considered
otherwise than disastrous and humiliating. He had, in the course of one
short year, gone through every variety of domestic misery;--had seen his
hearth eight or nine times profaned by the visitations of the law, and
been only saved from a prison by the privileges of his rank. He had
alienated, as far as they had ever been his, the affections of his wife;
and now, rejected by her, and condemned by the world, was betaking
himself to an exile which had not even the dignity of appearing
voluntary, as the excommunicating voice of society seemed to leave him
no other resource. Had he been of that class of unfeeling and
self-satisfied natures from whose hard surface the reproaches of others
fall pointless, he might have found in insensibility a sure refuge
against reproach; but, on the contrary, the same sensitiveness that kept
him so awake to the applauses of mankind, rendered him, in a still more
intense degree, alive to their censure. Even the strange, perverse
pleasure which he felt in painting himself unamiably to the world did
not prevent him from being both startled and pained when the world took
him at his word; and, like a child in a mask before a looking-glass, the
dark semblance which he had, half in sport, put on, when reflected back
upon him from the mirror of public opinion, shocked even himself.

Thus surrounded by vexations, and thus deeply feeling them, it is not
too much to say, that any other spirit but his own would have sunk
under the struggle, and lost, perhaps irrecoverably, that level of
self-esteem which alone affords a stand against the shocks of fortune.
But in him,--furnished as was his mind with reserves of strength,
waiting to be called out,--the very intensity of the pressure brought
relief by the proportionate re-action which it produced. Had his
transgressions and frailties been visited with no more than their due
portion of punishment, there can be little doubt that a very different
result would have ensued. Not only would such an excitement have been
insufficient to waken up the new energies still dormant in him, but that
consciousness of his own errors, which was for ever livelily present in
his mind, would, under such circumstances, have been left, undisturbed
by any unjust provocation, to work its usual softening and, perhaps,
humbling influences on his spirit. But,--luckily, as it proved, for the
further triumphs of his genius,--no such moderation was exercised. The
storm of invective raised around him, so utterly out of proportion with
his offences, and the base calumnies that were every where heaped upon
his name, left to his wounded pride no other resource than in the same
summoning up of strength, the same instinct of resistance to injustice,
which had first forced out the energies of his youthful genius, and was
now destined to give a still bolder and loftier range to its powers.

It was, indeed, not without truth, said of him by Goethe, that he was
inspired by the Genius of Pain; for, from the first to the last of his
agitated career, every fresh recruitment of his faculties was imbibed
from that bitter source. His chief incentive, when a boy, to distinction
was, as we have seen, that mark of deformity on his person, by an acute
sense of which he was first stung into the ambition of being great.[105]
As, with an evident reference to his own fate, he himself describes the
feeling,--

"Deformity is daring.
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal,--
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is
A spur in its halt movements, to become
All that the others cannot, in such things
As still are free to both, to compensate
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first."[106]

Then came the disappointment of his youthful passion,--the lassitude and
remorse of premature excess,--the lone friendlessness of his entrance
into life, and the ruthless assault upon his first literary
efforts,--all links in that chain of trials, errors, and sufferings, by
which his great mind was gradually and painfully drawn out;--all bearing
their respective shares in accomplishing that destiny which seems to
have decreed that the triumphal march of his genius should be over the
waste and ruins of his heart. He appeared, indeed, himself to have had
an instinctive consciousness that it was out of such ordeals his
strength and glory were to arise, as his whole life was passed in
courting agitation and difficulties; and whenever the scenes around him
were too tame to furnish such excitement, he flew to fancy or memory for
"thorns" whereon to "lean his breast."

But the greatest of his trials, as well as triumphs, was yet to come.
The last stage of this painful, though glorious, course, in which fresh
power was, at every step, wrung from out his soul, was that at which we
are now arrived, his marriage and its results,--without which, dear as
was the price paid by him in peace and character, his career would have
been incomplete, and the world still left in ignorance of the full
compass of his genius. It is, indeed, worthy of remark, that it was not
till his domestic circumstances began to darken around him that his
fancy, which had long been idle, again rose upon the wing,--both The
Siege of Corinth and Parisina having been produced but a short time
before the separation. How conscious he was, too, that the turmoil which
followed was the true element of his restless spirit, may be collected
from several passages of his letters at that period, in one of which he
even mentions that his health had become all the better for the
conflict:--"It is odd," he says, "but agitation or contest of any kind
gives a rebound to my spirits, and sets me up for the time."

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